The Night Rainbow A Novel

CHAPTER 13




It is barely light, but I was woken up by a commotion outside, and now there is a noise in the kitchen. I creep down in my pyjamas to see if the mouse is back. But it is not the mouse, it is Maman. Maman has killed one of the chickens. She is sitting at the kitchen table, her legs wide apart, her hands covered in blood. She leans forward over the wooden chopping block, cutting the chicken into the right shape with a big pair of black-handled scissors. The scissors tug through the skin and crunch through the bones. Crunch. Snap. And under her breath she is muttering something.

Don’t you tell me about how to raise my children, she says. Don’t you come here with nothing but threats and bad intentions. Just you wait and see.

Crunch. Snap.

Good morning, Maman, I whisper.

She looks up. Good morning, she says, and looks away again. Her apron has blood smears on it.

Margot and I sit ourselves silently at the table and pretend to make rockets out of toilet-paper tubes, but really we are watching what Maman is doing. Her bloody hands have small pieces of dead chicken on them and every now and then she pulls out a feather or two. The other feathers are already in the bin beside her. Chicken feathers are not very interesting really. This part, with the blood and the cutting, this is the bad part. But I know what comes next. Later Maman will roast this chicken for our lunch and that will be the good part. We will eat it with some tomatoes and bread and it will taste good. The bones will be boiled for soup or rice. Even in summer Maman makes soup, but usually it is with courgettes or tomatoes and we eat it cold out of the fridge with green onions chopped on to the top. I am pleased that the long sleep was good for Maman and that she is up early and going to cook us something delicious. But we cannot eat breakfast because the table is busy with feathers and chicken insides.

Maman, I say, is it OK if I go and have my shower until it’s time for breakfast?

Maman doesn’t turn. Yes, OK, she says. Just don’t make a mess.

Looking at her sitting at the kitchen table with all the red and the feathers, I wonder how much mess I could make with a shower and a bar of soap, but I don’t argue.

By the time I come back down to the kitchen, cooled by the water and smelling of fruit, the feathers and the feet and the face with the beak is all put away and the lying-down cooking chicken is covered with oil and salt and pepper, ready to roast. Maman is clean and is drinking coffee.

Maman?

Yes, Pea?

You really are very beautiful, I say.

Maman smiles. Thank you, she says.

Maman and I are waiting for the bread to arrive so we can have breakfast, says Margot. And as if she had heard her, Sylvie’s car crunches up to the house. Maman gets slowly to her feet and goes out. We follow.

Good morning, says Maman. But she is not smiling.

Good morning, Sylvie replies. She looks at Maman, then down at me, clean out of the shower and smelling of fruit, then back at Maman. Her face is surprised to see Maman, I can tell. How are you, Madame? she says.

Maman is still not smiling. You can leave the bread at the bottom of the path from now on, she says.

Sylvie hands me the baguettes. Two. At the bottom of the path? she says.

That will be fine. Maman is counting out coins from her red purse.

Don’t you think, says Sylvie, I mean, wouldn’t it be easier for you, in the state you’re in, if . . .

Sylvie’s pink lipstick mouth is making a tight scrunched-up knot and her eyebrows are down in the middle. She is scared of Maman. But still she is arguing with her, which is a big mistake. Maman holds out her hand with the coins in so that Sylvie has to come towards her to take them. Sylvie is stretching her arm forward so she doesn’t have to get too close, as though she is taking a bone from a dog.

The state I’m in? says Maman.

It can’t be long, says Sylvie, making a happy face. At least there’s that.

At least there’s that? says Maman, like a parrot. At least there’s that? She is getting extremely angry.

This is going to be a disaster, says Margot.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . Sylvie sighs. I just thought it must be hard. Young children are tiring when you’re pregnant. Mine are all grown up but I still remember. I just meant well. She snatches the coins out of Maman’s hand and steps backwards.

Meaning well means trying to be helpful. It doesn’t mean sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted. Maman says this in a very quiet voice, like a growl, and now all in English. She is pointing at the tip of her nose while she is growling. Sylvie looks confused.

I don’t understand, she says.

That’s right, says Maman, still in English. You don’t understand a thing.

