The Night Rainbow A Novel

CHAPTER 11




The bedroom door creaks open and Maman fills the space with herself, soapy-smelling and with wet hair.

Come on, she says, hurry up and get ready, we’re going out. Then she slides into the room and pushes the shutters back so the hot outside smells fly in to wake us, and the cockerel’s crow agrees that it’s time.

Come on, don’t just sit there, get up! Up, up, up! says Maman, as she swings her belly out through the door. I stare after her.

Where are we going? says Margot.

I don’t know, I say, it’s not market day. Maybe to the shops, or to the doctor’s?

It’s very early for shops, says Margot.

Mami Lafont’s?

I doubt it. Margot rolls her eyes round in her head.

The cemetery to see Papa?

Margot shakes her head. It doesn’t feel like that.

No, I agree. But how do we know what to wear?

We could just choose our favourites? says Margot. But my green dress is really dirty now, I had it on for two whole days.

I have a better idea, I say. We will wear something yellow. For the challenge.

Oh, yes, says Margot.

In fact, I don’t have a yellow dress, or a yellow skirt, or any yellow trousers. But I have got a yellow T-shirt. The neck is a bit tight going over my head, but I manage. And I find some yellow knickers.

What are you going to wear on the bottom?

Nothing. It will spoil my colour scheme.

I think it will spoil Maman’s mood if you try to go out only in knickers. What about colours that match with yellow?

Which ones?

Margot shrugs. Pink?

So I find my pink trousers, the same colour as strawberry yoghurt, and put those on.

Very nice, says Margot.

The radio is playing down in the kitchen, where the table is laid for breakfast. A big checked bag sits on the kitchen floor with things falling out of it: towels and bottled water, plastic boxes with food inside, sunhats and suncream.

Are we going on a picnic? I ask.

We’re going to the seaside, Maman says.

Now? This morning?

Yes, if you hurry up. Maman has red eyes, but she is smiling. She is wearing trousers, rolled up at the bottoms, and flip-flops with a big red jewel sitting on top of each foot. She is drinking from a glass of water, covered in sparkling drops on the outside.

We hurry our breakfast, I tidy the table and Maman wipes it. Then we close and lock the door behind us and climb into the car that we hardly ever use. Today it is canicule. That means it is mostly a day for swimming or lying down in the shade. It is too hot for anything else. The car door handle burns my hand and I snatch it back again. Inside it is steamy and unbearable, and the smell of car is very strong. We wind down the windows as we set off, letting in the cooler outside air. The car drinks it up thirstily.

The drive to the seaside is all downhill, and Maman drives slowly. She is sitting far back from the steering wheel, because of her belly. Her arms stretch over the top of it. Every now and then her belly jumps and so does Maman, and the car swerves, making me jump too. On the drive to the beach I sing songs. Sometimes Maman joins in for a chorus. She is in a very good mood today. Margot catches my eye and I can tell she is thinking the same thing. I wonder what it is that has made her cheerful. It must have been the cleaning. While I am thinking about this I stare out of the window, watch us pass through the village. We cross a big road by a bridge and I look down to see the traffic speeding underneath us: lorries and caravans and cars. I wonder where they are all going, so fast and so many. When we get to the other side, which smells like Windy Hill only saltier, we turn so that the étangs are out of my window, dotted with clumps of moss and yellow grass. Seagulls swoop over them making shadows on the rippling water. I stare hard looking for the flamingos but there are none to be seen. I look at the trees instead. The trees down here are all bent sideways, leaning over because the Tramuntana, that’s our wind, has been blowing them hard all their lives. It makes me feel a bit sad for the trees. I think they deserve a rest.

Maman has gone quiet.

Are you OK? I ask.

Me? says Maman. I’m OK. Nearly there.

When the étangs turn to beaches we turn off and park the car. I can see the sea now, waiting for me to jump in and splash and swim. I want to run straight on to the beach and flop into the water, but instead I walk slowly beside Maman. As soon as the path down to the beach becomes sandy we take off our shoes, dangling them along as we let the sand scratch off the inland dirt from our feet.

We get to a big square of decking with thatched umbrellas and sun-hammocks.

I’m going to sit here, says Maman, putting down the bag. You go and play. She waggles her fingers over towards the sea.

Do you want to build a sandcastle? I say.

No, you go build one. Go and have fun.

Do you want to paddle, then?

Peony! she snaps.

Margot shakes her head at me and takes my hand. The beach is dotted with bellies and bottoms and towels and bags with the sea twinkling at the other side. We set out over the obstacle course, across the hot sand.



