The Night Rainbow A Novel

CHAPTER 21




Maman is cleaning everything.

The laundry basket from the bathroom is empty. All the clothes are clean and wet and hanging out on the spinning dryer in the courtyard, turning white in the sun. In the house, the floor is swept and still shiny-wet from the mop. The mop and bucket stand drying by the door. The windows are all open, letting the house breathe all the warm afternoon smells of sage and jasmine, and pushing out the old smells of suppers and sadness.

Maman is in the baby’s room. There is a big heap of clothes and she is sitting there, taking up all the space on the floor, making piles.

Can I help? I ask.

She looks up at me, her eyes doing most of the lifting. Her cheeks are pink.

No thanks, she says. Why don’t you go and play?

Maman has earrings in that look just like pomegranate seeds.

Maybe I could just sit with you, I say, or do folding?

Maman shakes her head. I won’t be long, she says. I just want to get this over with. Off you go.

We wander into Maman’s room. There on the bed is a suitcase, half full on one side and half empty on the other. I peer in. Slippers, pyjamas, a book, shampoo, a toothbrush and toothpaste, dresses, knickers, a hairbrush . . .

She’s leaving us, I say to Margot. The darkness fills me up and I climb on to the bed with the suitcase and curl around it. The bed sheets are soft and pressed into a shape of Maman and my tears fall into her smell. I close my eyes.

She can’t be, says Margot quietly. There must be an explanation.

She’s packed all her knickers, I say. And she is busy getting all the baby clothes ready too. She’s going to leave us and live with the new baby.

Don’t be silly, says Margot. She takes me by the hand. Come on, we’ll go and ask her.

No! I yell. We can’t do that, she’ll get furious.

Well what does it matter if she’s leaving anyway?

What would we do? Claude could come and look after us?

He could but not if he kept smoking; it stinks.

I want Maman, that’s all, I say.

Come on, says Margot, and drags me off the bed.

Maman is still sitting in the big pile of clothes. Her face has been crying.

Please don’t leave us, I blurt out.

Peony, I to – What? she says.

Please don’t leave us. Please can you stay?

Pea, sweetheart, Maman says, I would never leave you. Never, ever. Why do you think I would leave you?

Because you’ve made a suitcase, I say. It’s going to be for you and Pablo. But I want you to stay here, I could look after you better. I can teach the baby to climb trees.

Maman smiles a sad smile. A breeze blows in through the half-open shutters, fluffing up her hair.

We need to pack you a suitcase too, Pea, she says.

Where are we going?

Nowhere yet, but one day soon we will have to go to town, to the hospital.

For the baby?

For the baby.

Maman, I say.

Don’t say it! whispers Margot, poking me.

How do you know . . .?

Don’t say anything about the dead one!

Why?

What? says Maman.

Nothing, I say, and I bend over and wrap my arms around her shoulders.



When we go to the hospital we will have beds. One for me and one for Maman. Margot will be there too. It is going to be soon, but we don’t know when. We will go in an ambulance because Maman says you can’t drive a car when the baby is trying to get out.

I have a suitcase now. Well, it is a plastic bag because we didn’t have another suitcase. It is packed with clean knickers and my cow. My blue bear has to stay in my bed because if I pack him then who would I sleep with?

I am thinking about this and working out the answers. It is nearly supper time but I am too busy thinking and looking to go home yet. I am lying on the bruisy ground on Windy Hill. I am watching the small white clouds, the ones you draw in pictures, get pushed along by the wind, and the angel arms turning fast, white against the blue, upside down over my head, looking big.

I am feeling better and dizzy at the same time.

Yuck! says Margot.

What?

This.

Margot holds out her arm. She has got a tick on her. I know what ticks look like because the cats that visit our house sometimes get them, and once Maman got one on her too. This tick is near Margot’s shoulder and it is like an old yellow pea. It has got eight wiggly red legs near her skin. We do like insects normally, but I think it is rude that ticks want to drink your blood and I don’t like the way their bodies look when they are stuck on.

Maman doesn’t either. When she got the tick on her she screamed. I found her in the bathroom, looking back at herself over her shoulder. She was holding up her hair with one hand. The tick was on the back of her shoulder.

What is it? I asked her.

Don’t worry, Sweet Pea, she said. It’s just a tick.

It looks like a fat insect, I said. But it has eight legs, I’ve counted them. Does it hurt?

No, it doesn’t hurt. I didn’t mean to scream, sorry. I was just surprised.

Do you want me to brush it off? I said.

It won’t come off, she said, we have to do it carefully. We have to get Papa.

But Papa was out at work, so we had to go and fetch him. She couldn’t wait until he got home. We went together, quite slowly. She wasn’t as fat as she is now, but she still had a round belly. It was the other baby was in there. The girl baby. The not-good-enough one that we didn’t get to keep. As we went, Maman was shouting. Amaury? Amaury! It didn’t take us long to find him. He was only in the peaches and he hurried over when he saw us. Maman went soft against him and he kissed her forehead. Papa wanted to pinch the tick off with his fingernails, but Maman had brought tweezers with her.

When the tick was off, Papa put it on the floor and trod on it. That killed it, and then Papa showed us what was left. There was hardly any tick at all, just a splat of Maman’s blood on the ground. I crouched down to look at it and Papa came down next to me.

Make sure Maman puts some antiseptic on when you get her home, he said.

I promise, I said. Then I got a head-kiss too.



OK, I say to Margot, I will be Papa and I will get it off you.

Margot holds her arm out. Use the tweezers, she says, not just your fingers.

Of course, I say, I have the tweezers. There is nothing to worry about.

And there isn’t. I get it off first time and drop it on the floor. It is too fat with Margot to run away, so together we stomp on the tick. Like a stompy dance.

Ooh, says Margot, look at the blood!

Yes, lots of blood. That tick must have drunk nearly all of you up. It’s a good job I got it off.

Thank you for looking after me, Pea, she says.

You’re welcome, I say.