The Night Rainbow A Novel

CHAPTER 20




Our band marches from tree to tree, cheering everybody up and having drinks and collecting money. We cheer up the ants and the fairies and the apricot spider who has made a new web. We cheer up the apple trees and the cherry trees and the mulberry tree. I have two sticks. When I clock them together they make good marching music. Margot has a guitar, a pretend one. Also, she has a tuba. The cuckoos join in too, and the doves. Our music is really clever and we are trying to get everyone to come to our fête that we are having later.

At our fête, I say, everyone will dance and so will we.

When we are not being the band, of course, says Margot.

We make up some songs to sing to go with the music. I have made up one about Maman. It is not especially cheerful.

That’s enough of that, says Margot. Your song is extremely boring and not the right song to make people happy and come to our fête.

What shall we sing instead then? I ask.

I have made up a better song, says Margot. It is about a dragon called Grimpy and a wizard called Merlin.

Merlin is a dog, now, I say.

Yes, says Margot, I know. Merlin is a dog-wizard.

So we sing her song. We make it up together. In the end the dragon gets killed with a killing-spell for being grumpy and Merlin stays alive.

The best thing about making up your own songs, says Margot, is that you can decide how you want things to happen.

In the low pasture the hay has been bundled up into parcels. Margot and I run around the field, making sure that we sit on every one of them. They are spiky and make my legs itch a bit but they smell sweet and warm. When we have sat on every bundle of hay we run instead over to the girl-nest. I am happy to be home at last. I take out my things and look at them and like them – the lonely photo, the feathers, the smooth round stone, the seashells, Papa’s glove. I can’t see the fairy but I say hello to her and I think maybe I can hear her singing. The feathers are beautiful and feel nice. Papa’s glove feels nice and smells nice. The shells are beautiful and smell like the seaside. The lonely photo doesn’t smell nice at all. It doesn’t feel nice, either. Even so it is the one I look at the most.

Why do I keep playing with something that doesn’t look or smell or feel nice?

Like Claude? Margot pretends to be smoking a stinky cigarette.

Not Claude, the photo. I don’t even like the photo.

But we like Claude.

Yes, but Claude feels nice on the inside.

Yes. Margot scratches her head. It’s a puzzle, she says.

I don’t think I am an English princess, I say.

You could be, though, says Margot.

I could be. But maybe I am just a normal girl. Maman isn’t a queen and she said that she is my real mother.

Unless she isn’t telling the truth, says Margot.

Why would Maman lie about it? I say. But as soon as I say it I can think of lots of reasons, like her not wanting me to call the police.

We will have to think about it like scientists, says Margot. What is the first thing you remember about Maman?

I try to remember being a baby, but I don’t remember it at all. Maman says we came from England, so I try to remember another house, another orchard, a different bedroom. I can only remember our own house that we live in now. My bone is itching and I rub it hard against my knee to make it stop.

I can’t remember, I say.

You are remembering all wrong, says Margot. You have to think backwards.

So I try. Margot is right, it is easier to think backwards.

I close my eyes and I think about last night. I think about the argument. I think about the trip to the seaside when I asked for the watermelon and the day she threw the peaches at the tractor. I think about the day she broke the glass with her belly, when she chose my jam instead of Margot’s and, before that, the day when all our clothes got spotty, when she had the fly stuck to her foot. I think fast over the bits that are dark and I think slow over the bits that are nice. I think about her at the church when Papa had died, and before that, when Papa still lived with us, and the food she would cook for us all to eat. I think about the day she came home from the hospital without the baby, and before that, when she was happy. She really did used to be happy. I think about all the kisses goodnight, when I was four years old and three years old. I remember birthday parties and picnic days at the beach, and walks in the low meadow. I remember one day in the low meadow, we were just walking. We had eaten peaches so it must have been summer. We were holding hands and all the sticky peachiness was gluing our hands together. We washed our hands in the stream and we practised naming all the trees and flowers and birds. Maman knew them all, so she would let me guess first. And that day I remember I found a ladybird and I wanted to show her. She got down on the ground beside me. It didn’t matter to her then that she was dirtying her dress, pressing her face close to all the different flower smells in the middle of the dewy meadow, where donkeys have weed and spiders spun webs. I remember that on the way home I was tired and she carried me on her shoulders up the hill. She didn’t mind. She was singing.

