Lampie and the Children of the Sea Page 2

  He hauls himself up there, limping on his good leg, up all sixty-one steps to the lamp room. She is not there either, and the wind almost blows him over the railing.

  The waves crash against the tower. They are as high as a house, great green beasts that want to swallow everything and smash it all to pieces. He is not worried about his tower, but he is worried about the ships that will be blown into the bay in the pitch darkness. Above the storm, he thinks he can already hear the cracking and creaking of ships’ bows being ripped open. And that is his fault. No, it’s that child’s fault, that wretched child. Where on earth could she be?

  He peers out, trying to pierce the darkness. Please. Don’t do this to me. Please, don’t fall into the sea, come home safely. Please…

  Scowling, he chases his thoughts away. Wishing is not going to help. What he wanted most of all did not happen. And the one thing he really, truly did not wish for, well, that did happen. No one ever listens to him.

  So go on, thunder away all you like. Fine. Let the ships smash themselves on the rocks. Why should he care? Let the child blow away, that wretched child.

  The wretched child is walking home through the storm. Or at least she is trying to.

  She is no longer talking to the wind. They stopped being friends long ago, and now it is blowing right into her face.

  She is making very slow progress. Stumbling across the town square, which is littered with branches and leaves, she heads for the quay, for the steps that lead down to where the path of stones begins.

  Lampie swallows. The wind chases the sea over the steps, almost onto the quay. The path to the lighthouse can only be seen by the white foam splashing up as the waves break on the stones. Will she really have to go into the water? Will she have to swim?

  She looks at the lighthouse, a darker silhouette against the dark sky. Her father is inside, probably pacing in furious circles, she can picture his face perfectly and how angry he is with her, she sees him stumbling, constantly looking at the door, she sees the door, the door knob, all she has to do is reach out her hand, she can already feel it against her fingertips…

  Clutching the basket tightly, Lampie steps into the water.

  At first it is not so bad, at first there are wooden posts and she finds her footing on the stones. The wind shrieks around her.

  Hello, hello, my friend, are you back again? Have you really come to play this time?

  Child, child, lighthouse child,

  Are you as strong as the sea so wild?

  “Yes!” screams Lampie above the storm. “Yes, I am! Yes, I am that strong!”

  She struggles her way from stone to stone. The pitch-black water swirls around her, rising higher and higher, its cold biting into her calves, her knees, her thighs. Her heart is thumping.

  But when she looks back, she is halfway there. The hardest part is still to come, but she has already done half of it.

  “You see, wind! You can’t…”

  The wind rips the basket out of her hand. It blows it high, spinning it in a little pirouette above her head, just to tease her, and then carries it away, with matches and all. To another country with another beach, to another child, who will find it tomorrow. Lampie watches the little dot disappear into the dark sky. She screams in fury and immediately gets a mouthful of seawater. It is salty and cold, and she is already chilled through, and now she has lost everything. Her tears are salty too – she can’t taste any difference.

  She looks around. The lighthouse is as far away as the harbour, both out of reach for such a small girl in such a big sea. But she does not need to go home now, of course, not without matches.

  The water rises higher and higher, and her feet lose their hold on the stones. She can swim, but she doesn’t.

  Fine, she thinks, then I’ll come to you, Mother.

  Her father is sure to be sad, but he was sad already. She lets herself sink.

  She does not feel the cold bodies coming to swim beneath her in the water, the cold arms taking hold of her. Swirling green hair, like seaweed, billows in the waves.

  Voices chuckle and chortle: “Oh my, a soul, a little drowned soul!”

  Her head is lifted above the waves. She is pulled to the lighthouse island and dumped onto the stones.

  “No two-legs in our water!”

  That is where Lampie is lying now, beside her own front door, while out at sea a ship hits the rocks.

  ROCK

  And, as always, the next day the sun rises again. The water lies in the bay, perfectly still, as if slightly ashamed.

