by Annet Schaap
Then she goes to make coffee, bashing around angrily. So she was wrong, again. Just for a moment she had thought this child would make her life here a little easier. But no, of course not. As if Martha would ever get anything she hoped for. She bangs the coffee pot onto the table.
“Sugar and milk?”
“No, thank you,” says Lampie. “My father always thinks it’s a waste, putting milk in your coffee.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” says Martha with a slurp, pouring an extra dash of milk into Lampie’s cup.
Lenny gets a cup too, almost all milk and lots and lots of sugar. He sits quietly at his corner of the table and keeps looking at Lampie’s wrist.
They blow into their cups.
“He can’t die,” begins Martha. “He mustn’t smell too bad. And whatever he screams for, we have to give it to him.”
“Who says so?” asks Lampie.
Martha points up into the air.
“God?”
“No, the master, the admiral.” Martha stares into her coffee. “Joseph always did everything. Knew everything. Fed him, looked after him, kept him up there. No one else was allowed to see him. Of course there was talk, and no one wanted to come and work here, not for long at least. This place gives you bad dreams.”
Lampie nods. She wants to say that what she dreamed and imagined, alone in her room, was actually more frightening than the creature in the tower, but she picks at her bandage and remains silent.
“We could only ever get shirkers who cut corners or never did anything at all. Well, you can see what a mess it is here. It’s been that way for such a long time. But we always managed, somehow we always managed. Until last week, until Joseph…” She swallows. “Until one night he didn’t come back. Or the next day either. Until him up there started screaming and shrieking. For a whole day and a night. No one could sleep. No one dared to go upstairs. I had to beg and plead until they finally agreed to go and look. They carried Joseph out of there. Dead, of course, as I already suspected. And then…” She gives a deep sigh. “After they’d brought him downstairs, they packed their bags. All of them: the maid, the gardener, the handyman. No one wanted to stay here. Not even for…Ah, you can’t blame them. So I went into town to ask around and see if they could send someone to help. I was thinking of a big, strong chap. Someone who could handle that thing upstairs. But it seems I didn’t quite make myself clear. Well, yes, I was feeling rather upset. Anyway, then they sent…”
“Me,” says Lampie, downing another bitter mouthful.
“Indeed, child,” says Martha with a sigh. “Right. I’ll pour you another cup of coffee, and then you can go and pack your things. I’ll ask tomorrow if they can send someone else. And you can just go back to your mother.”
For a moment Lampie imagines how wonderful it would be if she could do exactly that. But then she sees her father and the floor covered in broken glass. She thinks about the seven years. She can’t leave. And there is something else. She wants to know, she wants to find out more about that strange creature upstairs. She sat with him all night, and she still does not understand. What is the boy doing up there all alone in that tower?
Lampie puts down her coffee. “I’m staying,” she says.
“Really?” Martha spills half of her coffee on the table. “You can’t possibly mean that!”
“But I do,” says the girl.
“No, you can’t. There’s no way a child could…” But she is already giving the girl a look of relief.
From the corner of the table, Lenny is staring at Lampie with big, wide eyes, as if he understood what she just said. In fact, he probably did. He tilts back his head and throws a handful of newspaper pieces into the air. They float down, landing all over, even in his mouth and his nose, and he coughs and sneezes, and then Lampie has to help him pick up all the bits of newspaper. When they have finished, he looks at her seriously and strokes her bandage with one finger.
“It doesn’t hurt now, Lenny,” she says. “I promise.”
“Well…” Martha pours herself another coffee. “I’d be lying if I said I’m not glad you’re staying. But are you really sure about that, child? No one ever stays here. I’d leave if I could. And the master’s been away so long this time. He might never come home. And we’ll be stuck forever with his…With that…”
“Does he have a name?” asks Lampie. “I called him Fish, but he got angry.”
“Um, yes…” says Martha. “What was it again? Come on, Martha. He’s called…Oh, my brain’s such a sieve. Ah, Edward, of course. Edward Robert George Evans. Just like the master.”
“Like the admiral?” Lampie asks in surprise. “But why?”
“Oh, I thought you already understood.” Martha looks at Lampie over her coffee. “It’s his son.”
taming the monster
So it’s Edward, thinks Lampie, as she climbs the stairs. Not Fish. Edward. She thinks Fish suits him better. The cup and the plate are rattling on the tray, because she is shaking a little.
Her rabbit had never had a name. She had thought of a lot of different ones: Fluffy, Long Ear, William. But her mother had said, “Don’t do that. Don’t give him a name. Or you’ll only get attached to him.”
Which was, of course, what had happened anyway. She had cuddled and stroked him until he was tame and slept on her bed and had stopped trying to run away.
But her mother had just shaken her head. “Don’t become too fond of that rabbit.”
“I will,” she had said. “I already am.”
She has to move slowly so as not to startle him. Smile. Talk quietly in a kind voice. That is what she needs to do; that is how she will tame him.
He is not a monster—she is certain of that. Her rabbit used to bite her at first too.