Sylvie looks at Maman, and then at me, and she shakes her head. I smile at her, just a small, sorry smile. Maman is being very impolite today and her idea about the bread is a silly one. Now I will have to fetch the bread from down by the road before I can eat it. Sylvie makes her mouth into a straight. It isn’t a real smile but you can tell that she is trying. She gets into her car and slams the door. She has another look at me out of her window. I am just standing still with the bread, looking back at her. I haven’t eaten any. My hair is drying in the sunshine, growing curls. Maman is standing next to me, with her arms folded together resting on the top of her belly. All of our toes are in a line.

Nice to see you have some clothes on today, Pivoine, says Sylvie, and she drives away.

After breakfast, Maman takes herself back to her room. I’m tired, she says.

OK, I say, although it isn’t really.

Why do you think Maman was angry with Sylvie? I say.

She always leaves too much bread, says Margot. It’s such a waste.

She said she’d been sticking her nose into it, I say.

Yes, says Margot. And that is very unhygienic.

And also quite peculiar, I say.

Never mind, says Margot. Hey, Pea, I’ve got a very good idea. Then she whispers it into my ear and it is a very good idea indeed. Especially after what Mami Lafont said. We take the things that we need from the kitchen to play our game and then we go quietly back up to our room and close the door.

Me first! says Margot.

I hand her the big black-handled scissors and she snip-snips them in the air. They shine softly in the triangle of light coming in through the shutters.

Great! she says. Then she holds up a big chunk of her hair, pulling it around in front of her eyes so she can see where to cut, and closes the scissors on it with a snick.

I can’t reach properly, she says. You do it.

I take back the scissors. They feel snippy, and the cutting feels definitely good. I snip at her hair, just as if I were a real hairdresser, chatting to her about anything that comes to my head. When I have finished she has very short hair, but it is beautiful, not like a princess but maybe a pop star. Then it is my turn.

Margot takes the scissors and says, Now, Madame, what will you be having today?

I will have it nice and short, I say. And a tiara, please.

When it is all done I look at all the cut-offs and scatterings. I’m not sure how to tidy them up so I push all of it except one perfect curl under my pillow. I put the scissors under there too for safekeeping.

I am going to take this one up to the girl-nest, I tell Margot, showing her my curl.

Margot looks down at my pillow. I wonder if we’ll come back and find we are very rich because the hair fairy has been?

I doubt there is a hair fairy. If there were then everyone would be very rich, just cutting off one piece of hair at a time.

But what if there is?

We decide it is better to only leave a little under the pillow for the hair fairy as an experiment, and the rest under the rug. Then if she comes tonight we will leave a little out every night and soon we will have enough money to buy Maman a really nice present.

What do you think she would like? I ask Margot.

Maybe a puppy? she says.

Maybe. Or some pink lipstick with glittery bits?

Like Sylvie? I don’t think so.

Or a yellow hat to match her yellow dress.

Or some more cushions and pillows for her bed?

I close my hand around my one last curl. Come on, let’s go.



We are trying not to giggle very loudly.

While he is hunting for us, Claude’s hand keeps reaching down to have a scratch. In the hairy gap between the top of his socks and the bottom of his shorts, I can see the criss-cross of cuts on his legs.

Don’t scratch them! hisses Margot and I shush her.

Claude is underneath the tree where the girl-nest is. He is looking upwards, and looking left and right for us; he is being very noisy.

Where do you think they are? he says to Merlin. Merlin wags his tail, swooshy through the air.

Not over here . . . Claude shakes his head. Not over there . . . Maybe they’re not here today.

I poke my head out and shout BOO!

Claude doesn’t jump, but he laughs. Hello, Pea, he says.

Boo! says Margot.

Hello, Margot, says Claude, squinting up at the tree and waving in the wrong direction. How are you both today?

I am fine and Margot is fine. Are you fine?

I am fine, yes. I see you had a haircut, he says.

It is because of the challenge, I say. Mami Lafont was cross with Maman because I haven’t had a haircut. But Maman is busy. So I have done it myself with the chicken scissors. It’s a surprise.

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 Sylvie.

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.