The Night Rainbow

by Claire King

  And the tiara is because she is a princess, says Margot.

  You’ve scratched your legs, I say.

  Again, says Claude. But tell me more about the scissors.

  We just borrowed them, I say.

  We were extremely careful, says Margot.

  Hmm, says Claude. And where are they now? Have you got them up there with you?

  They’re under my pillow.

  Don’t you think your maman will be worried when she finds them missing?

  I don’t think she will notice.

  And if she does?

  Claude is right. Maman worries a lot and if she can’t find the scissors or me she will probably worry about the trouble we could be getting into together.

  OK, I say, climbing down out of the nest. I will go and put them back.

  Good girl, says Claude.

  It is the roast chicken that makes me forget. When we get in the house is quiet, but the chicken can’t have been out of the oven very long because the whole kitchen smells of butter and tarragon. The chicken pieces are in a china bowl under a fly screen. My tummy thunders so loudly I think it might wake Maman up. So I get out two plates, and we help ourselves to some of the meat. We eat it with our fingers and it is salty and delicious. Afterwards I take the bones and bits of fat out to the courtyard for any cat-visitors, so they will fill up their tummies on that and not wait for baby swallows to fall out of the sky.

  In the middle of the night, in the dark, I realise that my head is very uncomfortable. At first I think that the hair fairy has been and that there is a pile of coins under my bed. But it is not that. The chicken scissors are still under my pillow where I left them with all the hair. I think about taking them back to the kitchen. I think about the emptiness of the night-time house outside my bedroom door. I think about what Claude said about Maman worrying, but since she has been in bed all afternoon I think she can’t have noticed. I think it would be best if I keep the scissors under my pillow until the morning.

  I wake up on the floor. I have fallen out of bed, although I don’t remember doing it. Margot is laughing at me. She has already got her clothes on and she is wearing a red dress with a silver belt and a silver tiara.

  I am the Queen of Amazonia, she says, and I say, Good morning.

  Let us have breakfast, says the Queen of Amazonia. I have prepared cake and watermelon and chocolate spread.

  That sounds delicious, I say.

  The cake and watermelon and chocolate spread is pretend. But we do have some jam. We run down to the path to get the bread.

  This is extremely inconvenient, says the Queen of Amazonia.

  I’m sorry, I say. It’s because Sylvie doesn’t speak English. And because she’s scared of Maman.

  It’s like we are in the zoo, says Margot, who is Margot again (but still wearing a tiara).

  It is a bit, I say, although I’m not sure I understand.

  Like when you have to throw the meat to the tigers so they don’t bite you. Sylvie has to throw the bread to us so that she doesn’t get attacked by Maman, who is ferocious. Except if she threw the bread it would break and get dirty and Maman would be more cross.

  So she has to leave it down here on the signpost, I say.

  Exactly, says Margot, and she looks pleased with herself.

  Like a zoo, I say. If it’s a zoo then I am the unicorn.

  They don’t exist, says Margot.

  Like dinosaurs?

  Like witches.

  Oh.

  Well then I’m a giraffe.

  I’m a kangaroo, says Margot, and she bounces away up the hill.

  Back at the house, we sit on the step to the courtyard and we eat without talking. There are sparrows in the eaves somewhere, or in the barn. I can hear them chirruping.

  Maman comes down and starts tidying the kitchen, and shoos us properly outside while she sweeps up our crumbs.

  Where shall we … Margot begins.

  The low meadow, I say. Come on.

  As we get to the road we see Josette is standing at the gate, feeding the donkeys bread and carrots and floppy red and green salad leaves. We stop, look and listen, then run over to say hello.

  Josette turns to us with a smile, but it quickly dissolves back into her wrinkles. Mon Dieu! she says. Then she turns and stares up at our house, as though it has done something very naughty indeed. Come with me! Josette tosses the rest of the vegetables in to the donkeys and then grabs my hand. She crosses us back over, leading us along the road, away from the village, to a small cottage made of bonbons and cakes. Well, yes, actually it is just a normal cottage made of stones, with a red roof, like all the houses. But it is very pretty.

