by Annet Schaap
When Miss Amalia has left, Lampie goes to the bathroom and takes a look at herself in the mirror. It’s quite a bruise. The edges are already turning green and the skin of her cheek is red and swollen. Luckily she is not at home. Luckily her father does not have to see this.
I am absolutely furious with your father, says her mother’s voice inside her head.
Yes, but, Mother, says Lampie. He really didn’t mean to do it.
I’m sure he didn’t.
And he must regret it.
I hope he’s howling with regret, her mother says angrily. My poor child. Your poor cheek.
The cat winds around her ankles. Lampie lifts it onto her lap and strokes it all morning, strokes the warm fur until it crackles.
Miss Amalia is cheerful when she comes home. She has a letter that explains everything, she says. She unfolds a sheet of paper and puts it on the table in front of Lampie.
“Take a look,” she says. “Everything is coming together very nicely.”
She unties her bonnet and takes it out into the hallway.
Lampie looks for a while at the white paper with the black letters on it and strokes the cat on her lap. After a while, she hears the water in the kettle singing, and Miss Amalia comes back holding a tray with tea and cups on it.
“So, what do you think?”
“When can I go home?”
Miss Amalia puts the tray on the table. “That’s all in the letter.”
Lampie can feel herself blushing. She strokes the cat even harder and looks at the table.
“Oh, of course,” says Miss Amalia. “You didn’t attend school for very long, did you? Oh dear. On top of everything else! Well, it’s too late to do anything about that now.” She takes the letter from Lampie. “I’ll just have to read it out to you.”
Lampie would like to listen, but it is not easy. She keeps thinking about everything, all at the same time, about now, about before, about those two weeks at school, years ago, in that packed and stuffy classroom, where she could not understand what was being said and felt so worried. Just like now. So when can she go home?
“Five thousand dollars,” she suddenly hears Miss Amalia say. “More than that, even. And those… belongings of yours are not going to raise five thousand dollars.”
Lampie gasps and sits up straight. The cat jumps indignantly onto the floor. “Five thousand dollars? But we don’t have five thousand d—”
“Of course you don’t,” says Miss Amalia. “No one has that much money. And that is why you need to work to earn it. That’s all there is to it. You can work, can’t you?”
“What am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to work? Can’t… Can’t I just work at home?”
“No, that would not do. Absolutely not.”
“Or here? With you?”
“Here?” Miss Amalia chuckles. “The very thought of it. Of course not. I just told you. You’re going to be working at the admiral’s house.”
“Where?”
“At the Black House, just outside town. You must know the place. Such a wonderful coincidence that someone came into town yesterday to ask if…”
“The Black House?” A song starts playing inside Lampie’s head, an old skipping song from the marketplace.
In the Black House, the monster’s home
Where the beast does live and roam…
“But there’s a monster living there!”
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” Miss Amalia says, pouring the tea. “The admiral is a highly respectable gentleman. Highly. Otherwise we would never consider sending a child there.” She pushes a flowery cup towards Lampie. “Come on, chin up, it’s perfectly normal for a girl of your age to go out and work, isn’t it? Besides, I’ve made sure that you will have one free Wednesday afternoon per month, which is not bad at all, so you should be grateful to me and—”
“But how long do I have to stay there?”
Miss Amalia starts calculating. “If we say a dollar a day, then that’s five thousand days. But if you do your bit and your father does his, that’ll be half each. And half of five thousand is only?…” She looks at Lampie as if she is back in the classroom. But even if Lampie’s head had not been full of panic, she still would not have been able to work it out.
“Twenty-five hundred days!”
“Th-that’s such a long time,” stammers Lampie.
“It’s only seven years.”
Seven years? That is terribly, horribly, endlessly long.
Miss Amalia stirs her tea, tinkling the spoon in the cup. “And seven years?” she says with a smile. “That’s nothing at all if you consider the grand scheme of things.”
Lampie tries very hard to consider exactly that, but all she can picture is vast long stretches of days. Days without her father, without the lighthouse, without everything she knows. In a house with a monster. She pushes her tea aside and shakes her head.
“No, I can’t do it.”
“I’m afraid you have no choice, child.” Miss Amalia folds the letter neatly and puts it back in the envelope. “Now, drink up and fetch your things. We shall head over there at once.”
Lampie starts crying. She can’t help it. She cries into her tea, she cries as she packs up her belongings, as they go outside. She cries as Miss Amalia pulls her along and she cries all the way through the town, past the harbour, through the alleyways and up, further and further away from the sea, until they are outside the town and heading along the road through the forest. Then she runs out of tears.
NAILED SHUT
From far away, the wind carries the scent of the sea. And something else: the sound of hammering. Big nails are being knocked into wood.
Lampie does not know this, but the sound is planks of wood being nailed over the lighthouse door. Augustus is inside and can no longer leave. Locked up with enough matches for seven years, which he has to use to light the lamp every night.
“With this leg?”
“That leg of yours is none of our concern, Waterman. And don’t forget to turn off the lamp every morning.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. I’ve been doing it for ten years.”
