The Night Rainbow A Novel

CHAPTER 18




The house is asleep and we mustn’t wake it. Instead I give it a hug, standing with my skin pressed up against the cool white of my bedroom wall. I am making it grey with sweat. The windows are open but the shutters are closed to keep out the sunbeams. One fat one comes through the crack like an arrow, stabbing at my clothes, which I’ve left in a pile on the floor. Dust-fairies dance in the light.

Margot is reading books out loud. She can’t really read, but she knows the words to most of them in her head, and she turns the pages and tells the story, actually quite well. Her voice makes the silence sing.

Before the doorbell rings I hear the footsteps, a broken heartbeat on the paving stones, and I know that Claude is here.

Listen! I whisper to Margot.

Who could it be? she says.

Well it can’t be Sylvie the breadlady, because she’s not allowed at our house any more, I laugh.

And it can’t be the peachman because this isn’t the day he comes! says Margot.

And it can’t be Papa, because . . . I have had enough of that game. I stand up and go to the window to be sure it is Claude.

Because he’s got his key, says Margot, firmly.

Claude is standing a few steps back from the door. He looks strange at our house. A bit wrong, like strawberries on toast. He is holding a big basket, with newspaper stuffed down the sides, all around a big pile of fat pumpkin-tomatoes.

I pull open the shutters and lean out. The stones are warm against my skin.

Boo! I whisper.

Hello, little flea, says Claude. I have come to visit your maman. Is she there?

Hang on, I say, we’re coming. I don’t want to shout in case I wake her up.

I put on my dress from yesterday and tiptoe down. When I open the door I see Claude’s eyes are still red and he looks worried.

Come in, I say.

I’ll wait until your maman invites me in, if you don’t mind, says Claude.

She’s in bed, I say.

Hmm, what time does she usually wake up, do you know?

You can never tell, I say. Maybe when it’s supper time; it depends if the baby has been doing a lot of exercises.

Would you check if she’s asleep? he asks.

I feel a bit sick. I don’t want to disturb Maman, but she does like tomatoes.

Are you here because you want to be our new papa? yells Margot.

Are you going to make Maman happy? I say.

Well, I brought some tomatoes; does she like tomatoes?

She does.

Well then maybe I will make her a little bit happier.

OK, I say, I’ll go and check. Margot, I announce, you can stay here and entertain our guest.

Certainly, says Margot, and she grabs Claude’s hand.

I am pleased that Claude is here, especially if he is going to be our papa, but I am not pleased about having to wake Maman up. Her room is dark, the ceiling fan whirrs and buzzes. Maman is lying on her side, pressed up against a stack of pillows. Her eyes are closed, her head is covered in tiny drops of sweat, like dew on the grass. She is panting like Merlin. My heart thumps. She will be furious if I wake her, but then if I don’t Claude might be cross and Claude is already sad. That is too much darkness all at once. Also, if Maman won’t meet him then there is no chance he will be our new papa and make her happy. It is cool under the fan. I could lie down on the floor by her bedside and sleep here too. Instead I kneel.

Maman? I say under my breath. She opens her eyes, she is not asleep. Good. Maman, I say, we have a visitor. They need to see you, it’s extremely important.

A visitor? Is it your grandmother?

No.

Is it about the peaches?

No.

Well then who is it?

It’s our neighbour from across the peach orchard. Claude.

Claude? Pea, I’m trying to rest. Did you tell him I’m trying to rest? Does he know I’m pregnant? What does he want?

The questions pour out from her scowling face. She is not looking at me, she is looking at her belly, which is rising and falling like waves on the ocean and with each wave she pauses to groan.

He has brought you something. To make you happy.

What is it?

Can you please come? I say.

Dammit, says Maman, and starts to heave herself out of bed. She sits on the side for a while. She is just wearing knickers. She lifts her face up to the fan and takes deep breaths. Her belly is lopsided and shiny, her doorknob sticking out where her belly button used to be. Her breasts are big, with blue veins all over them and big dark nipples about a hundred times as big as my nipples. Her legs are puffed out, big and shiny too, and so are her feet. She looks like she has been blown up all over like a balloon. I hadn’t noticed all this before. Just her big baby-belly.

Are you all right? I say.

I’ll be better when this baby decides to be born, she says. Can you pass me my dress, please?

I pass her the crumpled-up white dress off the floor and she pulls it on. Come on then, she says, clipping up her hair. Let’s go and see what this neighbour – what does he call himself?

Claude.

Claude. Let’s see what Claude has brought to make me happy.

Maman goes ahead of me downstairs to the kitchen, where Claude is standing in the open doorway, leaning on the doorjamb, his basket on the tiles at his feet.

Maman stares. She looks at his face and the bit of his head with no hair. She looks at his legs, the scratches and the scabs where the thorns have gone in and made him bleed. She looks at his shoes that are like Wellington boots except not boots. And she looks at the kitchen floor, with dust and the onion skins, the crumbs and the outside dirt. It must make her feel the crumbs and the dirt on her feet because she rubs each foot on top of the other, one at a time. Maybe this makes the bottom of her feet feel better but now the tops of her feet are dirty too.

