The Night Rainbow A Novel

CHAPTER 2




These are the rules of hide and seek. First, you have to play in the right place. It’s no use playing in the middle of the meadow, or near the donkeys’ stable. If you do that it’s too easy and soon you have to choose a different game. No, you need to have different places to hide. The other rule is that the person counting must not peek through their fingers. Not even slightly.

Me and Margot are looking for the right starting place. It is early morning, not too hot yet, and crickets crackle like popcorn around our feet as we go. When we get to the dirt-track crossroads we stop and look for the place where the big spider has made her web right across the path. We don’t want to break it.

Here it is, stretched like laundry between tall blades of grass. The crickets are popping all about and some land on my arms and on my clothes. I never have time to touch them, though, before they spring right off again.

It is not long before one lands in the web. There it goes, a chubby little green one, kicking its long back legs and making the web swing like a hammock. The spider hurries over as we watch. She is big and fat and yellow like a stripy apricot. She cuts around the cricket and spins it in silk. Then she mends her web again. It goes very fast. We watch her finish all her jobs and go back to the middle of her web. She will catch lots of crickets and she will wrap them all up. I know because we have watched her now for three days. She is never hungry in the morning. Then, when the sun drops behind the trees on the banks of the stream, sending their shadows rolling out across the low meadow, we will pass her on our way home, and she will be eating her supper.

If we are lucky, when we get home, Maman will have had some sleep and we can have our supper too. Most nights the baby in Maman’s tummy does not sleep, but does somersaults instead. This means Maman is awake too, because how could you sleep with someone doing their exercises inside you? In the mornings Maman is usually cross about everything. This morning she was in such a mood. She came downstairs at breakfast time and made coffee without saying a word. She took it back to her bedroom with a piece of toast. She will eat it in bed, with four pillows behind her, waiting for the baby to get tired, and then, I hope, she will sleep too.

Further down into the meadow we find the perfect spot to play. There are lots of different paths to take and trees and bales of hay to hide behind.

OK, says Margot. I’m going to hide first.

That means I am counting. I can count to over one hundred but for this game I only count to eleven. When I have finished – and I do not peek through my fingers, not even slightly – I look around. I can’t see Margot, but I can hear her easily. She is hiding by the cherry tree in the corner of the meadow. There are no cherries on it now, but the rotten ones and lots of stones are scattered all around nearby. She is making too much noise because the grey donkey has followed her and is snuffling her for food. It tickles when they do that. I run over, laughing.

I found you! I sing, but she looks at me with her serious face as though she had never been hiding at all.

Welcome to the library, says Margot in a very important voice. Today we are only allowed to choose one book, and it was my turn. I have chosen this book. It is about skeletons.

She holds up the book. It is a pretend one, of course.

I know about skeletons. Once I went to a museum and saw dinosaur skeletons. They are like jigsaw puzzles for scientists. Scientists are people who do experiments, and jigsaws made of bones.

Are they dinosaur skeletons? I ask Margot.

The dinosaurs are dead, she says. They did used to exist, not like witches, but now they are all dead.

Why are they dead? I ask.

Please don’t interrupt, says Margot. Everybody will be dead one day, but for now it’s just the dinosaurs and Papa.

And the baby, I add.

Well, yes, and the baby, she says.

Did they have skeletons?

Yes, of course, everything has a skeleton, says Margot. Please concentrate.

So, she says, this is how you make a skeleton. When you get old you grow into a maman, and after that you get very old, with the wrinkles, then you die. Margot pauses.

Then what? I ask.

Then you stop talking and then you are a skeleton and then there is a big party with sandwiches, but not as much cake as at Christmas. And then you get born again like a baby and a policeman comes and pumps you up to be a grownup size.

I’m not sure if that is exactly right, but before I can ask Margot says, No more questions, thank you. And she shuts the book. I have to take the book back to the library before it closes, she says, looking at her watch.

Is it my turn to hide? I ask.

Oh, yes, that’s just what I was thinking, she says, but I think she had forgotten all about hide and seek.

I have thought of a new and very good place to hide, though, so I have been waiting for my turn. Margot puts her hands over her eyes and starts to count. She is counting in French today. Un, deux, trois . . .

I run back up the path, jumping over the spider, and then, instead of following the path back up to the house, I turn left at the crossroads, as if I were going to go up to the village. As I charge around the corner I run smack into a man and both of us cry out.

It is him. He is big like a bear, bigger than a normal grownup, with grey-black hair and hairy legs covered in scratches. He is wearing shoes, rubber ones like Wellington boots, only not boots. His shoes are wet. He has a big nose with hair coming out of it like spiders’ legs. His red dog is nowhere to be seen.

We stand and gape at each other, me looking up, him looking down. Then he takes the little grey cigarette from between his dry lips and squishes it under his foot. White smoke slithers like worms from the corner of his mouth.

You are Pivoine, he says slowly. I know your papa. He shakes his head as though he has sand in his hair. I knew him, he says. Sorry.

I am surprised that he knows any of my names but especially the one that belonged to Papa. Sometimes I am Peony to Maman, which is my real name in English. Papa said it in French, Pivoine, because he was born here. Both names mean the same thing, so I never minded, but it is funny to hear someone I don’t know call me that. I don’t know why I have the same name as a flower anyway, especially one that I have never seen. I am usually Pea. Pea is not a flower. It is a vegetable, actually.

My name is Pea, mostly, I say to the man. Who are you?