“You made your daughter do it – that’s not the same thing.” The sheriff chuckles at his own retort. His deputies laugh along with him and go on hammering.
“And what about my food? Am I supposed to eat matches?”
“We’ll make sure someone brings food every evening. But don’t expect anything special,” the sheriff says with a snort.
Augustus presses his face to the small hatch in the door. He can just about squeeze his nose through, but nothing else.
“And what about my daughter?”
He does not receive an answer.
“What about my daughter? What’s going to happen to her? Eh?” There is nothing Augustus can do, except for spit at the men through the hatch. Great gobs of hate. “Hey, I asked you a question!”
The last nail receives a final whack and the men quickly pack up their things. Pulling faces, they wipe off the spit. Then they head down the sea path and back to town.
Augustus swears at them as they go. “Answer me! When am I going to see my daughter again?”
The sheriff goes on walking. “You’re going to have to earn it first, Waterman!” he calls back over his shoulder. “And then we’ll see.”
MARTHA
The Black House was built just outside the town, on the top of a cliff, so that it could look out over the sea. But the trees around it have grown higher and higher in recent years, so high that all you can see out of most of the windows is a few branches and the leaves of the black ivy that grows all over the house. Someone really should take the shears to it, but no one ever does. The ivy is full of rustling and full of life; owls live there and spiders, beetles and bats.
Are there any people living inside? There is no sign of it. Angry, stern, the house stands with its back to the sea, its shutters closed, its doors bolted, a high fence with sharp points all around. What happens her
e is no one else’s business, it says. So keep out.
In the Black House, the monster’s home
Where the beast does live and roam…
Lampie stumbles along the bumpy forest road. Miss Amalia is much taller than she is, so she has to run a little to keep up with her. The pillowcase with her clothes inside keeps banging against her legs and almost making her trip.
And in her head she hears the song over and over:
It’ll bite off your arms,
It’ll bite off your head
The floor will be red
And you will be dead.
Then they are standing in front of a fence. It is tall and rusty and overgrown with climbing plants, nettles and all kinds of greenery. Miss Amalia rattles the gate. It does not open.
“Oh, fiddlesticks…” she says angrily. She rattles it again. “And there’s no bell or anything. How are we supposed to get inside?”
The bushes move and a man appears on the other side of the fence, a thin man in a big leather coat. Without saying a word, he opens the gate and, after the two of them have entered, he locks it up again with a grinding creak.
“Thank you most kindly,” says Miss Amalia in a loud voice. Birds fly up out of the bushes, startled by the sound. “Say thank you, Emilia.”
“Thank you,” mumbles Lampie, but when she looks around, the man is no longer there.
They walk between the tall hedges to the house. Miss Amalia rings the doorbell, her other hand resting heavily on Lampie’s shoulder. Far away, down a long corridor, they hear it ringing. They wait, but no one comes to the door. Impatiently, Miss Amalia rings again. They hear the bell, followed by some howling and barking. An angry voice. But no footsteps approaching.
“My goodness!” Miss Amalia’s fingers drum irritably on Lampie’s collar. She tries to peer through the letter box and, when that does not work, she takes a couple of steps back and looks up at the front of the house. “I can quite clearly hear that someone is at home.”
Lampie looks along with her: three floors of black windows peer back through the ivy. They look like angry eyes.
Go away, child, says the house. What business do you have here? Secrets dwell in this place, dark secrets and monstrous…
“Excuse me! You in there!” Miss Amalia has bent down to the letter box. “Can someone come and open the door? I’m standing out here with a child!” She turns and glares at Lampie, as if it is all her fault.
Maybe there’s no one at home, hopes Lampie. Then maybe she won’t have to stay. She can earn the money another way, back at home, or in a shop, perhaps at Mr Rosewood’s, if she is very neat and careful and…
Inside, a key turns and the big front door slowly begins to move, groaning as if it is an effort. A woman’s face appears in the gap between the door and the doorpost. The face looks angry and its eyes are rimmed with red.
“Jolly good, it’s about time,” begins Miss Amalia. “Good day to you. I have come to—”
“We don’t need anything,” mumbles the woman. “Maybe next week.” She starts to shut the door.
“Wait just one moment!” Miss Amalia blocks the door with her outstretched arm. “I’m not some tradesperson. I’ve come to bring the child. This child, to be precise. Emilia Waterman. It’s all been agreed and this letter is—”
The woman tries to close the door again. “This is not a good time,” she says. “Anything but, in fact.”
Miss Amalia flaps the white envelope at her. “This letter is for the admiral and I would like to—”
“The master is not at home.”
“So when will he be at home?”
“No idea. Not for a while.” The woman tries, yet again, to close the door. “I told you, now’s not a good time. This afternoon is not a good time.”
“Not a good time, not a good time…” Miss Amalia simply pushes the door open. “The least you could do is let us in. We’ve had quite a walk. Come on, Emilia, get a move on.” She pushes Lampie past the surprised woman and into the Black House.
Lampie steps into the corridor. It is cold inside. A long row of doors disappears into the darkness. The wall feels cold and wet to the touch, and when she brushes her hand against it, it leaves dirty white marks on her fingers. Miss Amalia gives her a slap.
