The Night Rainbow A Novel

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.

Go away, Margot, I say. I don’t want you any more.

When Maman comes back I am curled in a ball, sobbing. Maman unpeels me like an orange. She has a towel full of ice cubes. She presses it against my foot and one kind of hurt pushes away the other.

Am I going to die? I ask.

Don’t say that, Pea, Maman says.

I’m scared, Maman. Can you tell me a story?

Maman sits down in a plastic chair, which creaks as she fits her bottom into it, and holds the ice against my foot.



Once upon a time, says Maman.

I don’t want a made-up story, I say. I want a ‘When I was a little girl’ story. Those ones are always the cuddliest.

When I was a little girl, says Maman, there weren’t any scorpions.

Were there spiders? I ask.

Well, yes, spiders and bees and wasps, but no scorpions.

What else did you have? Margot wants to know.

Did you live near the mountains, like us?

No, not really. Just a town. Not far from the countryside, though.

What about the sea?

We were quite far from the sea too.

Were there meadows to play in?

No meadows, Pea, but we had a garden, with a swing.

Oh.

What did you do in the summer? I ask.

Maman is thinking, rolling the icy towel back and forth on my foot and rubbing her feet together. Her hair is a long wet snake down her back.

I played in the garden, and at friends’ houses. Our houses were all next to each other in a long row, just streets full of houses. The front gardens were joined by pavements, but the back gardens were joined by snickets, like footpaths. We used to climb over the back fences into each other’s gardens. We had paddling pools – yours is yellow but mine was green – although in summer it did rain a lot. We would call on each other to go out and play. If one of us had money we would go to a shop and buy ice-lollies. Other days my mummy would pack me a picnic. Some days, if we were really, really lucky, we would get in the car and drive to the seaside.

Maman’s face is empty, as though she is far away from here.

Our seaside?

No, a long way away. A different seaside. A different sea.

There’s more than one sea?

Maman smiles. Well, she says, kind of.

Were there flamingos, I say, and moules-frites?

There were donkeys to ride on, she says, and the sea was so cold. And there was rock to eat . . .

You ate rocks? I say.

Not rocks, rock, she says. It’s a kind of bonbon stick. And my granddad would sit in a deckchair and make us all sunhats out of hankies.

You can’t make hats out of hankies!

You could then.

That was a long, long time ago, I say.

Yes, says Maman, it really was. Her belly jumps and she curls over it. Pea, she says.

Yes?

Don’t do anything stupid like that again. I’ve got enough to worry about. I need you to be a big girl.

I suddenly feel sad again, and a little bit sick in my throat. Sorry, I say.

Maman gets up slowly. Are you thirsty? she says, and I nod.

Does it hurt a lot? says Margot, when Maman is inside fetching drinks.

I scowl at her. Yes, it really hurts a lot, I say.

Do you think we have to go and play now or can we stay here today?

I hope we can stay here, I say. I don’t feel like playing. Maybe we can do a colouring-in.

What about Claude? He’ll wonder where we are.

You could go and tell him? I look down at Margot, sitting cross-legged on the paving. Maman didn’t notice all our cleaning, I say.

She was just busy with you because of the scorpion, says Margot.

Margot, why were you so horrible to me when I was upset?

Horrible? says Margot. I was not. You must have imagined it.