At the water’s edge, my bottom is getting very sandy. The waves swoosh in and out, little white pups that lap my toes. I circle my good foot in the soupy sand and keep the stung one, which is big and red, in the cold water. I have dug a big hole with my hands, and Margot is sitting in it. From here we can see Maman. She is still sitting in the shade at the beach café, reading a book. She hasn’t moved since we arrived. Instead, people who we don’t know at all are fussing around her, bringing her drinks and cushions. Earlier she sent one of the café people down here with ice-cream, vanilla flavour. I wonder again if she isn’t really a queen. She definitely looks like a queen, with her treasure between her toes. I have treasure too – a small pile of seashells, white and pink, and some of them with grey-pink glossy insides. Earlier I built a very big sandcastle with the sand out of the hole, and my seashells were its decorations. But the white sparkles on the water are getting brighter now that the sun is higher in the sky. More of the holiday people are starting to crowd on to the beach and I know we will have to go soon. So I am collecting all my shells up to take to the biscuit tin in the girl-nest.

I feel sad, I say.

Sad about the seaside? Margot asks.

No, not sad about the seaside.

What then?

Oh, nothing, I say.

No, but what? says Margot.

Well, I say, the seaside is nice; Maman is just there, here with us on the beach and she’s smiling. The water feels nice on my toes. I can still feel the ice-cream in my tummy, a bit colder than the rest of me, which tickles in a nice way. So I feel sad.

Ah, says Margot, that’s the kind of sadness you get when you’re happy.

Really?

Really.

So am I happy? I ask.

Yes, says Margot, of course you are.



On the way home I sit on the other side of the car so I can watch the étangs again.

I am hungry, says Margot.

Me too.

Even the wind through the windows isn’t enough to make the heat better now. Maman’s skin is red and she has sweat.

Suddenly, there they are, the flamingos! Some just standing still close to the water, their necks curled backwards, lying over their wings, looking at each other over their shoulders. Some wading and dipping their hooked black beaks into the water. One flaps his wings, the underneath bits surprisingly black and red.

When I’m a flamingo, says Margot, I will paddle all day long.

When I’m a flamingo, I say, I will fly low over the water looking at the sparkles.

When I’m a flamingo? says Maman, and laughs as though we were making jokes.

As we turn away from the water, up on the hillside the wing turbines are turning, moving almost but not exactly in time like the children last year in our nursery-school play. They look smaller from here, but still peaceful. The hills look different too; the rocky parts shine, nearly white in the sunlight, which makes them seem friendlier than the dark green in between.

We pass a hut, where a lady is sitting on a chair. Behind her is a big pile of watermelons. One is cut open showing the dark pink middle all freckled with seeds and it looks extremely refreshing.

Oh, can we? I say, before I have had a chance to think about it. Can we get a watermelon?

Maman huffs. Don’t you think that’s enough treats for one day, Peony? she snaps. Are you never satisfied?

Pea, honestly! whispers Margot, and I close my eyes for the rest of the journey.

I do planning. When we get home, I think, Maman will go upstairs for a sleep, and Margot and I will rush down to the low meadow to tell Claude about our morning. Claude will want to look at all my seashells and ask about how deep the hole was that I dug (very) and how beautiful my sandcastle was (very beautiful). We will tell him how our challenge is working and that to make Maman happy we have to do some more cleaning. Merlin will lick my hand and Claude will be proud.



Claude is sitting under the mulberry tree with Merlin. Merlin stands up when he hears us. Hello, Pea, Claude says. How are you today?

I am fine, I say.

And how is my little Margot?

Margot is pretending to be shy, so I say, Margot is fine too. And how are you?

This is how it is every day now. He says, How are you? And I say, Fine. He always asks if Margot is fine too and she doesn’t answer and I answer for her. But then when we ask Claude how he is he always tells us something different. Today he says, I have the peach! Which is funny and makes us laugh.

Where? I say.

Where what?

Where is your peach?

Claude laughs too. It’s here, he says, and points behind his ear. Claude is funny.

Guess where we have been! I say.

Claude shakes his head. No idea, he says, but it looks like you had fun.

Margot is miming the sea and making a shooshing noise, like the waves.

I’ll give you a clue, I say. Somewhere beginning with ‘S’.

The Sahara? says Claude. Sausages?

Sausages is not a place, I laugh.

Claude reaches over and brushes sand from my leg. Are you sure it’s not the Sahara, he says, you are certainly very sandy. He makes all the ‘S’ sounds hissy, like a snake.

Well, he says, I would say the beach, but that doesn’t begin with ‘S’ . . .

The seaside! I shout. And Margot says, But actually that’s cheating, because seaside is in English.

That’s great, says Claude. But his face isn’t happy.

Don’t you like the seaside? I say.

I used to love it. Claude stops talking because Merlin has interrupted him by nudging his hand with his nose, and licking at his palm as though it were an ice-cream. Claude ruffles the long red hairs on Merlin’s neck and says, Thank you, I know.

Merlin can speak! says Margot.

What is Merlin saying? I ask Claude.

Ah, Merlin likes the beach too, says Claude, but not in the summer. Too hot and too many people.

It’s really hot today.

Yes, it’s the canicule, says Claude.

I know, says Margot.

It’ll be gone soon. Claude pats Merlin’s neck. Merlin will be pleased about that too, won’t you, boy? Merlin yawns. Did you know that canicule means ‘little dog’? Claude says.

Merlin is a big dog, not a little dog, says Margot.

