Amelia Dee and the Peacock Lamp (14 page)

‘Maybe it contains some of the powers of your mind that you are not consciously aware of,’ said Mr Vishwanath. ‘Maybe your mind has put them there, as if they are outside yourself, because you do not want to acknowledge that they are yours.’

Amelia frowned again. This was getting
really
tricky. What if that was what her mind had done, and Mr Vishwanath was just some kind of illusory embodiment of a part of her mind that the rest of her mind didn’t want to acknowledge? But why on earth would her mind embody it as an old yoga master who liked to stand for hours in a blue nappy with one foot hooked around his neck? Who was so cautious and private that he wouldn’t even put up an advertisement in his studio window? Who was always saying he had been such a wild character – but only in his youth?

‘What do you think, Mr Vishwanath?’ asked Amelia eventually.

‘What does it matter what I think, if I don’t really exist?’ Mr Vishwanath gazed at Amelia for a moment, and then smiled his gentle, probing smile. He turned back and looked at the garden again.

Amelia watched him. If nothing really existed outside her mind, then Mr Vishwanath didn’t exist outside her mind, and if Mr Vishwanath didn’t exist outside her mind, then all the things he said didn’t exist outside her mind either. Which meant they were already in her mind. Which meant
she
was the one who was really saying them. But she couldn’t be the one saying them, because she hardly ever understood them!

In Amelia’s opinion, that was the strongest proof that the world really
did
exist. Much stronger than her failure to turn the hall into a self-sweeping floor.

‘You really do exist, Mr Vishwanath,’ she said.

Mr Vishwanath glanced at her for a moment, and then turned back to the garden.

There was silence.

The garden seemed empty without any statues. They were all stacked down the back, behind the invention shed. Amelia’s father was waiting for the first sculpture from her mother’s new phase. He was certain it wouldn’t be long now before the door of the sculpture room opened to reveal a new work. He said it as if he was quite excited about it.

The thought reminded Amelia of her story again, still sitting in her drawer, waiting to come out.

Amelia frowned. None of her stories had ever given her this kind of trouble. Normally she wrote them and put them away and that was that. Something might make her think of one of them, and she might pull it out and read it again, but only for her own entertainment. But this one just wouldn’t rest. It made her wonder why she had written it in the first place. For that matter, why did she write any of her stories? She had never really stopped to think about it. But why? What was the point of writing something that just sat in a drawer for ever? That was as bad as . . . as bad as what her mother did with her sculptures, putting them in the garden and never letting anyone see them.

But what was the story for? Did she really want the Princess to read it, even if she could make her?

There was no one she could ask. No one knew she had ever written a single story, except the Princess. And Mr Vishwanath. She had told him, Amelia remembered.

She looked at him now. She could smell the sweet scent of his yoga oil. He was gazing at the garden, perfectly still. There was no way of knowing what was going on in his mind.

‘Mr Vishwanath?’

Mr Vishwanath went on gazing ahead.

Amelia hesitated. ‘I wrote a story,’ she said softly.

‘Another one?’ murmured Mr Vishwanath, in that tone of his, so deep, so gentle, you never knew if it wasn’t coming from inside your own head.

‘I can’t decide what to do with it.’

There was a chirruping from somewhere in the grass. A cricket.

‘What makes you think you should do anything with it?’ said Mr Vishwanath, still gazing at the garden.

‘I don’t know. I just can’t leave it. I can’t explain why.’

‘What have you thought you might do with it?’

Amelia hesitated. ‘Give it to the Princess.’

There was silence.

‘Mr Vishwanath, I was thinking . . . maybe you could read it.’

CHAPTER 18

Just before five o’clock the next afternoon, the hammering and banging in the sculpture room stopped. Not just for a minute or two, but completely. Suddenly, for the first time in weeks, there was silence.

Amelia knew what that meant. She came down from her room. Her father came in from the invention shed. They met on the landing on the second floor.

Another few minutes went by. Then Amelia’s mother flung open the door. But instead of coming out and quickly locking it behind her, she stepped back and waited impatiently inside.

In the middle of the room, in a mess of fragments of plaster and wood shavings and metal scraps, stood a sculpture. It was about two metres high, and a metre wide, all green-yellow metal. There was a big, undulating metal ring at the top, and a metal ring at the bottom, and a set of metal struts that ran between them all curling and curving and crossing over each other. It was like a kind of tube that had been twisted and squeezed and then lengthened again.