He has crouched down in front of me now and is staring right into my face as though he is about to scold me. My name is Claude, he says. Close up, the part of his head without hair is very ugly, and he smells of cigarette smoke, which makes me feel a bit sick.

Then my face is being licked.

Merlin! Stop! says Claude.

The dog has run over to say hello, but its face smells even worse than Claude’s.

Merlin is a funny name for a dog, I say. Is it really magic?

Yes, in a way he is, says Claude, giving Merlin a stroke.

What are you doing down here alone? he asks. He is still staring right at me, and my bone is getting itchy, but his voice seems friendly.

We’re playing hide and seek, I reply.

Are you hiding, or seeking?

I’m hiding.

Who’s seeking? he asks.

I wonder where Margot is, but then she comes running up through the tall grass and is right by my side. So I am found, and the game is over.

I’ve got a good idea, I say to her. Let’s put on a show!

Margot and I put on shows all the time and we are very good at it. Margot is best at dancing and I am best at singing.

Oh yes! Margot says. I will do some flamenco and you have to clap.

And I will sing a song about ladybirds, I tell Claude.

And you will watch us, we say to him.

Do you like our dresses? says Margot.

OK, he says, frowning a little and looking at me as though he expects me to start singing just like that.

Not here! I say. You have to go to the sitting place and we have to go on the stage. It’s over there, come on!

Claude is a strange kind of grownup: he does as he is told. Merlin walks by his feet all the way down to the cherry tree, and when Claude sits down obediently Merlin sits next to him and opens his mouth a little so it looks like he is smiling.

I announce the show and introduce Margot. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Margot, the amazing Spanish flamenco dancer!

She is not really Spanish, but we are pretending. I start to clap my hands like maracas and Claude watches.

Clap! I tell him. He tries, but to be honest he is not very good at it and he keeps looking around.

When Margot has finished she does a big bow and I clap and cheer. Claude claps too. Then Margot introduces me and I stand on the stage, feeling a bit nervous. The ladybird song is quite long and sometimes I get the words wrong so I have to do parts of it again. While I am still singing, Claude takes out a shiny green packet and starts to make a cigarette.

No smoking! shouts Margot, but he carries on anyway. So he doesn’t always do as he is told.

When we have finished we do curtsies and bows and Claude does applause. Then he stands up slowly and says, Come on then, your maman will be wondering where you’ve got to.

She won’t really, says Margot.

I can help you cross the road, he says.

We are very good at crossing the road, I tell him. I’m five and a half.

Well then, would you be so kind as to keep me company? Claude rubs the sweatiness off his head and wipes his hands on his trousers. Merlin licks his hand.

Of course, I say, because that is polite.

It is slow, walking with Claude. While he walks, Margot and I run up ahead, and back again. Sometimes we stop to look at beetles and flowers.

Have you got friends to play with, from the village? Claude asks when he catches us up. While he is waiting for the answer he is staring at me hard.

Margot is my friend, I say.

Yes, he says, but children from the village, from school?

I didn’t go to school very much since Papa died, I say.

Why not? Were you poorly?

No, I wasn’t poorly, I say. I was busy being friends with Maman.

Claude’s red skin makes wrinkles on his forehead like waves on the seashore. I don’t want to get into trouble. In September, I say, I am going to the big school and then I will go every day.

That’s good, says Claude. Then you will have lots of friends. A little girl like you should have lots of friends.



The air is starting to cool and there is thunder in our tummies as we run back into the house. I bang the door, too excited to remember that Maman was in a bad temper. The house smells of pastry, making my mouth water, and I spot a quiche sitting on the table under a fly screen. Somehow a fly has got underneath and is buzzing about angrily, trapped inside. I let it out and the salty-sweet smell comes too. My fingers go quickly to the crust and break off a piece before I can stop them.

Margot waggles her own finger at me. That fly has been treading poo on that pie, she says.

I can’t see any poo.

Margot raises her eyebrows. I can’t see it either, she says, but flies have got very small feet.

So it must be very small bits of poo.

Yes, but it is still poo. Maybe different kinds of poo. Dog poo and cow poo. On that pie. You shouldn’t eat it, Pea.

I stare at the crust in my fingers, golden and crumbly. I can’t see any poo. The fly tries to settle on my hand and my fingers quickly push the pastry into my mouth.

Margot watches. Well?

Yum, I say.

Not pooey?

Not at all.

Can I have some too, then?

I break a second piece of the crust off, so that we are even, and we lick our lips. Then we dash into the living room to find Maman.

Maman is sitting sideways at the bureau, surrounded by lots of paper and files. Her feet are up on a stool and her cheeks are pink.

Maman, I say, we have a new friend!

She looks up and her shoulders sigh. Her hair is tied back off her face with a green scarf and her face has small drops of sweat running down the sides. She smells of lemons.

Where have you been? she asks.

Down in the low meadow, I tell her. And there was a great big spider catching crickets, and the apples are nearly ready to eat, and we made a new friend.

That’s nice, Pea, she says, flipping through the pieces of paper on the desk. She sighs again and wipes her arm across her forehead. She starts to look hard at something up on one of the beams in the ceiling. It’s such a mess, she says quietly.

I look around the room. I have left out some toy animals and my card game on the floor.

I’m really sorry, Maman, I say. I’ll tidy them up right now.

Just for a moment her eyes begin to turn up in the corners and she starts to unfold her arms.

Have you eaten something? she says.

I think we are going to have a hug and I open out my arms, stepping closer. Bread, I say, and peaches. But just as I am close enough to touch her, her stomach jumps and she folds herself over it like pastry on a pie.