The Night Rainbow A Novel

CHAPTER 16




I have had enough of these spotty clothes, says Margot.

Me too, I say. Also, I have no clean knickers now and there are some clean ones up there. Well, clean and tomatoey but we can fix that.

Let’s clean them, says Margot. We are going to win the challenge today, you will see.

We get on to the wooden table. I have to be the one doing the standing because I am the one with the biggest reach. I still have to do tiptoes, though, which is not easy because of my two bad feet. The one from the scorpion, which is still a bit sore, and the one that got trapped in the stones, which is freshly sore and aches a lot. Also, when I try to reach up to get the laundry I feel dizzy. Margot kneels next to me and holds on tight around my knees, staring up to see what I’m doing.

One by one I unpeg the spotty clothes and let them drop on to the table. It is all going very well until I knock a little pan with my elbow and it falls from the airer with a crash. I try to hurry, so that I can tell Maman I didn’t know what the bang was. I pick up the pan and try to hang it back up, but it is very tricky and I keep missing the shiny metal S with the sharp ends. In the end I knock that off too. It bounces off the table, leaving a tiny dint. I don’t think Maman will notice it.

Oops, I whisper. Sorry. But it’s OK, Margot is not hurt.

I climb down and we fill our arms with laundry and take them to the washing machine in the buanderie. I pour in some washing liquid on top of the clothes and shut the lid.

Which button makes it go? I ask Margot.

You could try this one, she says, pointing at one with a picture of some hands dipping in a bowl. That looks like washing.

OK, I say, and I press it. Nothing happens.

Try another one, she says.

I run my fingers along the buttons, pressing them all. When the machine starts up with a grunt it makes me jump even though I should have been expecting it.

Maman will be happy, says Margot.

I hope so, I say.

The washing machine takes a long time, longer than it takes us to give drinks and food to the chickens, and we can’t go and play until we have hung the clothes out to dry, so we decide to do dancing. The courtyard paving stones are hot under our feet. I dance slowly and Margot copies me. We are doing the same dance even though the music is in our heads.

Your dance is very beautiful, says Margot.

Thank you, I say, so is yours.

Maybe I’ll be a ballerina when I grow up, says Margot.

Not a flamenco dancer?

Probably both, she says. What about you?

I put my arms up above my head and spin. My hat comes off but I keep turning until I feel dizzy and a bit sick. I don’t know, I say.

The laundry basket is too big for me to hold and too noisy to drag. Also I cannot reach the washing line, but it doesn’t matter. I have a good idea. I take the wet clothes a few at a time out into the courtyard and hang them over the chairs.

We should go and find Claude now, I say to Margot, and tell him about our successful morning.

Definitely, she says. We are the experts in washing.

And when we get back Maman will have liked it, I add.

She will, says Margot. Today you had good ideas.



Nothing in the low meadow is quite right today. The donkeys are down at the bottom of the field but they don’t come over when they see us climbing over the gate. They are more excited by the grass. The apricot spider is not even there and her web is broken. The crickets are still there, pip-popping around my sandal-toes, but only a few and none of them land on my skin.

I don’t really want to cross the stream on my own but since we were too busy to have some breakfast I want to go and see what Claude has left us. We hold hands and walk carefully and slowly across together. But the girl-nest is all wrong too. There are no bottles of water by the tree trunk, and up in the nest there are no raisins, no biscuits, nothing. It feels empty and bad and I don’t even want to get my tin out to like my treasure. We sit on the ground with our backs against the tree trunk and wait for the grass to move apart to show us Merlin and then Claude.

After a very long time waiting, when I am getting very thirsty and tired, I let the sadness win.

Claude hasn’t been yet, I say. And I don’t think he’s coming.

That is strange, it’s nearly lunchtime.

He can’t have forgotten. He must be cross with us.

He likes bringing us the treats, says Margot. There must be an explanation.

Maybe he didn’t like it that we said he should be our new papa?

He should be pleased, says Margot, then he would be a proper family.

Maybe he didn’t like it that I said his hug was rubbish?

It was rubbish, says Margot.

Maybe he didn’t like that we said it.