Amelia’s father stared at it. Then he glanced at the hoist in the window of the sculpture room, and back at the sculpture, and his expression grew more and more worried.

Amelia’s mother was gazing at it as well, head cocked, a slight frown on her face, as if she was seeing it for the very first time. Then she looked at Amelia.

‘Well?’ she said.

Amelia nodded. Always nod, she had learned from her father. Nod thoughtfully, slowly, and preferably a number of times, as if you approved wholeheartedly of whatever you were seeing. Even if you had no idea what it was.

Her mother glanced questioningly at her father.

He nodded as well, exactly the same kind of slow, thoughtful, methodical nod.

This was going to be tricky, thought Amelia. There was only one person who could get them out of the situation, one person blunt enough and brusque enough to ask the question no one else dared to ask.

‘What in the world is that?’

Amelia and her father glanced at each other in relief. Mrs Ellis was standing behind them in the doorway, hands on hips, with a look of disbelief on her face.

‘It’s a lamp,’ snapped Amelia’s mother.

‘A lamp?’ Mrs Ellis hooted with laughter. ‘What good is a lamp like that? How do you light it?’

‘You don’t light it,’ snapped Amelia’s mother.

‘Oh, a lamp you don’t light!’ Mrs Ellis hooted again. ‘What’s it for, then?’

‘It’s not
for
anything,’ snapped Amelia’s mother. ‘It’s an interpretation of a lamp.’ She turned around and ignored the housekeeper.

But Mrs Ellis wasn’t to be ignored. She took a couple of steps into the room and waved her arm at all the rubbish on the floor. ‘Well, don’t expect me to clear all this up for you. You can do it yourself!’

Mrs Ellis always said that. Amelia’s mother’s reply, which was always the same, came quickly.

‘You’ll clear it up, Mrs Ellis! You’ll clear it up if I tell you to clear it up.’

‘I will not!’

‘You will so!’

‘I will
not
!’

‘You will
so
! You’ll clear it up right now!’

‘Just see if I do,’ retorted Mrs Ellis, and she turned on her heel and left the room.

She wouldn’t clear it up right now. She’d come back in a couple of hours. That way, they could both claim to have won. Amelia’s mother would have forced Mrs Ellis to clear up the mess after Mrs Ellis had refused. And Mrs Ellis would have done it when she chose after she had been told to do it straight away. On the other hand, thought Amelia, if you looked at it another way, each of them could be said to have lost . . .

‘So it’s a lamp,’ said Amelia’s father.

‘Of course, it’s a lamp,’ snapped Amelia’s mother. ‘I hardly need to tell you that, Armand.’

‘Of course you don’t, Angeline. I was just confirming my impression. That was your impression, wasn’t it, Amelia?’

‘Definitely.’

‘An interpretation of a lamp,’ said Amelia’s father.

‘Yes,’ said her mother.

Amelia’s father nodded. ‘And you don’t plan to light it?’ he asked, as if to reassure himself.

‘Of course I don’t intend to light it!’ retorted Amelia’s mother. ‘Honestly! What’s wrong with you today, Armand? I’ve enough to put up with from Mrs Ellis!’

Amelia’s father smiled understandingly. Amelia’s mother was always touchy after she had just finished a sculpture, particularly the first sculpture of a new phase. Artists were like that, he often said to Amelia. Inventors weren’t, he always added. At least he wasn’t. He was always cheerful, even when one of his inventions had just failed miserably. But Amelia thought that was because most of his inventions failed miserably, and if he couldn’t be cheerful when that happened, he would hardly ever be cheerful at all.

He walked slowly around the sculpture, considering it from every angle. Amelia’s mother watched him anxiously.

‘Well, I think it’s wonderful,’ he said at last.

‘Do you, Armand?’ Amelia’s mother beamed. ‘Really?’

‘Of course I do, my love.’ Amelia’s father came back and kissed her. Then he put his arm around her waist, and they stood side by side, gazing at the sculpture.

‘What about you, Amelia?’ asked Amelia’s mother, and she reached for her hand.

‘Oh, I love it as well,’ said Amelia.

‘Really?’ said her mother. ‘What do you most love about it?’