  Waves? Us? No, of course not.

  Storm? whispers the wind terribly quietly. No, no, that wasn’t me. It brushes Lampie’s face, like a hand stroking her cheek.

  Mother? She is confused for a moment. Mother? Am I dead?

  In her head she hears her mother laughing softly. No, my sweet child. You’re not dead.

  Oh. Lampie is almost sad. Really?

  Really. It’s not your time yet. Don’t you hear the seagulls? Don’t you smell the water? You’re still here.

  Lampie smells the salty water and hears the cries of the gulls. She feels the little stones sticking into her back and feels how wet her dress is. She opens her eyes a little and, through her lashes, she sees the lighthouse, high against the clouds. She does not know how she got here, but she remembers everything else.

  I was too late, Mother.

  Yes, my sweet child. You were too late.

  Is Father really angry?

  Yes, he’s really angry.

  With me.

  Yes, with you too. And me. And himself.

  But there was nothing I could do about it! Lampie yells at the clouds. I tried so, so hard. I really did!

  I know you did, her mother says. You were very brave.

  But not brave enough.

  Exactly brave enough. Only my child could be that brave. Come on now, go inside. You’ll get poorly in those wet clothes.

  Yes, poorly, says Lampie. She closes her eyes again, just for a moment. Very sick and then dead and then I’ll be with you.

  She sees her mother shaking her head. That’s not what’s going to happen. On your feet, my sweet child.

  Lampie sighs and scrambles to her feet. She is stiff and cold and she can feel bruises all over. She climbs onto the doorstep and opens the door.

  “Father?” The room is dark and the floor is scattered with the contents of cupboards and drawers. The stove door is open and her father’s chair is lying on its back among the socks, the peas, the ash. She does not see her father though, just crumpled sheets in the bed.

  She walks to the stairs, crunching and slipping. “Father? Are you there?”

  Has he climbed all the way up the stairs? With his leg?

  *

  At the top, Augustus is looking out to sea, with his hands on the balustrade, which is red from the rust and white from the seagulls’ droppings. Lampie walks over to stand beside him. Neither of them speaks; the mild breeze blows through their hair.

  Down below, leaning on the rock in the middle of the bay, there is a ship. It is clinging to the rock like a sick child to its mother. The bow is splintered, the masts are broken and pointing in all directions. The sails hang limply, flapping in the wind. Planks and barrels and pieces of ship are floating all around. From the other side, from the harbour, comes the sound of shouting, and men in small boats are sailing back and forth.

  Lampie feels herself turning ice cold. She bites her lip. This is her fault. This happened because of her.

  She looks up at her father, at his greying red hair blowing in the wind, at the stubble on his chin. His eyes, too, are red-rimmed. Has he been awake all night? She tries to sniff his breath without him noticing, but all she can smell is salt and rust. He is furious with her, and she can understand why. Maybe he will never say another word to her, not for the rest of his life.

  But then Augustus speaks.

  “Listen to me,” he says. His voice sounds creaky, as if he has not spoke
n for a very long time. “And remember this well. I was up all night, repairing the lens. The mechanism, I mean.”

  “Why? Was it broken?” asks Lampie. “There was nothing wrong with it yesterday.”

  Her father grabs her arm and squeezes, hard. “There’s no need to go and look!” he says. “Just listen. Listen and repeat after me. My father…”

  “Ow… um… my father,” says Lampie.

  “Was up all night…”

  “Was up all night…”

  “Repairing the lens.”

  “Repairing the lens. And who do I have to say that to?”

  “To anyone who asks. And I didn’t get it fixed until this morning, but by then it was too late.”

  “Oh, I see,” says Lampie. “But…”

  “Repeat the words.”

  “And you didn’t get it fixed, um… until this morning, and…”

  “But by then it was too late.”

  “But by then it was too late. But that’s not true. It wasn’t broken, so that’s lying, isn’t it? And… Ow!”