Maybe Claude was invisible today. Maybe he watched us play shops and was laughing at us, we just couldn’t see him.

Claude is not very magical but Merlin is, so maybe it is that. I think about it for a while. I look around for clues.

At the bottom of the tree the ground is scuffed up, as though something has been digging.

What made that? I say. That could have been Merlin?

Merlin isn’t a very diggy dog.

No. Margot is right. Perhaps it was just rabbits?

It could be rabbits?

Margot makes her eyes wide.

Big rabbits?

Or monsters, trying to climb our tree to get us?

No! I look at the scratching around the tree.

Could be.

The darkness is filling me up. I want to go to Windy Hill now, I say.

The grass is so long here and there are hundreds of flowers – clover and cow parsley and buttercups – pink and yellow and blue. As we walk back to the stream they cheer me up, so even though I am in a hurry because of monsters I pick a posy as I go. I don’t pick any of the evening primroses, though.

I have got a nice big bunch and am nearly finished collecting when the grass rustles behind me and I cry out. I spin round to see what it was but my rock-foot doesn’t work properly and I fall flat on my back.

Oh!

Sorry, says Margot. I didn’t mean to make you jump.

Margot! I say, looking up at her. But I am pleased she isn’t a monster. High above us, two buzzards are circling, their fingery wings stretched out, as though they want to hold my hand but can’t reach.

When I’m a bird, I will fly like that.

Me too, says Margot. Come on, get up.

Right by the stream, as we are about to cross back to the low meadow, I see a big patch of grey under a tree. I go to have a look and discover more feathers than I have ever seen. They are grey and fluffy, the kind that keep the bird warm, not the kind they fly with. There are one or two flying feathers too, brown ones. I wonder what bird has left these, and so many of them. Then I spot a tiny one in the middle, striped with bright blue. A jay! Then I see another. The blue feathers are scattered like jewels in amongst the grey. I rush to pick them all out, rummaging around to find the treasure hidden underneath.

In amongst the downiness my fingers touch something wet and I pull them out. They are covered in blood. For a while I just look, feeling the darkness again in my stomach, but eventually I use a stick to poke the feathers aside. There is part of a bird’s head, with a beak on it, and attached to it is some meat.

That bird’s been killed, says Margot.

I start to cry. I am trying to wipe the blood off my fingers and on to my dress. Part of it is coming off, but my hands are still stained red.

Maman!

The word seems to come out of me all on its own. I think it’s strange my mouth would do that. The rest of my head knows she’s never there.



By the time we got back up to the house and had a drink, the hotness of the day and the badness of the morning were pushing me down flat. The clothes in the courtyard were dry already but I just wanted to go inside for a rest. I decided to put them away after I’d had a lie-down.

It was too hot on my bed, so I slept on the floor with a pillow and woke up feeling woozy and damp. My throat is dry.

Margot is awake too. She is running her finger around the patterns in the floorboards, the circles in the wood. Of course she is counting them.

Do you know how these patterns get into the wood? says Margot.

I don’t, I say.

I will explain it to you, she says. When this wood was a tree, someone threw a stone at the tree, and it made these ripples.

But when you throw a stone in the river, the ripples disappear, I say.

That is because the river is made of water, not wood, says Margot. Wood ripples last for ever.

So if we throw stones at the floorboards we can make new ripples? I say.

Don’t be silly, says Margot. You can only make the ripples when the tree is alive.

Oh, I say. And I run my finger around the dead-wood ripples as well.

Can you smell the winter? Margot says.

I sniff the air and she’s right. Winter smells are coming in the window. I open the shutters wide to see what is causing the muddle, and step back in surprise. There is a smoke monster peeping out from behind the barn, black and billowy. It is bringing a smell so strong that I can taste the burning as though I was drinking it.

Oh no!

I’m going to have a look, says Margot.

You can’t, it’s too dangerous.

I’ll be careful, she says. Maybe I will have to call the firemen.

I’d better come with you then, I say. We do tiptoe-running down the stairs because Maman is still not out of bed, and out of the kitchen door, closing it behind us with a click.

