by Claire King
I am watching them lying on my belly, looking into a puddle, where upside-down trees drop into a deep well of blue. At the bottom of the well a fat dappled morning-moon has just a small sliver shaved off one side. When the mother bird gets to the point of the barn roof, with the witch-catcher tile, she keeps going up, high into the space between the two buildings, and comes back down to sit on the wire again. Margot, I say, if there are no witches then why have we got the witch-catcher tile?
Those birds don’t want to fly, says Margot. They want to be back in their nest.
You don’t know, do you? I say, rolling over and looking up at the realness of the reflection, at the red tile that sits on the point of the roof like a crown. The tile is for catching witches, I say, and it was put there by grownups. So grownups must think there are witches.
Well, Maman says there are not.
Maybe Maman is wrong, I say.
The mother swallow is twittering at her children. Come on, I think she is saying, flying is easy. But her children edge from side to side on the wire, cocking their heads and looking nervous. They’re not sure they can do it, so I start to feel scared that they can’t too. I remember them as tiny baby birds when they just hatched. From my window I could just see their small fluffy grey heads and yellow beaks poking out of the mud nest. They yelled for their food. As they grew bigger there was less room, but they still huddled up, a nest full of shiny feathers and bright eyes, and their mother still put food in their open mouths. She doesn’t do that any more. They have to do it for themselves.
You should be able to choose when you want to fly, I say.
Yes, Margot agrees.
Fly, fly, sings the mother bird, edging up beside them and chittering. She is helping them. If they had fingers instead of wings I imagine them all holding hands.
It’s sad that birds can’t hold hands, I say.
They can’t even hug, says Margot.
What do you think they do instead?
They just snuggle up together in their nest.
That sounds nice too, I say.
Then something seems to scare them, and they all lift off the wire together, flashes of white and blue. The mother leads them on the tour of our courtyard, and they follow her. They have remembered that they can do it after all. The wire bounces as they land, one, two, three, four … and five. Brothers and sisters, all together. Something brushes against my legs and I jump. But it’s only a cat-visitor. He rubs up against me, silky against my skin, and purrs, but he is not looking at me, he is looking at the baby swallows.
He’s waiting for one of them to fall, says Margot.
They don’t fall, I say, they’re birds. Birds fly.
Not always, says Margot.
That’s not right, I say. Birds don’t fall over while they’re flying. I look at the cat. He is still staring at the swallows.
They won’t fall! I say.
The father bird arrives on the wire, bigger and even more glossy. He sits at one end of the baby birds and the mother bird sits at the other. I look at the swallow family on the wire and start to feel the darkness dripping into me out of nowhere.
It seems best, I say, if a family has the maman and the papa.
It’s twice as many people as just a maman, says Margot. But mamans are still best.
I put my fingers into the pocket of my dress, which I have chosen again today, and feel the edges of the lonely photo. Papa loved me, I say. He used to pick me up and swing me about.
Maman loved you too, says Margot. You used to bake cakes and pies and biscuits shaped like stars.
That was before the baby died, I say. Papa tickled me, used to let me ride on his tractor.
Maman is the most beautiful, says Margot.
Papa had big hands and a splendid smile, I say.
Maman let you help with the laundry, says Margot, even when you dropped things on the grass.
I remember that, I say. Maman floofed the clothes and put them on the line, and I passed the pegs.
And Maman used to sing to you, says Margot.
We sang together, I say.
You knew all the songs, says Margot. Children’s ones and grownups’ ones. French ones and English ones.
But then the baby died, I say, and took her voice away.
Right, that’s quite enough of this, Pea, says Margot. You are being grumpy and it’s boring!
She throws herself on top of me, squashing all the air out. Her face is right on top of mine, her nose pressing my own nose and her eyes so close that I can’t see her at all, just a smudge of colour. Come on, she says, we are going to do some science.
