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 town council member, the startled council member stares at the harbor master, and the harbor 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 toward 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 are 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 she has to. They can’t have another night with no light.
The harbor is busy. Big ships and small boats are mooring up and then setting off again. Pieces of wreckage are being brought to land, along with 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. “My Frederick went running after you yesterday. 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. “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 pajama 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 toward 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 harbor, where the water is calmly licking at the quay. In the twilight, she sees something moving.
There, along the sea path, a line of people is approaching, almost black in the late evening light. They are men in big hats, with sticks in their hands. At the back is a woman in a dress. She trips and stumbles on the uneven stones, falling a little behind. As they come closer, Lampie sees who she is: the teacher from the school she went to for a very short time. Lampie can’t remember her name. Slowly the line approaches the lighthouse.