We run around the house and stop at the pomegranate tree. A wolf-wind is blowing, howling through the gaps in the buildings and between the trees. The leaves flap like a rush of birds’ wings. Even though the burning smell is close, the smoke is further away than it looked. It is not behind the barn, but there is really a lot of it and it is blowing towards us. The air is crackling.

Windy Hill, I say. Let’s go!



A whole hillside is on fire. Not our one but over past the wing turbines. The turbines are turning, their white wings going in and out of the clouds of smoke. At the bottom of the black smoke I can see flickers of orange flame.

Hello, says Margot. But she is not talking to me. She is on the telephone. Yes this is Margot and Pea. We are calling to tell you about a fire. Please can you send somebody to put it out? She looks over at me and sticks her thumb up. Please hurry, she says into the telephone. Then, Thank you.

They are on their way, she tells me.

That’s good news, I say.

I told them to come quickly.

I hope they do, I say. I am worried that if they don’t hurry the wing turbines will set on fire.

Listen, says Margot, and far away I hear the pin-pon-pin noise of fire engines. I am really surprised.

How did you do that? I say.

Margot smiles and wiggles her shoulders. I’m magic, she says.

Just then there is a buzzing in the sky. We look up but the plane is flying past the sun and it is too bright-white to look at even if we squint. Eventually it comes into the blue. It is heading right for the smoke.

I don’t think that is very sensible, says Margot.

Nor me, I say, and we stare at the little plane flying right into the fire. It disappears behind a hilltop, but I can still hear the buzzing.

We have to get over there, says Margot, pointing down past some rocks and bushes, so we can see.

The fire doesn’t seem to be coming that fast towards us; I think we could run away if we had to, so I agree. There is a sort of a path through the prickly yellow coconut bushes and the lavender, where the ground isn’t as rocky, so we follow that. It leads us through big thick bushes covered in flowers like fried eggs. Things skitter away, rustling as we pass.

I wonder where that plane will go when it gets burned up, I say as we walk. Dead oak leaves the colour of bread crusts scrunch under our feet.

It would disappear, says Margot.

But where would the disappeared parts be?

Oh, says Margot. I don’t know. I will have a look on the internet.

It can’t just be there and then not be.

Why not? says Margot. Lots of things do that.

But it must go somewhere.

No, the internet says they just disappear, says Margot. Think about it. If all the dead and broken things had to be put somewhere then our planet would just be a big pile of dead and broken things and we’d have to be climbing over it all the time.

Well, then what about the dead trees that are our floor?

You ask a lot of questions, says Margot.

The path has taken us up a little hill and in between some pine trees. And here we find a very strange thing indeed. There is a house for a very small person, built out of stones. Not stones like our house, though. This one has only got four stones but they are enormous, like squashed boulders. Bigger than people. They have round edges like pebbles but they are not smooth, they are rough. One of the stones is the back of the house, two are the sides. But the strangest thing is the roof, which is just one very big flat rock, balanced on the not-flat tops of the other three.

This, says Margot, is where people used to hide from tigers in the olden days.

Weren’t they worried that the roof might fall off?

They were more frightened of tigers than roofs.

I give the top stone a push. It doesn’t budge.

Inside it is shady and cool and feels like a cave. It is just the right height for me to stand up without banging my head. There is a pile of pine cones and pine needles but nothing else.

It is a shame there are no tables and chairs, says Margot.

Maybe no one lives here now, I say. Maybe I could bring the biscuit tin here and then we wouldn’t have to cross the stream any more. This could be our girl-cave on Windy Hill and we can come here even when it is hot and shelter from storms and bring Claude and Merlin for picnics. And no one would ever find us. Ooh, look at this!

There is a big red stain on one of the walls. We run our fingers along it to see if it comes off but it doesn’t. I wonder what could have made it.

Also we would need to have a proper door, to keep the tigers and the crocodiles out, I say. And a window so that it wasn’t too dark with the door shut.

And a casserole, says Margot. And a sink we could reach to wash our hands.

And some electricity for at night. And some books to read.

Yes, Margot agrees.

I sit down at the entrance and look out at the view. You can see everything from here, all of the hills and the wing turbines and right out over the étangs. The wing turbines are still turning fast, in and out of the black smoke. The buzzing noise is coming closer. The plane is flying away from the fire and it is not burnt up at all. It is spraying water on to the fire as it goes.