If you go around the side of our house, on the sunniest side that looks out over the mountains, everything is very wild. There grass is seedy and scratchy and there are lots of nettles. There are also big thistles, taller than me, with beautiful hairy purple flowers that you can’t pick because the spiky leaves stick out too far to reach over. You can find a lot of insects there all the time: ladybirds and punaises and gendarmes. There is a big tree that has purple blossom on it in long dangly bunches, where you can see all the butterflies. We don’t normally play there, because it is right in the sunshine, and because of all the stingy-ness, but today we are out of bed early and it is not too sunny yet.
So, we are going to do the science, says Margot, and we are looking for specimens.
Alive ones?
No, we are not allowed to take alive ones from nature, only plants and things that are dead but not smelly.
I have got a magnifying glass, I say.
Yes, and I have got a stethoscope, says Margot. So let’s go.
A black and white swallowtail butterfly is sitting on the purple flowers drinking the nectar. There is a peacock butterfly too, and a brown and orange one that I don’t recognise. They are all alive, though, so they are good to look at but not good specimens. I decide that down on the ground is a better place to search. Soon I find a butterfly wing. It is very fragile and a creamy-white colour, like milk. The rest of the butterfly is not with it. It either dropped off, maybe, or perhaps the butterfly got eaten but not the wing. I put it on to a big flat stone while we find some more things. Margot finds a white feather, using her stethoscope, and then we find a crispy little yellow thing, a bit like a ball. I poke it with a stick. Nothing moves. When I look closer, through my magnifying glass, I can see that there are lots of empty spaces in it.
It looks a bit like a wasps’ nest, says Margot.
They would be very tiny wasps, I say.
I didn’t say it was a wasps’ nest, she says, just that it looks like one.
It does, I say.
It is a very good specimen, she says.
What do you think made it? I ask.
Well, says Margot, fastening up her white scientist coat. I would say that this specimen was made by very small wasps or another kind of very small insect.
I put the tiny nest together with the feather and the wing very gently into my pocket and keep my hand pressed over the opening so they don’t fall out. We will take these specimens to the girl-nest, I say, where they will be safe.
Claude must have already been down to the girl-nest because there is a new bottle of water and a red tin with pictures of biscuits on it. Pink ones and yellow ones and brown. It is hard to open. I have to put my fingers under the corners and try to pull the lid off. It is stiff and stuck and I am getting annoyed, and then all of a sudden the lid flies off and the biscuits tumble out of their places and some land on the green and red blanket and others in my lap.
The girl-nest is clean, says Margot.
I thought so, I say.
We eat some of the escaped biscuits and then put the lid back on, but less pressed-down. I start to empty my pocket. I get out the photo of Maman and the baby. Then I take the butterfly wing and the nest for very small insects and the feather. I hold them all together in my cupped hands. Four kinds of things that are treasure. I decide that I will bring things here to our nest and I will make a
collection. Then when it is too hot to go to Windy Hill I can come here and like my collection, and it will make me feel better. I will keep everything in the biscuit tin, next to the pink and yellow and brown biscuits, and then when we have eaten all the biscuits it will just be for treasure, and no one will look in the tin because it has pictures of biscuits on, and not pictures of photos and feathers and wings.
We did good science this morning, says Margot. And I have decided that our challenge has to be sciency as well.
Making Maman happy? How is that sciency?
Science is about solving puzzles, of course. With our brains. We need to do more brain-thinking.
OK, I say. How?
Well, Maman is happy mostly when we don’t make a noise, says Margot, and when we do make her breakfast.
Yes but only if things don’t get broken.
Yes. And we know some things that make her sad.
Yes, I say, like dead flies, Papa’s tractor and everything being a mess.
Right then. We can’t stop flies dying, or move the tractor, but we can do cleaning up.
Margot, I say, you really are an excellent scientist.
I am full of excitement about this idea, so we quickly have one more biscuit each and climb down the ladder.
