Lampie runs stumbling downhill to where the forest stops and the sky opens up. She stops there, just for a moment. Finally. She sees the distant grey water and smells the salt. And there in the distance is the town, the harbour, the path to the lighthouse… She runs on.
The streets are almost empty; here and there small knots of people are hurrying to the field where the fair tents have been pitched. She can hear snatches of music coming from that way, and some laughter and screaming. Good, then no one will pay any attention to her this afternoon. She goes around two more corners and then she is at the harbour.
The afternoon is grey and the sea breeze chases drops of water along the quayside and then upwards, like rain in reverse. Lampie wipes her cold cheeks and licks her hand. Salt. It tastes good.
And there is the lighthouse. Grey against the grey sky. Lampie stands and looks. She wants to drink it in.
She runs up the sea path, the tide is out and it is dry enough, so it is easy today. But the closer she gets, the more she sees that everything has changed. Her house no longer looks like her home. Big, rough planks have been nailed over the green front door with the copper knob, crisscross, so many of them that she can hardly even see the green. The window next to the door has been covered with a splintering sheet of wood. The bench outside is gone, the vegetable garden has been flattened. Only the prickly grass that she always tried to weed out is still growing there and has finally found the space it needs to spread out its tough roots and to overrun everything else. As Lampie stands there, she feels her eyes start to sting.
Come on, Emilia, she says to herself. Hey, it’s just grass. You can get rid of it in no time. She wipes her nose, her tears, seawater, all so salty, and then she walks on. She keeps looking up at the windows above and at the railing around the lamp room. Maybe he is in there right now. Maybe he will see her. Maybe he will even wave. She peers up, but she does not see anyone. Nothing moves.
“Father!” she calls, and again, but no face appears at a window. At the house, she rattles at the hatch and tries to bang on the door through the planks. “Father, it’s me! Can you hear me? Or not? Father!”
The wind blows her voice away and the planks give her nasty splinters; in no time, she has three of them jabbing into her. She pulls out two with her teeth, but the third one breaks off and a big chunk of it stays there, deep in the fleshy mound of her hand.
“Father!!” She yells again, as loud as she can. No one comes. Nothing moves.
What did you think would happen? mutter the planks on the door. Think you could just pop round for a nice cup of tea? This house is a prison now. It’s our job to guard it. When will he be allowed to leave? In seven years’ time. Seven. Have seven years already gone by?
No… sighs Lampie and she sits down on the doorstep.
So long to go, so long to go! scream the seagulls circling around the tower. Whatever were you thinking? What did you want?
I just wanted to see how he is, and…
That man? hisses the prickly grass. That man with the stick?
The one who hit you? tease the waves rushing by. The bruise has only just faded, hasn’t it? Forget about him. He’s forgotten all about you.
It’s not true, it can’t be, he would never…
Oh, no, of course not, everything around her whispers. Because he was always so kind to you. Child, he loved his bottle more than you. You knew that, didn’t you?
Lampie can picture her father, stumbling around the house, looking for that one bottle he could have sworn he had left, or the money he thought he’d hidden away. And, whether he found the bottle or not, he always disappeared.
What are you doing here? You have a new home. Go and live there. Forget about him.
Yes, but he wasn’t always like that. It really was different, once upon a time. This beach, this doorstep, she can see it all as it used to be. The pirates pulling their boats up onto the sand, the shrimps over the fire. Her father making jokes, her mother… Her mother, her mother…
You know, the thing about the past, the whole world whispers in her ear, is that it’s over.
Lampie rests her head on her knees and feels herself getting slowly colder and wetter.
Yes, but, she thinks, Miss Amalia told me. He is here. And the lamp was on, I saw it. So why won’t he come to the door?
“Hello there. You’re Lampie, aren’t you?” a voice says suddenly. “I suppose you must be, eh?”
Lampie looks up. There is a woman standing on the sea path. She has a pan in her hand.
“Is it your afternoon off? Did you decide to come and visit? Oh dear, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” She climbs up onto the doorstep, and Lampie feels the soft fabric of her skirt brush her cheek.
“Mr Waterman!” the woman shouts through the hatch. “Look who’s here! Your daughter! And your food too, if you want it! So you come down here, do you hear me? Mr Waterman?”
Lampie has stood up now and is listening. But she does not hear anything, just the rain tapping on the door, because it really has started pouring now.
The woman shakes her head. “He came down yesterday,” she says. “So we won’t be seeing him for a while. It’s not your lucky day.”
Lampie wipes her cheeks. Ouch, that splinter is really deep. Her whole hand is throbbing.
“But he is there?” she asks, shivering. “He is upstairs?”
“Where else would he be?” The woman has a wide, friendly face with wind-and-weather cheeks. “He’s not going anywhere. But sometimes he doesn’t come downstairs for days on end, even if I call up there a hundred times and tell him his food’s getting cold.” She takes the lid off and shoves the pan under the girl’s nose. “Look, it’s good now, but it won’t be for much longer.” Drops of rain splash into the grey mush.
“But sir will come down in his own good time. What’s he doing up there? Nothing, I reckon, because there’s nothing up there, is there? Light on and light off again, and that’s it. You might think eating would break the day up a bit. But no, he’s as stubborn as an old…” She looks at Lampie and does not complete the sentence.
“Oh well,” she continues in a friendlier tone. “What a palaver, eh? And what about you? I’ve thought about you too, you know, all alone in that Black House. Is there really a monster? I guess not, eh, because you’re still here. And it looks like you’re still in one piece. You remember me, don’t you?”
No, I’ve never seen you before, Lampie wants to say, but suddenly she is not quite so sure.
“I live over there. Remember?” The woman points to the end of the sea path, where there is indeed a small house, half hidden behind a rocky outcrop. “I haven’t been there that long, just since my husband… I’ve waved at you so many times, but you didn’t ever seem to notice me. Always so worried, always talking away to something…” She looks back into her pan. “Well, it doesn’t look like he’ll be wanting this today. Would you perhaps like to, have you already?… Oh but, child, you’re soaked through! Come on, come with me, for a cup of tea at least.” She takes Lampie’s hand. When the girl says, “Ow!” she stops to have a look at the splinter and then goes on talking as they walk.
“And I have a nice clean needle for you too. We’ll get that splinter out in no time. It’s from those planks, I’ll bet. Ouch, yes, splinters can really hurt. Not that long ago I got a—”
Lampie tries to jump into the conversation as if it were a skipping game. “But, but,” she says, “how is he? My father? Is he well?”
The neighbour stops and looks back at the lighthouse. “Well? Hmm, I wouldn’t say that. But he’s still alive. And I think he’s missing you terribly.”
“Really?” asks Lampie. “Has he said that?”
“No, not in so many words.” The neighbour pulls her onwards by her good hand. “But, even so, it’s still true. Come on, and then I’ll give you some tea. What a shame you had to come today of all days. Are you going to the fair? Do you still have enough time? Would you like to sleep over? Oh no, of course you can’t,” she says when Lampie shakes her head. “I’ll tell him you’ve been. I’m sure he’ll be… Wait a second, I have an idea.”
She stops halfway along the sea path and gives the girl a grin. But then a cloud passes over her face.
“Oh no, of course not. I thought you might be able to… But that won’t work. Or will it? Can you write?”
For the first time on her afternoon off, Lampie smiles.