Slowly, she slides the bolts.
“Don’t be scared. It’s just me,” she says as she opens the door. It is still a bit smelly in the room. She’ll open a window, she’ll wash the sheets, she’ll—
“Can’t you knock?” says an angry voice. She is not sure where it is coming from.
“Um…Well, yes.” Lampie looks around. The curtains have been closed again. There is barely any sun shining through the gaps. The room is dark.
“Well, do it, then,” says the voice.
“Now?”
“No, it’s too late now. Just leave it. You can put that down. Here.”
Lampie turns around, but she still can’t see anyone. That voice, is that Fish—no, Edward?
“Over here. Hello! Are you blind or are you deaf?”
Then Lampie sees him. He’s lying almost completely under the bed, with a book in front of him on the floor, and he is looking at her with his pitch-black eyes.
“Or are you just plain stupid?”
“Oh, there you are,” she says in her sweetest voice. “I didn’t—”
“What is that? What have you brought?”
“Your breakfast,” says Lampie cheerfully.
“Well, it smells absolutely disgusting. Oh, just put it down.”
He drums impatiently on the floor in front of him.
“You must be hungry.” She bends down and puts the tray on the floor in front of the moldy bed. “You haven’t eaten anything for—”
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“Um…Well, Martha said you only eat fish, but there wasn’t any, so she’ll buy some this afternoon,” Lampie quickly says, still in her sweetest voice. “But you haven’t eaten anything for so long, and I thought: How about some eggs? That’ll—”
“Take it away.” The boy pushes the plate away with such force that the eggs slither off the bread. “And what about that? Is that milk? I don’t drink that.”
“But you haven’t eaten anything for so—”
“I can wait another day. I’d just like some water, please, in a glas
s. A clean one.”
Lampie looks around the room, where everything is grubby and moldy. “A clean glass,” she says. “Right. I’ll just—”
“Then you can change the bed. And someone needs to come at half-past three, because that’s my bath time.”
“Your bath time?”
“My bath time, yes. I have to take a bath at half-past three every afternoon. Do you think you can remember that?”
“Yes. Yes, I can.” Lampie stoops to pick up the tray. He glances at the bandage on her wrist, but does not say anything. Close up, she can see that his skin is no longer as gray and scaly. He looks very different from last night, no longer as pale and white and feverish. Now that she can’t see his tail, he seems just like an ordinary boy. But one with green hair and pitch-black devil’s eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth.
“What? What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” says Lampie quickly. “I’m not looking at anything at all.” She puts down the tray on a big chest of drawers that’s covered with books and papers. There are some used cups too—she will take them back down to the kitchen. She starts opening the curtains, one by one.
“Did I tell you to do that?”
“No.” Lampie gives him her very sweetest smile. “But the sun’s shining so nicely today, so…”
“I hate the sun. Close them.”
“Oh,” says Lampie. “Fine.” She closes the curtains again. Taming a wild rabbit with strokes and cuddles was easier, she thinks. But that took a long time too. She stops for a moment at the fifth window and looks out. There, in the distance, the lighthouse stands, a gray line against the blue spring sky.
“So are you deaf?” says the boy. “Or just slow?” He clicks his fingers impatiently.
“Did you say something?” Lampie turns around.
“Yes. Twice. And I’ll say it again. The atlas, please. Just put it down here.”
“The what?”
“Don’t you know what that is?”
“Of course I do,” says Lampie. “I just didn’t hear you properly.” Talking in her sweetest voice is becoming more and more of an effort.
“The atlas. At-las.”
“Um…” Lampie looks around the room.
“Under A.”
“A?”
“On the bookshelf.” He says it with clenched teeth.
“Oh,” says Lampie. “So it’s a book?”
“Yes! It’s a book, yes!” He starts yelling. “A book! A book of maps! Maps of the land! Maps of the sea! Have you never seen a map before, you…you bumpkin?!” He bares his teeth, and his eyes spit poison.
Lampie steps back; she has no idea what to do. There are books all over the room. So she walks over to the wall and looks at the rows of books on the shelves, all made of brown leather, all with their spines facing her, as if they have turned their backs on Lampie and are laughing at her.
“Is it, um, one of these, um, brown ones?” The letter E—that is the only one she can read, but she can’t even see that anywhere. The boy on the floor is watching everything she does. Hesitantly, she picks up a book, just any old book.
“This one?” The boy does not reply, so maybe it was a good guess. She turns around to see him looking at her with disbelief.
“She can’t read!” he says. “You can’t read, can you?”
Lampie does not answer. She puts the book next to him on the floor.
“It’s not the right one.”
“A book is a book.”
“A book is most definitely not a book!” On his elbows, he wriggles out some way from under the bed. She can almost see his tail. “Why can’t you read? Have you never been in school?”
“Yes, I’ve been in school.”
“But I bet you were too stupid, weren’t you?”
“Two weeks. I was only in school for two weeks.”
“Two weeks? And then what happened?”
“Then…Other things happened.”
“What sort of other things?”