We bump into Claude and Merlin on the other side of the stream.
Hello, I say, but we are just going home to make Maman happy.
Hello, says Claude. That’s OK, we were just popping down to see if you had found your biscuits.
Yes thank you! And the tin is good too.
Claude smiles. I’m glad.
Merlin winds around me, wagging his tail and lifting his head to be stroked.
Merlin is really lovely, I say.
He really is, says Claude. I love him a lot. And he crouches down to give Merlin a big cuddle. When I see Claude’s arms all wrapped around Merlin, and Merlin happy at being loved, I feel a strange sort of sad.
We really do have to hurry now, says Margot. We have work to do.
Chapter 10
We are working especially hard this afternoon. We are cleaning and tidying. I have taken a cloth from the kitchen and a dustpan and brush. I have swept the doorstep and I have washed the windows in the back door with water from the courtyard tap. Now I am sweeping the courtyard while Margot hoovers the air. We are making it very clean and nice. Once we have finished this part we will do the peachy barn and the tractor, even though I am scared of the wasps. The courtyard is hard work, though, because the dustpan and brush are small and the courtyard is quite big. Also because my hat keeps falling off.
That’s it, I say, I’ll just leave it off, it’s a stupid hat anyway.
If you don’t put your hat on in sunny weather you will die, says Margot, turning off her hoover.
Well how can I keep it on and do the cleaning? This house is a mess! I say.
You will have to use your head, says Margot, and I laugh. Margot makes up good jokes. Except for the knock-knock jokes that she is rubbish at.
The scorpion is in the shade of a big pink rock. He is almost black, except some yellow legs, and he is shiny and low to the ground. I don’t notice him until I sweep him out with the leaves and he starts to run.
Look, says Margot, it’s another specimen.
It’s an alive specimen, though, I say.
Well yes, so you can’t have him in your treasure chest, says Margot, obviously. But still, we could keep him – like a pet.
We could put a lead on him, I say, and take him for walks like a dog. I am only joking when I say this, because I know about scorpions. I know that if they sting you it hurts a lot and sometimes it means you have to go to the hospital. I know not to touch. So I get an empty jamjar from the box of glass for recycling, which like everything at the moment is overflowing. The jar has no lid, but it is much taller than the scorpion, and slidy, so I’m sure he won’t be able to climb the sides. I take a stick and poke the scorpion into the jar. He skitters about trying to climb up the glass walls, his pincers waving, his tail curled over his back like a sausage hook. I’m still a little bit scared he’s going to get out and sting me but I can see that I was right; the jar is too slippy and he has to stay in the bottom and be looked at. I’m glad that scorpions can’t fly.
Let’s keep him by my bed, I say. Do you know what scorpions eat?
I will have a look on the internet, says Margot.
Margot sits down at a rock, which she has made into her computer, and looks on the internet about scorpion food.
Hmmmm, she says, hmmm, aha, aha, right.
So what do scorpions eat? I ask.
Cheese, says Margot.
We are halfway upstairs when Maman appears at the bathroom door. She stands at the top of the stairs, a big dark shadow.
What have you got? she says.
I look at the jamjar in my hands: the little black scorpion still trying to climb up the slippery glass insides, his sting up over his back and the small piece of cheese which he has not eaten. I daren’t put it behind my back in case I tip it and the scorpion gets on to my arm.
Nothing, I say, looking her in the eye.
Peony, what’s in the jar?
Oh it’s just … I just found it by the rocks, I’m going to look after it. I’ve given it some cheese.
Maman starts coming down the stairs. Now the stairs are crowded, and there is no way past Maman and her belly. I hold my hands around the jar, trying to hide the scorpion. He is skittering at the sides, only the glass between his sting and my palm.
I look down through the banisters to the kitchen floor. I cannot throw the jar, it would smash, and there would be a scorpion in the kitchen. Both very bad. I look up at Maman, nearly here. I look behind at Margot, who just shrugs and looks back at me. I am trapped in the middle with my scorpion, who is now seeming like quite a bad idea.