Hello, Madame, says Claude. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m your neighbour.

Have you just moved here?

No, Madame, I’ve lived here all my life.

Oh.

Maman rocks from side to side, one foot then another. She doesn’t like standing up if she doesn’t have to.

Why don’t you sit down, Maman? I say.

Not now, Pea.

Margot slinks around from Claude’s side to come and stand next to me.

My name is Claude. Claude frowns. I think he can’t think of anything important to say. I scratch my arm.

I’m Joanna, says Maman. So what did you want? Peony says it’s important.

Beh . . . I brought you some tomatoes, says Claude. I mean, I have too many. My garden is big. I thought . . . would you like some tomatoes?

Maman is staring at him again.

Five years, she says.

I beg your pardon?

Five years I have lived here. And you have lived here all your life. And now you have chosen today, when I was sleeping, with Amaury dead, to come and bring me tomatoes? Her voice is getting louder, her hands are on her belly, the air in the kitchen is being sucked down into her so that she can shout out whatever is coming next. I can’t breathe. Claude can feel it coming too. He opens his mouth to say something but it is too late.

Tomatoes! she yells. Who sent you? Was it his mother again? Why can’t you all just leave me alone?

Claude is shaking his head. Really, he says, it’s not like that at all. I met Pea, I mean Pivoine . . .

What? Maman is still shouting.

Maman, I say, it’s just . . .

Not NOW, Peony, she yells, and then she bends over again, over her belly, over the baby.

Get out, she says quietly.

I’m truly sorry, says Claude, and he turns, limping away across the courtyard. We slide past Maman and try to follow him, but he looks back over his shoulder and holds up a finger.

Not today, he says.

We watch him leave. Behind us the door slams shut.



Papa used to tell me when you get angry you should count to ten before saying anything. So I stand in the sun, my eyes screwed up against the brightness of it and stinging with the sweat that is already running into them from my head. One, I say out loud, two, three.

You should maybe say hippopotamus, says Margot.

It’s not a game, I snap back. I’m angry.

I know, says Margot.

I finish counting to ten and turn back to the kitchen.

Shall we just do up to twenty? says Margot.

No, I say. Papa said ten and I did ten and I am still angry and now I am going to tell her.

Are you sure? says Margot.

She isn’t being very useful. I am sure and I am angry and I don’t care what she thinks any more because she is . . .

The door opens and Maman is standing there. Get in the house, she says. What are you doing standing out there shouting? Get in here.

But I am boiling and I run at her. You’re NOT a very good mother! I shout at her. You don’t look after me, you don’t say please and thank you. You’re ALWAYS grumpy. You’re a BAD mother and I’m not your friend.

Her hand slaps me so hard that I am knocked sideways into the chair. The chair moves and I land on the floor on my bottom. My bottom hurts from the floor. My shoulder hurts from the chair, and my arm stings from the slap. She was trying to smack my bottom but my arm was in the way and now a cherry-stain handprint is stuck there, as though Maman had just been playing with paints.

I start to scream, not because it hurts as bad as all that but because I am really, really cross. As I scream she backs away from me. I get up off the floor and I scream some more and right at her face.

You DON’T do that! I shout. And then I scream some more until my throat hurts and my screaming turns into crying. Proper crying, that I can’t stop, that shakes me like the wind, with tears.

Let’s go to the girl-nest, Pea, says Margot.

I don’t want to go to the stupid girl-nest! I shout.

OK, let’s climb the apple trees, then, she says.

I don’t want to climb the stupid trees.

We’ll go to Windy Hill, says Margot. Come on.

I’m tired of stupid Windy Hill. I don’t want to go to the stupid meadow! I’m FED UP!

Margot looks at me. Maman looks at me.

As I take breaths between sobs, the clock ticks loudly. The handprint on my arm burns, and I hold it against my mouth. Her hand is there, and hot.

Then, as though I were throwing a stick over the rainbow, I bring my arm back and slap her back, hard. I am still not very good at aiming. I was trying to hit her leg but instead I hit her in the belly. I know straight away, before she can say anything, that I haven’t hit Maman. I have hit the baby inside. In the space where the sorry should be, I wait to see if the baby starts to cry, to see if I have hurt it.

Maman grabs me by the arm, her fingernails digging into the red slap, and scowls down into my face.

You’re just like your father! she screams at me.

Her face is fire and thunder, but my voice comes out loud too. Papa was . . .

Not Papa, your REAL father!

Maman clutches the belly. The belly with the baby in it that she made with Papa, and then I realise that it is me that is not good enough. The baby in her belly is coming to take my place.

Am I going to die? I ask.

Get out of my sight, says Maman.

So I go. I feel like I am turning inside out.

Running down the stony path away from Maman and away from the house, I am a small dark cloud in the blue sky and Margot is the wind that blows me along.