“Stop that! What a terrible impression you must be making!”
The woman in black does not look at Lampie or at her fingers. She takes the letter from Miss Amalia and walks off down the corridor, with a blank expression on her face.
“I’ll give it to him,” she says. “To the master. When he’s home. But he isn’t now. And now is not a good time.”
“That may well be,” says Miss Amalia, her voice booming along the corridor. “But I’m leaving this child here in your care, um… Mrs… er?”
“Martha, Martha’s my name. Now I’ll thank you to leave.” She angrily shoos the visitors away, but Miss Amalia is not finished yet.
“And I am sure, Mrs Martha, that you will provide her with food and a place to sleep. Won’t you? And maybe something else to wear, as the child owns nothing but rags. There’s no shame in that, but it’s not very nice to look at, of course. Will that be a problem?”
Martha looks at her in surprise. “You’re not leaving her here, are you?”
“Oh, that’s all in the letter. Now make sure you work her hard. She’s perfectly capable, and hard work never killed anyone.”
“A child? I don’t need a child. What am I supposed to do with a child?”
“Well…” Miss Amalia stares at the ceiling. Cobwebs are climbing up the lights, and the corners are black with them. “It looks as if you could do with some help. Couldn’t you? With the, um, spring cleaning, shall we say?”
Martha flushes with fury. “That’s not… It’s because…”
“This is none of my business,” Miss Amalia says, sweeping her hand around to take in the dust, the dirt, the cracked tiles. “It just seems to me that any extra hands would be welcome.”
“I’m all on my own!” Martha shrieks. “They’ve all left, no one stays here, especially since…” That noise comes again, from far away down the corridor. Howling or barking or something.
Lampie feels in her pocket to see if her mother’s shard is still there. She slides it over her fingers. No, Mother. Really, truly. I really don’t want to stay here.
Martha takes a few steps towards the sound. “Stop it!” she shouts. “Lenny, keep them quiet!” Silence falls and she shuffles back to them, shaking her head. “I keep telling you. This is not a good time!” An angry tear rolls down her cheek. “We have to bury him and I need to get changed. I can’t bury him wearing this, can I?” She points at her fraying apron. “And I always have to do everything!”
“Well, isn’t this handy then?” says Miss Amalia cheerfully. “I’m certain Emilia here will be able to help you. She’s a good child.”
She gives Lampie’s shoulder a few little pats. “Right, then. I’m sure you’ll do just fine here, Emilia. The seven years will fly by.”
“What? Who? Seven years?” Martha stares at Lampie and then at her companion.
However much Lampie dislikes Miss Amalia, right now she would like to cling to her and ask if she can go back with her, back to that clean house with that nice cat.
“What if there really is a monster here?” she tries. “What if it eats me?”
Miss Amalia bursts out laughing. The sound echoes off the walls. “You really are such a baby, Emilia. Work hard, do your best, and all those little worries will vanish from your mind.” She turns to the door. “No need to see me out,” she says to Martha, who has made no attempt to do so.
Miss Amalia looks at Lampie one last time. “And there’s no need to thank me either, child. Really. No need. That’s not what I’m doing it for.” She opens the door and steps out into the late afternoon light.
Lampie sees the light hitting the tiles and the hundred thousand particles of dust whirling above them. Then the door shuts with a bang.
When she turns around, Martha is gone and she is alone in the corridor. She has no idea what to do or where to go.
Part Two
THE BLACK HOUSE
JOSEPH’S FUNERAL
Lampie looks around the kitchen. It is big and dark and really quite dirty. She found it by coming through the only door that was a little bit open.
No one is here, no monster, no Martha, no one at all. There is a fire giving off a little warmth, and the ceiling is low, with rough black beams. She can see a lot of dishes that need washing, on the table, on the draining board, even piled up on the floor. She could wash them and tidy up. That is the idea, isn’t it? Should she just begin? Or should she wait? The sooner she starts, the sooner the seven years will be over.
She waits a while, standing first on one leg, and then on the other. Nothing happens. No one comes.
Lampie puts her pillowcase on a chair, picks up a cup from the table and walks over to the sink. Her eyes are already looking for a tap, a kettle, a bucket, when behind her the floor creaks and Martha comes in. They both jump, and Lampie drops the cup. The handle breaks off and the rest rolls across the room, stopping at Martha’s feet.
“Oh, oh, I’m so sorry!” Lampie bites her knuckle. It is as if she can hear Miss Amalia complaining away: What a terrible impression you must be making! “I, I just wanted to do the washing-up and…”
The woman looks at Lampie as if she had completely forgotten about her.
Martha has, in fact, done exactly that. She paces up and down, muttering away to herself. There is suddenly a child in her kitchen. As if today hadn’t brought enough trouble. A night of howls, burnt food, no one daring to go into the room upstairs. Including Martha herself, now that Joseph is no longer here. What on earth is she going to do without him? And now there is a child, this pale child with her black-and-blue cheek and her pillowcase.