Well? says Margot.

Leave me alone, I say. I’m busy remembering. Margot taps her fingers and I open my eyes crossly.

I’m not a princess, I say. And I tidy everything away into the box. I wrap up all my rememberings with a yellow ribbon and I put that in there too. I can look at them again later.

Margot’s hair is getting longer again. Mine is not. It’s not fair, really. She is twizzling it round her fingers, trying to make it reach her mouth so that she can do thinking.

I have been reading a book, she says, about a girl who was not a princess. It is a good story. If you sit down nicely I will read it to you.

I am sitting down, I say. Margot rolls her eyes.

Once upon a time, she says, there was a girl who was not a princess. But she lived in a castle anyway, up on a hillside, far far away from here.

I close my eyes and listen to Margot’s story.

The castle was also far far away from all of the normal people in the kingdom. The girl, who was not a princess, was lonely, because her maman, who was not a queen, was very busy looking after the baby in her tummy. So the girl had no one to play with.

What happened? I say.

The baby was born and then the little girl had someone to play with and then she found her maman a new papa and they all lived happily ever after. The end.

And now, Margot says, it is time for the baby to be born.

I have taken the rug from the bottom of the girl-nest and pushed it inside my green dress with the daisies on, so it looks as though I have a baby in my belly.

I am the doctor, says Margot. Welcome to the hospital.

Thank you, I say.

You’re welcome, says Margot.

I want this baby out of me please, I say.

Ah, yes, says Margot, I see. OK, well come with me and we will get the baby born. Lie down!

I lie down. The floor of the girl-nest is cool and rough.

OK, says Margot, let’s see your door. She lifts up my dress.

Aha, aha, right, here it is! she says. Then she takes out the rug and cuddles it up like a baby. I sit up to see.

Oh dear, I’m very sorry, Madame, says Margot. I’m afraid it’s a boy.

But I wanted a girl, I say.

Well, let’s see, Margot says. I’ll go and fetch my stethoscope and my needle for sting-y injections.

Pea would like a sister, I say, so please can you sort it out?

Hmmm, says Margot, and she stethoscopes the baby and gives it sting-y injections. And then she says, There! She passes me the baby.

Oh! I say. It’s a beautiful baby girl! Thank you, Doctor.

You’re welcome, Margot says.



Hello, says a voice.

Claude! It’s you!

He is standing under the tree. Without Merlin next to him he looks like a picture that hasn’t been finished. I want to draw Merlin in, in red pencil, hairy and clever.

Hello, Pea, says Claude. How are you today?

I am fine, I say.

Pardon? Claude cups his hands to his ears and stares up at me. I lean over so he can see my mouth.

I am FINE! I say.

And how is Margot?

Margot is a very good doctor, I say loudly. She can make baby brothers into baby sisters, which is very clever and useful.

Yes it is, isn’t it? says Margot.

I can imagine, says Claude, with his eyebrows up.

How are you? I ask.

Well, says Claude, I’m OK. It’s very nice to see you.

I like it best when you are here, I say, and not when you are not.

I miss you too, says Claude. He looks around the low pasture. Maybe he is checking that Merlin hasn’t come back after all.

I don’t think he will, I say.

Pardon? says Claude. He doesn’t hear me.

Can I come up? he says suddenly.

Into the girl-nest?

Yes.

With us?

Yes. If it’s OK?

Yes of course, I say.

Claude climbs the ladder slowly and gets into the girl-nest. He sits next to me. There is not a lot of room and we have to squeeze up. The squeezing-up feels nice, and I squeeze even closer than I have to. Claude smells of smoke, which is not a nice smell, but he is very comfortable.