  We stand at the gate, staring up at her as she walks away. When she notices we are not following she turns around. Come on, she says, what are you waiting for?

  Josette’s garden is green and full of flowers. From the side of the house, grape vines climb over big dark beams, and underneath is a table and chairs. The grapes, green ones, are hanging down over the table.

  I think if we stood on the table we could get those, says Margot.

  Now, you wait here, Ragamuffin. And no pinching those grapes, they’re not ripe.

  It’s like she can hear you! I whisper to Margot.

  We wait at the table, which smells of honeysuckle and bananas. The honeysuckle smell is not curious because there is a big bush on the corner of the house, all covered in white and yellow flowers. But the banana smell is. I can’t see a banana tree anywhere.

  Josette comes back. She is carrying a yellow plastic mixing bowl and some scissors. Stay still, she says, sitting next to me. Josette is really old. Her hair is long and the colour of metal. It is pinned up in a bun, held up with a long black needle. I have never touched Josette’s hair, but I imagine it would feel scratchy and wiry. Her face is the most wrinkled face I know. It looks like a peach stone sucked clean. Her eyes are a long way inside her head, but they flash like dark wrong-way-round fireworks in a white sky. Josette smells of violets and donkeys.

  I look at the scissors and the bowl and I am not happy.

  Is she going to make you into a salad? says Margot.

  Or a cake made of hair?

  Josette puts the bowl on my head. Margot starts to laugh.

  Are you a witch? I say. Are you going to make me into cake?

  Josette smiles. I’m not a witch, she says. Just an old lady. She takes the scissors and starts cutting at the hair that is sticking out from under the bowl.

  Josette’s house is not made of biscuits and bonbons, and her fingers are not very witchy, but it could all be a big trick and I jump back. The scissors nearly poke my face.

  Stay STILL! she says.

  I don’t want to, I say.

  Pivoine, says Josette. Her voice smiles. What happened to your hair?

  I am wondering whether or not to tell a lie. Margot is shaking her head but this could mean ‘Don’t lie’ or ‘Don’t tell the truth’. I shrug.

  You cut it, didn’t you? As she says this, a very slinky little black cat appears and starts to wind itself around the table legs.

  She IS a witch, whispers Margot. I feel my insides go tight. But I decide that in this case it is best not to lie because witches know magic and can probably tell if someone is lying to them.

  Yes, I whisper.

  It’s OK. But let’s just make it a bit better, she says.

  OK.

  Has your maman seen it?

  Not yet.

  Hmm. Josette snips short snips on my head. I’m trying to make you beautiful again, she says. I look up at her concentrating face and she smiles back down with all of her soft, brown lines. There, she says, done.

  I thought it was better when I did it, says Margot.

  Josette ignores her, brushing snips and curls off my shoulders and on to the grass. Now, have you had any breakfast? she asks.

  I ate the end off the baguette, I tell her. I had to fetch it from down by the road because Maman growled at S
ylvie.

  Josette nods. Come on, she says, and she takes us to her kitchen, which is yellow and white and smells of cake. On the table is some fresh bread and some sausage. She cuts the sausage into round circles like small pink and white coins. She slices a big slice of white bread. Then she puts them on to a plate and makes a face. The bread is the face, the sausage is the eyes and nose. She cuts me a slice of tomato to make a mouth and pours milk into glasses.

  Your house is different to ours, I say, with my mouth full.

  How is it different?

  You have clean plates, and it smells of flowers and cake, I say.

  Josette comes over and kisses the top of my head.

  Everything will be all right, Petite, she says. I wonder if she understood what I said.

  You’re not allowed to kiss me when Maman is not here, I say.

  And who told you that?

  Claude.

  Claude?

  Yes, says Margot.

  Well now, says Josette, you’d better get back home to your maman. She’ll be worried about you.

  She won’t, says Margot.

  And stay out of trouble! says Josette.