A flying fire engine! I say.

I asked for one of those as well, says Margot, and I laugh.



The plane has flown backwards and forwards to the fire and dropped a lot of water on it but it is still burning. There is a part of the hill that is black and empty, with no fire, but there are still orange flames and black smoke on the hill.

When the plane is here we watch it dropping the water, and when it is gone we look around at our new cave place. There are a lot of interesting things here. For example, in the branches of the nearest pine tree are big balls of cobweb. They look like a place where an enormous spider would live, but they are not. I know what they are, because they are dangerous and Maman has warned me about them a lot. They are where the marching caterpillars live. The caterpillars are fat and hairy. I imagine them all coming out of their cobweb ball and marching in a long snaky line, down the tree trunk and across the floor. They are heading straight for my legs. I wonder what would happen if I did not move. If the hairy caterpillars walked right on to my foot and up my leg. Over my hair and down the other side and off me again, as though I were a bridge. Would I get stung and poisoned and die? Would I disappear for ever, or would I still be here, but dead, so no one would ever be able to make any more ripples on me?

I wonder what it is that’s on fire, says Margot.

Everything, I say. We’d better go and check that Maman is OK.



When we get home Maman is in the courtyard with a colander full of chopped-up onions. She is peeling them at the table, sitting under the parasol with her feet in a bucket of water. All around her are the socks and knickers, going very crispy in the sun. She has the kitchen window open, and the radio is playing a song about a blue lady.

Did you have a nice sleep, Maman?

Yes, thank you.

Have you seen the fire?

Yes, she says. And smelled it.

Why are you sitting out here in the smell?

It’s worse in the house. Maman rubs the onion tears out of her eyes with the back of her hand.

Shall I fetch you a drink?

Maman looks up at us and smiles. Thank you, she says, that would be lovely.

There is nothing in the fridge to drink, and I don’t think the outside tap is a good idea, so I have to find a way to reach the sink. I pull a chair over and climb up to run her a glass of water. Maman spots me through the window and smiles. I smile back. Then, Maman stands up awkwardly, as though she were playing the game where you have to carry a balloon between your knees without dropping it.

What is she doing? asks Margot.

I don’t know.

Maman carries the bucket over to the barn, her feet making footprints all the way across the courtyard. By the barn she picks up the yard brush. She dips it in the water and starts trailing it behind her.

Maman’s gone potty, says Margot.

Maybe she’s cleaning the courtyard, I say.

She would use the hose.

Hmmm, yes.

She’s writing letters with the brush.

Letters?

Yes, letters. i . . . l . . .

Maman writes in water on the stones of the courtyard. As she writes, I spell out the words.

i

love

you

When she has finished she looks up at me and smiles just like Merlin when he fetches a stick that Claude has thrown far.

Inside I light up like the morning after a storm, and rush back outside to give her a hug. Maman is leaning on the brush looking happy. But as I get closer, her face sours up. She grabs me by the shoulders, staring at my front.

What have you done to your dress? she gasps.

I look down. Oh. It’s dead-bird blood, I say. From this morning.

Bird blood? What could you possibly have been doing to get . . . oh never mind, I don’t want to know.

The onion from Maman’s fingers is prickling my eyes.

Get upstairs, she says. Clean yourself up.

From my bedroom window I sneak a look back down into the courtyard. The sun is already drying up the water. With my finger in the air, I trace over the last dissolving letters of you, but then it is as if she had never written it.



At supper time there is a strange feeling in the kitchen. Maman has made ratatouille. She heaps our plates with yellow couscous and spoons the rainbow sauce on top. The food is too colourful for our moods. Maman seems to agree. She doesn’t eat hers at all, just sits at the end of the table and fans herself with a table mat. We have glasses of water with ice cubes that crackle and clunk against the glass as they melt.

You’re quiet, Maman says.

It wasn’t such an interesting afternoon in the meadow, I say. And I’m sorry about my dress.

She nods. Thank you for cleaning the other clothes, she says.

You’re welcome, I say.

I wonder how long I have to sit at the table before I can go to bed.