The Night Rainbow (17 page)
But mice don’t sting, she says.
What would we feed it on?
We could try bread, says Margot.
So I break off a piece of my bread and jam and put it down next to the pantry. I hope Maman won’t notice, I say.
Just then, Maman starts to scream. My insides turn somersaults. I think that perhaps this is what it feels like for Maman when the baby is doing exercises. I think this very quickly because mostly I am scared that Maman is screaming. Then I think she is in the kitchen watching me and is cross that I am feeding the mouse. But then she screams again.
Amaury! Amaury! Her voice is upstairs and loud and frightened.
My heart thuds. She’s shouting for Papa, I whisper.
I know, says Margot.
Do you think she’s forgotten that he’s dead? I say.
I doubt that, says Margot.
Maybe it’s a different Amaury she wants, I say.
Or a nightmare, says Margot.
Yes, that could be it, I say.
Amaury! Maman shouts again.
We should go and help her, says Margot.
I’m scared.
We’ll hold hands, come on.
So we climb the stairs, holding hands, and tiptoe down the corridor. We go over the creak, and quietly push open the bedroom door.
Maman is curled on her side in a pile of pillows, her hair is sweaty and pushed back off her face. Her face is wet but I don’t know if it is crying or sweat. The fan is turned off and the air feels wet like bath-time in winter. Maman’s eyes are screwed tight, one fist pressed up against her forehead and the other arm wrapped round her belly.
Amaury! she shouts again, making us jump.
I want to run away, but Margot pulls me by the hand close to the bed. Maman’s belly is rolling in waves like the sea.
Maman, I whisper.
No! she groans.
Maman, it’s me, Pea. Papa’s dead.
No!
Maman?
You need to speak up, says Margot.
Maman! I say in my loudest voice that is not shouting, and I grab her hand and squeeze it tight.
Then the wail comes. It is like the wolf-wail she did the day she threw peaches at the tractor.
Maman, I scream. Wake up!
Maman’s body jerks. Her arms fly up into the air and she cries out as though she is falling. But then her eyes open. At first they are black, but then black shrinks away and the colour comes back and she looks at me as though she wonders what I am doing in her house.
I . . . she says.
I don’t say anything.
It’s . . .
We stand side by side, waiting to know if it was good or bad, what we did.
Maman puts her legs over the side of the bed and makes her body sit up. Her belly is nearly touching her knees. She looks around the bedroom. Her clothes are mostly on the floor. There are some coffee cups and some plates with toast crumbs on.
If you would like, I say, there is a special plate for your supper. It has daisies on.
Maman stares at me and now she doesn’t say anything. Her face is screwed into a question mark, but I don’t know the answer. She looks around her room again.
Are you looking for Papa I say, because . . .
Can you turn the fan on for me on the way out, she says.
It is barely light, but I was woken up by a commotion outside, and now there is a noise in the kitchen. I creep down in my pyjamas to see if the mouse is back. But it is not the mouse, it is Maman. Maman has killed one of the chickens. She is sitting at the kitchen table, her legs wide apart, her hands covered in blood. She leans forward over the wooden chopping block, cutting the chicken into the right shape with a big pair of black-handled scissors. The scissors tug through the skin and crunch through the bones. Crunch. Snap. And under her breath she is muttering something.
Don’t you tell me about how to raise my children, she says. Don’t you come here with nothing but threats and bad intentions. Just you wait and see.
Crunch. Snap.
Good morning, Maman, I whisper.
She looks up. Good morning, she says, and looks away again. Her apron has blood smears on it.
Margot and I sit ourselves silently at the table and pretend to make rockets out of toilet-paper tubes, but really we are watching what Maman is doing. Her bloody hands have small pieces of dead chicken on them and every now and then she pulls out a feather or two. The other feathers are already in the bin beside her. Chicken feathers are not very interesting really. This part, with the blood and the cutting, this is the bad part. But I know what comes next. Later Maman will roast this chicken for our lunch and that will be the good part. We will eat it with some tomatoes and bread and it will taste good. The bones will be boiled for soup or rice. Even in summer Maman makes soup, but usually it is with courgettes or tomatoes and we eat it cold out of the fridge with green onions chopped on to the top. I am pleased that the long sleep was good for Maman and that she is up early and going to cook us something delicious. But we cannot eat breakfast because the table is busy with feathers and chicken insides.
Maman, I say, is it OK if I go and have my shower until it’s time for breakfast?
Maman doesn’t turn. Yes, OK, she says. Just don’t make a mess.
Looking at her sitting at the kitchen table with all the red and the feathers, I wonder how much mess I could make with a shower and a bar of soap, but I don’t argue.
By the time I come back down to the kitchen, cooled by the water and smelling of fruit, the feathers and the feet and the face with the beak is all put away and the lying-down cooking chicken is covered with oil and salt and pepper, ready to roast. Maman is clean and is drinking coffee.
Maman?
Yes, Pea?
You really are very beautiful, I say.
Maman smiles. Thank you, she says.
Maman and I are waiting for the bread to arrive so we can have breakfast, says Margot. And as if she had heard her, Sylvie’s car crunches up to the house. Maman gets slowly to her feet and goes out. We follow.
Good morning, says Maman. But she is not smiling.
Good morning, Sylvie replies. She looks at Maman, then down at me, clean out of the shower and smelling of fruit, then back at Maman. Her face is surprised to see Maman, I can tell. How are you,
Madame
? she says.