Do little dogs get very hot? I say.

Claude smiles his scrunchy-faced smile. Is your maman feeling better?

I think today she had a good day. I wish it were always like that.

It’s a good sign, says Claude.

It’s because I cleaned the courtyard and Margot hoovered the air.

I see. And what about you? Are you doing OK?

We’re fine, thank you, I say.

Claude smiles.

What?

You remind me of someone, he says.

Do you want to come with us next time? I say.

I can’t, says Claude.

I wish you could.

You wish a lot of things, don’t you? Do you want to go and find lucky clovers to make them come true? Claude asks.

Oh yes, we do! we shout, and we start to run down to the clover patch, but I soon stop and slow down because my leg is still hurting.

Hey! says Claude, noticing me. What happened there?

I look down at my fat foot.

You’re limping, he says.

Just like you, says Margot. You are the pirate twins.

What happened?

You’re limping too, I say, what happened to you?

You first, says Claude.

I was stung by a scorpion, I say.

Truly?

Truly.

Where?

On the kitchen stairs. It got out of the jar.

Oh, Pea, why did you have a scorpion in a jar?

I don’t want him to tell me off.

Margot put it there, I say.

I did not! says Margot.

Yes she did, I say. Margot scowls hard at me but I think she knows why I don’t want to make Claude cross and she shuts up, scuffing the grass with the toes of her pink sandals.

And why did Margot put the scorpion in the jar? says Claude.

I can’t remember.

Where is it now?

Maman killed it with Papa’s boots and a shampoo bottle.

Did she? Claude’s eyebrows are up.

So what happened to you? I say. It wasn’t really a tiger, was it?

I was hit by a car, says Claude.

You should Stop, Look and Listen, says Margot.

Were you crossing the road? I say. Didn’t you look?

Well, actually no, I was driving a car, and another car hit our car. It was going too fast.

Did you have to go to hospital?

Oh yes, for a long time.

For injections?

Claude laughs. Lots of injections, yes. And also they had to mend the broken parts of me.

But now you’re mended.

Mostly.

Where are your still-broken parts?

Claude looks miserable.

Stop asking questions, whispers Margot, loudly.

Sorry, I say.

It’s OK, says Claude, it’s not your fault. It’s just a sad question for me.

Is it because your leg still walks funny? I say.

No, that doesn’t make me sad, says Claude.

Is it because you have got the funny bald bit on your head? says Margot.

Is it because you can only hear us when we shout? I say.

Are you keeping a list of all my broken parts? says Claude with a twisty smile.

I shake my head. No, I say, I’m not very good at writing. The letters always come out inside out.

We stop walking, we have got to the clover patch, and we all sit down in the green.

I can’t hear very well at all, says Claude, that’s true, but Merlin does a lot of my listening for me.

Can he answer the telephone? says Margot.

My heart still hurts too, says Claude, to the grass.

How does Merlin pick up the telephone with his paws? I ask.

Claude frowns; he looks confused. We don’t talk to people on the telephone, he says.

Does Merlin speak French?

Well, he doesn’t speak, he just listens. Like when he hears you coming he barks so I know you’re there, or if we are crossing the road, or if there is a knock at my door – although usually there isn’t.

And now, when I’m talking? I ask.

I can hear you a little, but mostly I’m watching your mouth make the words.

Margot sticks her fingers in her ears and says, Go on then, say something! I put my hands over my ears too, and we watch Claude’s mouth, waiting to see what the words look like when you can’t hear.

His mouth moves but there are no letter shapes or word shapes just opens and closeds.

It doesn’t work, I say, disappointed.

You have to get used to it, says Claude.

I look at his ear, shiny and bent. Wouldn’t it be easier to just mend your ear? I say.

You can’t mend everything that gets broken, says Claude.

Like a broken heart, says Margot, who has been reading about Rapunzel, who lived in a tower but before that she was a baby and her maman gave her away to a wicked witch to pay for some lettuces, but it gave her a broken heart.

Is your heart broken? I ask.

It was, says Claude. Hospitals don’t have anything for that. But some things get better by themselves eventually.

Claude rummages in his bag and offers me a drink of water from his bottle. I drink in big gulps.

Margot? he asks.

Margot shakes her head.

Margot likes milk, not water, I say. And sometimes lemonade. But thank you.

Claude looks down into the clover then reaches and picks one stem with four perfect leaves. He hands it to me.

Here, he says, you can make a wish on this.

He reaches down again. I’ll get one for you too, Margot, he says.

I stare at the clover. I wish tha . . .

Shhh! says Claude. If you tell me it won’t come true.

Claude, I say, will my foot stay limpy like yours now, for ever, until I am old like you?

Definitely not. You’ll be all mended ready for school. Have you got any new school shoes yet?

I shake my head.

Probably after the baby is born, says Claude.

Margot is standing on one leg.

What are you doing? I say. There’s nothing wrong with your leg!

That’s right, says Margot. My legs are better than yours.

But what are you doing?

I’m a flamingo, she says. And I could stand like this for a hundred years.