  Her father glowers at her. “So what do you want me to say? That my child, this child here, forgot to fetch the matches, so all this is her fault?”

  “No,” squeaks Lampie.

  “Well, then. So you know what you need to say, don’t you?”

  Lampie nods and her father lets go of her arm. “I, um…” she says. “So should I say that I helped and, um… passed you the screwdrivers and pliers and whatnot?”

  “Whatever you like,” says Augustus. “Suit yourself.”

  “Oh, and we can make our hands black, so that it’ll look like we…”

  Her father grabs her shoulder and gives her a good shake. “This is not a joke!”

  “I didn’t say it was,” whispers Lampie. She looks at her hands on the railing, at the shattered ship. Did any sailors drown?

  “Well, can you remember that?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “So repeat the words one more time.”

  “Um… my father, er… worked all night to repair the light, um, the lens, because it was broken and it wasn’t fixed until, um…”

  “This morning.”

  “This morning. But by then it was too late.”

  “Right, and that’s what we have to say.”

  Her father’s hand is still gripping her shoulder; it hurts a bit, but she does not mention it. She hopes this is his way of saying that he is glad she did not drown and that she is safely home again. And that it does not matter if she forgets something now and then. Everyone forgets things sometimes, eh? Including him. And that it is not her fault.

  And maybe Augustus really does want to say all that.

  But he remains silent.

  BLAME

  Augustus sits in silence in his chair, his half-leg on a stool. Lampie brings him a cup of tea, which he does not drink, and then later some food, which he leaves untouched. She has learnt to leave her father in peace when he is like this, to stay in the shadows, not to draw too much attention to herself.

  Because if she says something or makes a noise or laughs… It has become worse recently, and sometimes she is glad that he lost his leg, that she is faster than him, and that she can hide and wait until it is over, until her father has his normal eyes again and can see her clearly.

  Augustus is so angry that he is shaking inside. And he is frightened too. That ship – this is really bad. Someone has to be blamed for it – he is well aware of that. And how does blame work again? Blame is a rotten egg that is tossed to and fro, from one person to the next, going around and around. No one wants to catch it, no one wants to have that mess all over them when it finally explodes.

  In his mind, he can picture it flying through the air. The person who has lost the cargo will throw the egg to the ship owner. The ship owner will toss it on to the captain. The captain will then fling it to circumstances beyond his control. An act of God! The storm! Those huge waves! That dangerous rock in the middle of the bay! But just you try taking a rock to court. Try squeezing it slowly until all the money has been recovered. All you’d end up with is sore fingers.

  But who then? Who will catch the egg? Who will get the blame? Wait a moment. The lighthouse! It wasn’t working! Negligence on the part of the town! The mayor glares at the councillor, the startled councillor stares at the harbour master, and the harbour master looks around for the person who… And suddenly everyone is looking in his direction.

  The lighthouse keeper. Of course. That is where the egg needs to go. He sees it flying towards him, and it is about to burst. He can already smell the stinking muck inside it.

  He really wishes he had something to drink, but he has finished everything. All he has is empty bottles and rusty water.

  That afternoon, Lampie walks along the sea path to the town to buy a new packet of matches. She does not want to go, but it has to be done. They can’t have another night with no light.

  The harbour is busy. Big ships and small boats are mooring up and then setting off again. Pieces of wreckage are being brought to land, and crates and barrels. She hardly dares to look, but she does not see any drowned sailors. There are plenty of beachcombers and timber thieves though, loading all kinds of floating debris into their boats in the shadow of the pier. Seagulls circle overhead and steal anything that can be eaten.

  Lampie quickly makes her way through the hustle and bustle on the quayside, scared that someone will recognize her, will call after her: Hey, aren’t you?… Why wasn’t the lamp lit last night? Have you people gone mad?

  The street with the grocer’s shop is calmer today. Mrs Rosewood is standing behind the counter. She is a couple of heads shorter than her husband, and she looks at Lampie with small, cold eyes.