  Josette’s throat is very frisky, says Margot as we walk home. Did you notice?

  Frisky? I say.

  Yes. When she talks it moves in and out.

  It must be because she is old.

  When I get old, says Margot, I will have a house that smells of flowers and cake.

  When I get old, I say, I will kiss all the people that wanted to kiss me when I was young.

  It doesn’t matter how quietly we close the front door, because Maman has been watching us come up the path. Her arms are folded, resting on her belly, and in one hand she is holding the chicken scissors, which I had left under my pillow. She looks at my hair, then my eyes. I look anywhere else but at her. It doesn’t work; she seems to fill everywhere today. She pushes the scissors towards us.

  I don’t even know where to begin, she says. What are you going to tell me?

  Margot takes my hand. We hang our heads.

  Maman, I’m so, so sorry, I say.

  It is mumbled to the floor, but Maman is on fire.

  Sorry about what? she says. She is already shouting.

  About cutting my hair short, I say.

  Your hair? I don’t care about your hair! You can shave it all off for all I care.

  I don’t understand, says Margot.

  You do not ever take my scissors, says Maman. And what about when the baby is born? Do you think you can just wave a pair of scissors around then?

  No, I say.

  No, says Margot.

  Maman, I’m so sorry. It was supposed to be a good idea, and also to get us some money from a hair fairy, and also I’m sorry.

  But Maman has slumped down at the table, her head in her hands.

  I can’t do it, she says.

  We go back outside gloomily. If Papa had been here he would have given me a hug. Papa had a hug for every day, happy or sad. I look at Margot. Margot is good at words but no good at all for hugs and sometimes the words won’t do.

  We’ll go to Windy Hill, says Margot. She always knows what I’m thinking.

  We walk without saying anything until we get to Windy Hill where the knots inside me start to unravel. It is late, and the sun is behind me, pushing my shadow out in front of me like another, much taller person. The wing turbines stand like sentinels, but only one is turning. Nothing is going right today. I feel my stomach tighten back up like someone is squeezing me on the inside. I don’t know if one is enough. If the wing turbines are not turning, there will be no electricity and tonight I will have to sleep in the darkness. Over the blue-grey étangs, the sunlight is making the little seaside houses glitter, their whiteness sparkling like jewels with little red roofs. The moon has come up already, a dappled lemon shape reflecting across the water. If she hurried she could kiss the sun in the sky before he sets, but it is already too late; the sun is disappearing at my back and taking my shadow with him.

  Chapter 14

  Get out of bed, says Margot.

  It’s another red-hot day. Already the air in the bedroom is too warm and too sticky. The shutters are open and the light is bright, even with my eyes closed. I press my arm across them and there are red-black sparkles where the world would be.

  I’m too tired, I say. I’m going to stay here.

  Don’t be ridiculous, says Margot, it’s too hot. Get up.

  Leave me alone, I say. And I roll over so she can’t see me.

  Margot is being bossy again. The shower’s running, she says, listen. Even Maman is getting up today; it’s market day.

  Hmph, I say, well I haven’t slept. I Need My Rest.

  It’s Market Day, says Margot, and she makes the words in thick crayon lines in the air with her pointing finger.

  I don’t like market day, I say. It’s Boring. And Boring is in thick crayon too and with a line underneath it.

  Free food, says Margot.

  I roll back again and peer out from over the horizon of my arm. What kind of food? I say.

  Olives for definite, sausage if we’re lucky, cheese maybe. Let’s see if we can get Maman to buy some paella.

  She never buys the paella. When we have paella, Maman cooks it herself.

  When was the last time she cooked paella?

  I can’t remember.

  Do you like paella? Margot crosses her arms and jigs up both her eyebrows, waiting for me to agree because she knows I do and that I don’t like lying. I do like paella, especially the prawns. And the yellow grains of rice, sticky and fishy and many many grains of sticky, fishy, savoury-tasting rice, one at a time, slowly … I do like paella.

  Yes, I do like paella, I say.