This is what swallows do, I say.

Claude looks at my mouth. Swallows? he says.

Yes, I say, because they don’t have fingers or arms for hugging and holding hands. Would you like a biscuit?

That would be nice, says Claude.

I pass him the tin and he opens it.

Oh! he says. And I laugh, because in the tin there aren’t any biscuits any more, just my treasure.

Fooled you! I say.

What have you got here? says Claude.

It’s a specimen, I say.

He picks up the crispy yellow thing in his big fingertips and looks at it. Aha, he says, an egg-case.

That’s what I said it was, says Margot.

Do you know what made this? Claude asks.

Was it very small wasps?

Claude laughs. Not very small wasps. A praying mantis. It’s where she laid her eggs.

But praying mantises are bigger than wasps, I say.

Yes, says Claude.

So why do they make smaller nests?

Well, it’s not a nest, but an egg-case.

But the wasps make bigger holes. Those holes are tiny.

Yes, says Claude. Sometimes you think a rule would make sense and it doesn’t. He puts the praying mantis egg-case specimen back in the tin but leaves the lid open. His eyes look around the tin. In the places where biscuits should be there are feathers and the sad photo, Papa’s glove and a butterfly wing. Claude nods as he looks, as though he is agreeing with the things in the tin. He is not cross that we ate all the biscuits in the tin and there are none left for him. He likes my treasure.

For a minute we just sit and listen to the birds and the crickets. We forget to talk. Even Margot doesn’t have anything to say. Then, Oh, my arm is trapped, says Claude.

Oh, I say, leaning forward a bit, and Claude moves his arm so it is around my shoulders. It feels nice. After a little while longer he starts to squeeze gently. It is like a one-armed hug. I put my head on his chest and think about being hugged. I can hear my breath. I can hear Claude’s breath. And I can hear the bumping of his heart. I am remembering Papa now. Papa’s hugs, the way he made breakfast in the morning, the way his kisses were too scratchy in the afternoon.

Can you feel sad and happy at the same time? I say.

Yes, says Claude. I feel just like that now.

Me too, I say.



We cross the stepping stones and walk together back up through the low meadow.

When the baby is born, says Claude, I’ll come back and see your maman. It will be all right.

It’s a boy baby, I say.

That’s great! says Claude.

No it’s not, I say. I wanted a sister.

Oh yes, says Claude. Of course.

We stop by the apricot spider, because Margot wants to count how many crickets she has caught for her supper. The spider is sitting in the middle of her web. Margot leans down to do her inspection. She has caught three.

Yes, says Margot, that is enough.

Well, says Claude, who is still thinking about Pablo, wait and see. Brothers can be good too.

Have you got one? I say.

No.

On the path, the brambles are everywhere now, making big loopy knots in the spaces where we want to walk. In some places they come so far over that we can’t really get around them any more without falling off the edge on the other side. We have to pick our way through them, or go underneath. I can do that easily but Claude is too big. He tries to hook them up out of the way as he goes so I can pass through, but they keep falling back down.

Halfway up the path I bend down to look at a bright green punaise that is sitting on a blackberry, and the thorny part tangles in my hair. It scratches my face and I try to wriggle out of it but it just gets more scratchy.

Ow! I shout.

Claude looks back. Stop! he says. Don’t move!

I stand very still, and just move my eyes from side to side. What? I say.

Don’t move, says Claude. You don’t want those thorns to get in your eye.

His rough fingers go into my hair, untangling the brambles. You have to be careful, he says. It’s just like the jungle here!

Except not so many elephants, says Margot.

Not so many elephants, I agree. Still, you could bring your elephant knife, I tell Claude.

You know what, says Claude, that’s a very good idea. He ruffles my untangled hair, and opens his other hand, which is getting purple skin because he has filled it with surprising blackberries. I reach out and pop one into my mouth. Claude tips the rest into my hands. There are so many I have to use both.

Really, says Claude. Why didn’t I think of that?