  “Oh, so you’re still alive, are you?” She does not sound too happy about that. “He went running after you yesterday, my Frederick. Did you know that? No, you didn’t, eh? Didn’t you hear him shouting? Of course not. Because of that storm. And the hail. He went out there to take you his scarf, would you believe? And of course he caught a cold himself, because that’s what he’s like. And you didn’t even notice, did you?”

  Lampie shakes her head. She can hear Mr Rosewood coughing upstairs.

  “So now he’s barking away in bed. And who has to look after the shop? And him as well?”

  Maybe she should reply, “You, I suppose,” but Lampie knows better than that.

  “Two boxes of Swallow, please,” she says. “And would you put it on our account?”

  The grocer’s wife leans over the counter. “On your account, eh?” she says. “Again. Do you know how much you already have on account?”

  Lampie shrugs. She has a vague idea. It’s a lot. Has been for weeks now. They have been so short of money recently.

  Mrs Rosewood slides a sheet of paper over the counter to her. She pulls it out as if she had it ready and waiting. “There,” she says. “Go on. Read it out loud. I think you might be shocked too.”

  Lampie looks at the words on the paper. Here and there she sees an E, the first letter of her name. Otherwise it is all just lines and dots, slowly blurring together. She does not want to cry. She does not want to talk to this woman. What she wants to do is to buy matches and then go home, light the lamp and crawl into bed.

  Mrs Rosewood takes back the list and clears her throat. “Potatoes,” she begins. “Two and a half sacks. Three gallons of milk. Three! Beans. Six loaves of bread, three currant buns… Why are you eating currant buns if you can’t even pay for bread? That’s what I’d like to know. And that’s before I even get started on the alcohol. Just take a look at that!”

  Lampie wishes she could just walk out of the shop. Mr Rosewood never makes a fuss; he always notes it down whenever she has no money. And sometimes he even quietly forgets to make a note. She sighs.

  “I’ll bring some money tomorrow,” she says. “Honestly. But I need some matches now, Mrs Rosewood. The lamp has to be lit.” Upstairs she hears thumping and more coughing. />
  “It certainly must,” says Mrs Rosewood. “But why should we pay for it? Tell me that.”

  Lampie does not reply, because she can’t think of anything to say.

  Mrs Rosewood picks up the list again. “There are already three packets of matches on the list, the most expensive ones too.”

  Fine then, no matches, thinks Lampie. And that means another night of darkness, another ship on the rocks.

  “Do you know how expensive—”

  “Hilda!” Mr Rosewood shouts down. “Give that child a box of matches.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Now!” Lampie sees big bare feet and blue striped pyjama bottoms coming part of the way down the stairs. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Me?” shouts the woman. “You think I’ve gone mad? You must be talking about yourself! You gave your scarf away, you’re giving half of the shop away, and now you’re… No, stay upstairs. You’re ill!”

  Coughing, Mr Rosewood comes downstairs and into the shop.

  “And without your slippers too,” says his wife, pointing. “And without a scarf. For that little… But no, I’ll just shut up, shall I?”

  “Ah,” says Mr Rosewood, with another cough. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” He picks up a big box of matches and hands it to Lampie. “Go on. You’d better run.” He places a hand on her shoulder and gently pushes her towards the door. “It’s getting dark.”

  Lampie runs out of the door, past the rack of clinking bottles, but her father will have to fetch those himself – she is just glad to be out of the shop.

  “I’m making a note of it, mind you!” comes Mrs Rosewood’s voice from the shop. “So that’s four packets of matches. Four!”

  Up at the top of the lighthouse, she lights the big lamp. Her hands are shaking a little. She deliberately does not look at the ship, which is still out there. Her gaze drifts the other way, to the town, to the harbour, where the water is calmly licking at the quay. In the twilight, she sees something moving.