Amelia stared. ‘Well . . . I love the . . . the . . .’

‘Do you love the torsion in the shape?’ she said.

‘Yes! Yes, I do.’

‘Yes, the torsion,’ said her father. ‘We both love the torsion, don’t we, Amelia?’

Amelia nodded.

‘I wasn’t sure about it at first,’ said her mother. ‘Yet it felt necessary. It felt right.’

‘I can see what you mean,’ said her father, cocking his head. ‘And tell me, Angelica, is this the start of a new phase, or a one-off?’

‘Neither,’ replied Amelia’s mother. ‘It’s the first of a series.’

‘A series?’ said Amelia’s father. ‘And the difference between a series and a phase . . . that would be . . .?’

‘Honestly, Armand! What
is
wrong with you today? A phase is open-ended. Who knows how long it will go for? A series is defined. It has a goal. It has a limit.’

Amelia’s father nodded seriously. ‘A series. Perfect. Yes, Amelia? We haven’t had a series before, have we?’ Amelia shook her head.

‘I thought I’d do six.’

‘Six?’

‘Yes. Six different interpretations. I got the idea from that princess. What if the six lamps in the palace weren’t the same type, but each one was a completely different style? And what if each one was . . . Well, look at the one we’ve got hanging at the top of the stairs. It’s beautiful in its own way, I won’t deny it. But it’s very old-fashioned. Very classical. What if you had six that were completely different but modern? That’s what I wanted to do. Make a new interpretation.’

Amelia’s father gave his wife a kiss. ‘Always thinking like that, aren’t you, Angelita? Always looking for something original. I’d never have thought of it.’

‘Nonsense, Armando,’ said Amelia’s mother, and she caressed her husband’s cheek. ‘You’re the one who’s always thinking of new things.’ But she couldn’t keep the smile off her face, and anyone could see how pleased she was at what Amelia’s father had said.

Amelia rolled her eyes.

Her father got the lamp into the garden using the sculpture hoist. It creaked and wobbled, but held the weight, and the lamp eventually made it down safely. He positioned it in the garden under the watchful eye of Amelia’s mother. Then Amelia’s mother turned around and went inside.

‘Do you think she’s really going to make six?’ said Amelia.

Her father shrugged. They both looked at the garden, trying to visualise what it would look like with six lamp interpretations in it.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Amelia. ‘Really?’

Her father gazed at the sculpture, then he walked around a little way and gazed at it from a different angle.

‘Well?’

‘That’s not the point,’ he said.

Amelia knew what was coming next.

‘Your mother expressed herself, that’s the only thing that matters.’

Of course that was the only thing that mattered, thought Amelia, if you only put your sculptures in your backyard where no one else would ever see them. But just once in a while, would it really hurt if her mother expressed herself in a way that other people actually liked?

‘You know,’ said her father, gazing at it again, ‘I think I actually do like it. It’s the . . . the . . .’

‘Torsion?’

Her father shook his head, trying to look at Amelia disapprovingly. But he couldn’t quite keep a smile off his lips. Then he became thoughtful again. ‘No, but really, there is something interesting about it. It might be quite interesting to have six of them here.’ He looked around the garden, as if he could already see them there. ‘Yes, it might be quite interesting.’

Amelia shrugged. The sculpture wasn’t so bad. Better than the horrible thin face-blades that had been there before. Maybe it really was because of the torsion, whatever that was.

‘Maybe we
could
light them. What do you think?’

Amelia looked at her father. Was he serious?

‘Still,’ he said, ‘that Princess of yours – I probably wouldn’t show them to her. She didn’t look like the type who’d approve.’

‘Of anything,’ muttered Amelia.

They glanced at each other and shared a smile.

‘Do you know that Eugenie Edelstein thinks the Princess had a whole conversation with her?’ said Amelia.

‘I didn’t hear her say anything to Eugenie.’

‘No,’ said Amelia. ‘No one did but Eugenie.’

‘She had a rather interesting conversation with your mother, though, didn’t she?’

Amelia stared at him. ‘When?’

‘When your mother came out of the sculpture room. About what she did. About her art.’

‘No, she didn’t. She just said . . .’

‘What?’ asked Amelia’s father, with a look of genuine interest.

Amelia shook her head in disbelief. Did
everyone
recall only what they wanted to remember?