“That’s none of your business!” She picks up the tray, which tinkles and clatters. “I’m taking this back downstairs. And I’ll fetch some sheets. And towels. And a clean glass. And I’ll come back at half-past three because that’s your bath time. And because, yes, I can remember that, and yes, I can tell the time, if you really want to know.” Lampie takes big steps toward the door. She completely forgets to move calmly, slowly, but what good would it do?
As she leaves the room, she hears him say something.
“Wait a moment.”
“What?”
“It’s not you, is it?” He has crawled back under the bed. She can barely see him now.
“What’s not me?”
“The one who’ll be coming from now on.”
“Yes,” says Lampie with a nod. “Yes, it’s me, Edward. That’s your name, isn’t it? Edward?” She tries her smile again, but it has stopped working. He can’t see her anyway.
“Isn’t there anyone else?”
“No,” says Lampie. “There’s no one else.” Then she walks out of the room and down the stairs.
One morning it was gone, of course, her rabbit. Her mother had already warned her though, hadn’t she?
It was not on her bed as usual, and she found it that afternoon, hanging up in the shed, head gone, fur gone.
They did not have much money, but they still needed to eat. Yes, Lampie understood.
It was painful, but she understood.
that stupid child
When she has finally gone, he breathes out. How could they do this to him? Such a stupid child, such an illiterate bumpkin.
And she is supposed to take care of him? To do everything that Joseph did? No, no way, never! If she comes back, he will bite her to death.
Did she really sit with him all night, singing to him? Or did he just dream it? Oh well, so what?
No one else wanted to come, or more like no one dared to come, and so they sent that child.
If his father knew about this, then he would, he would…He would never approve. He would throw her out and look for someone else, another Joseph or someone else who was good enough for his son.
Or would he? Would he really be bothered?
Of course he would.
So where has he gone? Why hasn’t he come back?
He always comes home a few times a year, doesn’t he? Edward has lost count—has it been a year already?
Edward turns onto his side, sees the harness in the corner, his walking bars. He has not practiced for days, of course, what with everything going on.
And I’m supposed to come all the way back from Japan for that? he can hear his father saying. For a son who doesn’t do his best, who doesn’t even try?
I was ill, he says, defending himself. I nearly died.
Ill? You call that ill? Seven weeks of malaria—now that’s what I call ill. Shaking with fever, red lumps full of pus—that’s what I…
Yes! he shouts. You can stop now. I know! Edward has a headache. And of course he still has not had anything to eat. He should have eaten those disgusting eggs after all.
He lies on his back. He’ll practice tomorrow. First thing tomorrow morning. And this afternoon, a bath—finally!
At least, if she ever comes back, that stupid child.
bath time
Of course she comes back, at half-past three exactly. She has even brought a plate of fish, which Martha dashed to the market to fetch.
“Maybe you could pop that upstairs for him. If you go up there again. I’m not telling you to do it though, mind.”
Lampie had nodded.
“I promised to give him a bath at half-past three.”
“Pff,” Martha had snorted. “A monster that can tell the time?”
“He’s not a monster,” Lampie had said y
et again. But she is no longer so sure about that. He is actually some kind of monster, after all.
“I’ve brought someone with me,” Lampie says to the moldy bed. She still has not seen or heard Edward, but he must be under there again. “Lenny from downstairs. That’s not a problem, is it?” No answer. She puts down the pile of clean sheets on top of the dirty ones. “He’s a bit, um…slow. But he’s also very strong, and he’s going to help me. It must take about thirty buckets to fill that bathtub, and I don’t really feel like—”
“No.”
“But…”
“No one is allowed to see me. That’s one of the rules. Do you understand? There are rules.” The voice comes out from under the bed, but the boy himself does not.
“But he’s already seen you, Fish. Edward.” She bends down and puts the plate of bloody chunks of fish on the floor. “He saw you this morning. He already knows that you have a tail.”
He shoots out from under the bed, and suddenly he is on top of her. Lampie’s head bangs against the floor, and she gives a gasp of fear. His pitch-black eyes are so close; she can feel his breath on her cheek.
“It!” he hisses. “Is! A! Deformity!”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Not a tai—Not that other thing! A deformity! My legs are just deformed! Say it!”
She tries to wriggle out from under him, but he is holding her arms too tightly.
“Um…But…”
“Say it!”
“Fine,” she says. “It’s a deformity. Now let go of me.”
He lets go and slides back under the bed. “I could still grow out of it. It’s possible. If I practice a lot. A doctor said so.”
“Oh,” replies Lampie. She rubs her sore head with her sore arm. What a wonderful job she has. “So what exactly do you have to practice?”
Edward does not reply.
Lugging thirty buckets of water is as easy as anything for Lenny. He keeps looking nervously around the room and splashing big puddles of water on the floor, but when he realizes that he cannot actually see the monster, he calms down. He empties bucket after bucket into the big iron bathtub. Flakes of black dirt float on the surface of the water, and dead insects. Everything here is dirty, thinks Lampie.