  My mouth is watering, here in my bed. I should get up and make breakfast.

  The door swooshes open and Maman is right behind it, her hair wet and clipped up, all in white, bare feet, freckles. What are you rambling about? she says. Shake a leg, it’s market day.

  Margot bounces out of bed and slips past Maman, first to the bathroom as usual.

  On the way to the market, we walk slowly. Maman is taking it easy, she says. I am dillying and dallying. As we pass the wall to Claude’s garden Margot and I are sly, peering in to see if he is there. It’s hard to see anything through the lavender that is overflowing over the wall. Fat moths like humming birds are hovering around it, drinking the nectar with long tongues. The back of my neck is hot, hot, hot. I try to swish my hair over it but the hair is gone and nothing swishes and I feel sorry that I cut my hair at all.

  In the market today people are looking at us, more than usual. They stare at Maman’s belly as she pushes her way through without a smile. We pass by them, somewhere in the space in between the homey people and the holiday people, until Josette steps into Maman’s path by the spice stall. Josette is wearing the floweriest dress I have ever seen and she still smells of violets. There are bees buzzing round her trying her out for nectar. She swishes them away with her brown hand and plants herself properly in our way. She looks up at Maman – Maman is much taller than Josette.

  Hello, Madame, she says.

  Maman takes a step backwards, her hands letting go of ours and flying to her belly. As she steps away from Josette her back bumps into an old lady, who was following us close behind because Maman was walking slowly. Even now, when she doesn’t cook so much, she can’t walk fast past the spice stall. The smell as you pass by it is like winters in the kitchen, tajines and spice-bread and hot wine. The colours pile up in pyramid heaps out of brown paper bags with rolled-down tops: reds and browns and yellows and oranges but not like crayons, or flowers; like different colours of the earth. The man at the spice stall doesn’t shout out like the people with the peaches or the bangles and beads, or the cheese graters. The spices shout out without saying anything and people let themselves be pulled by the smell. Before all the dying, Maman’s feet would walk her over to these smells without her promis
sion and she would be stuck there at the stall just like the flowery feathery pictures stuck on our fridge. You’d have to pull really hard to unstick her. After a lot of looking and smelling she would ask for spoons of the magic powders to be scooped into brown paper bags, and they would bring the smell of the stall back to our kitchen. Maman would mix them up, sizzle them in pans, jumping seeds and spitting oil. And later we would sit at the table and taste it together, all our family together.

  Now, the old lady who got bumped wobbles a little bit and is caught by someone next to her. They both glare at us and push their way around in the traffic jam of bodies.

  Hello, Madame, says Maman to Josette.

  I live at the bottom of your lane, says Josette. My name is Josette.

  I know, says Maman.

  Josette looks up at Maman for what seems to be too much time without any words to be polite. Her eyes narrow to small slits in her creased-up face. Then she smiles, pushing back strands of grey that have escaped her hairpins, and showing her brown teeth. She looks down at me. Hello, Ragamuffin, she says.

  Hello, Josette, I say.

  Maman looks down at me with dark eyes, bad feelings, then back at Josette.

  Good day, she says to Josette, in French. And then she says to me in English, Peony, move it. And then back to Josette, Excuse us, please. And I am jostled around Josette and I look at her and hope she can see that I’m sorry.

  Josette calls after us, Pay attention. If you’re not careful you’ll lose everything.

  How do you know that lady, Peony? says Maman, still walking.

  Careful, hisses Margot, don’t tell her about the haircut.

  I try and think, but the thoughts are crowding and all I can think of is the haircut, and the breakfast with smiley-face sausage. And also I am trying to look into the basket as we hurry, to make sure that things are not falling out. Everything is safely in the basket. I don’t understand what Josette meant.

  Donkeys, says Margot.

  Peony, says Maman, I asked you a question. Margot shrugs. No one ever listens to her. Except me, of course. It’s because you’re four, I say.

  Pardon?

  Donkeys, I say. The donkeys in the low meadow where we play belong to Josette.