Maman is trying to see into the jar. Cheese, she says. Is it a mouse?
No.
A spider? she says, coming down another step and peering.
Not a spider.
Peony, she snaps, what have you got in the …
Her hand is reaching out to take the jar. I am holding it tight. I am scared of dropping it but it is slippery and I am also scared of putting my fingers inside to hold it better, although the scorpion is still now, flat to the glass bottom. Raindrops of sweat drip down from my neck past my heart and make a paddling pool in my belly button.
… jar, she says. She is leaning forward down the stairs, past her belly, one hand holding the handrail and the other reaching for the jar, her fingers pressing around mine, looking for spaces where mine aren’t. She tugs, and I let go of the jar.
As Maman brings it up to her face, the scorpion jumps, lifting his pincers and his tail again, ready to fight.
Oh! Maman screams and drops the jar.
The jar bounces on the step between our pairs of bare feet, then falls another two steps and bounces again. I turn to watch it, to see the glass shatter, to see what happens to the scorpion. But the jar does not break. Instead it bounces on every step, toc, toc, toc, and ends up on the kitchen tiles on its side.
I think of the scorpion escaping; Maman would be even madder than she is already going to be. I start to run back downstairs, to try and keep it in, but after two steps I feel the sting, then the burning on the side of my foot.
Oh, Maman, it’s there! On the stairs! Oh it stung me! Maman! I cry.
The scorpion has run to the corner of the stairs.
I get down to the kitchen and climb up on to the bench. Pulling my feet up behind me.
Maman! Get it! It’s on the stair!
Which step, Peony? Which step? Maman daren’t come down the stairs. Her feet are bare and she can’t see the scorpion. Her belly is in the way.
Maman! It stung me, Maman! Please, it hurts!
My foot is already starting to go red and swell up. The kitchen feels like winter. The darkness in my stomach is spreading out into my arms and legs.
Maman has gone from the stairs.
Wait there! she is shouting. I’m coming, hang on. At the top of the stairs, Maman is wearing Papa’s tractor-driving boots and carrying a bottle of shampoo and a fat green syringe. She stomps down the stairs heavily, watching her feet as she goes. She stops, and starts thwacking at the stairs with the shampoo bottle, and stamping with one foot. I don’t think the scorpion will be alive when she is done.
Margot has her arms around me on the bench. I squeeze my eyes shut, it is black as night behind my eyes but with sparkles of colour and flashes of white. My foot is burning and I squeeze tighter and tighter. Margot is rocking me.
Don’t worry, she says, it hurts, but you’ll be OK.
I am trembling in the dark, trying to think about being cuddled, but only thinking about my foot hurting more and more. Then the arms lift me up and it is not Margot any more it is Maman, and she carries me outside into the light. I cling to her side, trying to sit on her hip but her belly getting in the way and me slipping further and further down as she stomps across the courtyard in Papa’s boots. She puts me on the table and looks at my foot.
Hush, Pea, it’ll be OK, she says, I’ll fix it.
It hurts! I cry.
I know, she says, hang on. And she takes the big green syringe and puts it over the sting on my foot and when she pulls up the inside part my foot pulls up too, making a white bubble of my body inside the clear plastic end-part. Then I see drops of blood being sucked out of me and I think I am going to be sick.
Wait here, says Maman.
I sit curled on the table, looking out past the barn and wishing I could see the wing turbines.
Then, The witches are coming! Margot shouts.
Where? Where? I scream, looking around. Everything looks normal but the witches could come up out of the shadows at any moment, and I am sitting on the table, easy to spot.
The witches are everywhere! They’re real, after all! Margot is laughing.
Stop it! I scream. Stop it!
Maybe you are going to die, says Margot. She has started peering at me curiously. Scorpions are very dangerous, she says. And she laughs some more.