Maman is still not smiling. You can leave the bread at the bottom of the path from now on, she says.
Sylvie hands me the baguettes. Two. At the bottom of the path? she says.
That will be fine. Maman is counting out coins from her red purse.
Don’t you think, says Sylvie, I mean, wouldn’t it be easier for you, in the state you’re in, if . . .
Sylvie’s pink lipstick mouth is making a tight scrunched-up knot and her eyebrows are down in the middle. She is scared of Maman. But still she is arguing with her, which is a big mistake. Maman holds out her hand with the coins in so that Sylvie has to come towards her to take them. Sylvie is stretching her arm forward so she doesn’t have to get too close, as though she is taking a bone from a dog.
The state I’m in? says Maman.
It can’t be long, says Sylvie, making a happy face. At least there’s that.
At least there’s that? says Maman, like a parrot. At least there’s that? She is getting extremely angry.
This is going to be a disaster, says Margot.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . Sylvie sighs. I just thought it must be hard. Young children are tiring when you’re pregnant. Mine are all grown up but I still remember. I just meant well. She snatches the coins out of Maman’s hand and steps backwards.
Meaning well means trying to be helpful. It doesn’t mean sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted. Maman says this in a very quiet voice, like a growl, and now all in English. She is pointing at the tip of her nose while she is growling. Sylvie looks confused.
I don’t understand, she says.
That’s right, says Maman, still in English. You don’t understand a thing.
Sylvie looks at Maman, and then at me, and she shakes her head. I smile at her, just a small, sorry smile. Maman is being very impolite today and her idea about the bread is a silly one. Now I will have to fetch the bread from down by the road before I can eat it. Sylvie makes her mouth into a straight. It isn’t a real smile but you can tell that she is trying. She gets into her car and slams the door. She has another look at me out of her window. I am just standing still with the bread, looking back at her. I haven’t eaten any. My hair is drying in the sunshine, growing curls. Maman is standing next to me, with her arms folded together resting on the top of her belly. All of our toes are in a line.
Nice to see you have some clothes on today, Pivoine, says Sylvie, and she drives away.
After breakfast, Maman takes herself back to her room. I’m tired, she says.
OK, I say, although it isn’t really.
Why do you think Maman was angry with Sylvie? I say.
She always leaves too much bread, says Margot. It’s such a waste.
She said she’d been sticking her nose into it, I say.
Yes, says Margot. And that is very unhygienic.
And also quite peculiar, I say.
Never mind, says Margot. Hey, Pea, I’ve got a very good idea. Then she whispers it into my ear and it is a very good idea indeed. Especially after what Mami Lafont said. We take the things that we need from the kitchen to play our game and then we go quietly back up to our room and close the door.
Me first! says Margot.
I hand her the big black-handled scissors and she snip-snips them in the air. They shine softly in the triangle of light coming in through the shutters.
Great! she says. Then she holds up a big chunk of her hair, pulling it around in front of her eyes so she can see where to cut, and closes the scissors on it with a snick.
I can’t reach properly, she says. You do it.
I take back the scissors. They feel snippy, and the cutting feels definitely good. I snip at her hair, just as if I were a real hairdresser, chatting to her about anything that comes to my head. When I have finished she has very short hair, but it is beautiful, not like a princess but maybe a pop star. Then it is my turn.
Margot takes the scissors and says, Now,
Madame
, what will you be having today?
I will have it nice and short, I say. And a tiara, please.
When it is all done I look at all the cut-offs and scatterings. I’m not sure how to tidy them up so I push all of it except one perfect curl under my pillow. I put the scissors under there too for safekeeping.
I am going to take this one up to the girl-nest, I tell Margot, showing her my curl.
Margot looks down at my pillow. I wonder if we’ll come back and find we are very rich because the hair fairy has been?
I doubt there is a hair fairy. If there were then everyone would be very rich, just cutting off one piece of hair at a time.
But what if there is?
We decide it is better to only leave a little under the pillow for the hair fairy as an experiment, and the rest under the rug. Then if she comes tonight we will leave a little out every night and soon we will have enough money to buy Maman a really nice present.
What do you think she would like? I ask Margot.
Maybe a puppy? she says.
Maybe. Or some pink lipstick with glittery bits?
Like Sylvie? I don’t think so.
Or a yellow hat to match her yellow dress.
Or some more cushions and pillows for her bed?
I close my hand around my one last curl. Come on, let’s go.
We are trying not to giggle very loudly.
While he is hunting for us, Claude’s hand keeps reaching down to have a scratch. In the hairy gap between the top of his socks and the bottom of his shorts, I can see the criss-cross of cuts on his legs.
Don’t scratch them! hisses Margot and I shush her.
Claude is underneath the tree where the girl-nest is. He is looking upwards, and looking left and right for us; he is being very noisy.
Where do you think they are? he says to Merlin. Merlin wags his tail, swooshy through the air.
Not over here . . . Claude shakes his head. Not over there . . . Maybe they’re not here today.
I poke my head out and shout BOO!
Claude doesn’t jump, but he laughs. Hello, Pea, he says.
Boo! says Margot.
Hello, Margot, says Claude, squinting up at the tree and waving in the wrong direction. How are you both today?
I am fine and Margot is fine. Are you fine?
I am fine, yes. I see you had a haircut, he says.
It is because of the challenge, I say. Mami Lafont was cross with Maman because I haven’t had a haircut. But Maman is busy. So I have done it myself with the chicken scissors. It’s a surprise.