The Night Rainbow (19 page)

I don’t like market day, I say. It’s Boring. And Boring is in thick crayon too and with a line underneath it.

Free food, says Margot.

I roll back again and peer out from over the horizon of my arm. What kind of food? I say.

Olives for definite, sausage if we’re lucky, cheese maybe. Let’s see if we can get Maman to buy some paella.

She never buys the paella. When we have paella, Maman cooks it herself.

When was the last time she cooked paella?

I can’t remember.

Do you like paella? Margot crosses her arms and jigs up both her eyebrows, waiting for me to agree because she knows I do and that I don’t like lying. I do like paella, especially the prawns. And the yellow grains of rice, sticky and fishy and many many grains of sticky, fishy, savoury-tasting rice, one at a time, slowly . . . I do like paella.

Yes, I do like paella, I say.

My mouth is watering, here in my bed. I should get up and make breakfast.

The door swooshes open and Maman is right behind it, her hair wet and clipped up, all in white, bare feet, freckles. What are you rambling about? she says. Shake a leg, it’s market day.

Margot bounces out of bed and slips past Maman, first to the bathroom as usual.

On the way to the market, we walk slowly. Maman is taking it easy, she says. I am dillying and dallying. As we pass the wall to Claude’s garden Margot and I are sly, peering in to see if he is there. It’s hard to see anything through the lavender that is overflowing over the wall. Fat moths like humming birds are hovering around it, drinking the nectar with long tongues. The back of my neck is hot, hot, hot. I try to swish my hair over it but the hair is gone and nothing swishes and I feel sorry that I cut my hair at all.

In the market today people are looking at us, more than usual. They stare at Maman’s belly as she pushes her way through without a smile. We pass by them, somewhere in the space in between the homey people and the holiday people, until Josette steps into Maman’s path by the spice stall. Josette is wearing the floweriest dress I have ever seen and she still smells of violets. There are bees buzzing round her trying her out for nectar. She swishes them away with her brown hand and plants herself properly in our way. She looks up at Maman – Maman is much taller than Josette.

Hello,
Madame
, she says.

Maman takes a step backwards, her hands letting go of ours and flying to her belly. As she steps away from Josette her back bumps into an old lady, who was following us close behind because Maman was walking slowly. Even now, when she doesn’t cook so much, she can’t walk fast past the spice stall. The smell as you pass by it is like winters in the kitchen, tajines and spice-bread and hot wine. The colours pile up in pyramid heaps out of brown paper bags with rolled-down tops: reds and browns and yellows and oranges but not like crayons, or flowers; like different colours of the earth. The man at the spice stall doesn’t shout out like the people with the peaches or the bangles and beads, or the cheese graters. The spices shout out without saying anything and people let themselves be pulled by the smell. Before all the dying, Maman’s feet would walk her over to these smells without her promission and she would be stuck there at the stall just like the flowery feathery pictures stuck on our fridge. You’d have to pull really hard to unstick her. After a lot of looking and smelling she would ask for spoons of the magic powders to be scooped into brown paper bags, and they would bring the smell of the stall back to our kitchen. Maman would mix them up, sizzle them in pans, jumping seeds and spitting oil. And later we would sit at the table and taste it together, all our family together.

Now, the old lady who got bumped wobbles a little bit and is caught by someone next to her. They both glare at us and push their way around in the traffic jam of bodies.

Hello,
Madame
, says Maman to Josette.

I live at the bottom of your lane, says Josette. My name is Josette.

I know, says Maman.

Josette looks up at Maman for what seems to be too much time without any words to be polite. Her eyes narrow to small slits in her creased-up face. Then she smiles, pushing back strands of grey that have escaped her hairpins, and showing her brown teeth. She looks down at me. Hello, Ragamuffin, she says.

Hello, Josette, I say.

Maman looks down at me with dark eyes, bad feelings, then back at Josette.

Good day, she says to Josette, in French. And then she says to me in English, Peony, move it. And then back to Josette, Excuse us, please. And I am jostled around Josette and I look at her and hope she can see that I’m sorry.

Josette calls after us, Pay attention. If you’re not careful you’ll lose everything.

How do you know that lady, Peony? says Maman, still walking.

Careful, hisses Margot, don’t tell her about the haircut.

I try and think, but the thoughts are crowding and all I can think of is the haircut, and the breakfast with smiley-face sausage. And also I am trying to look into the basket as we hurry, to make sure that things are not falling out. Everything is safely in the basket. I don’t understand what Josette meant.

Donkeys, says Margot.

Peony, says Maman, I asked you a question. Margot shrugs. No one ever listens to her. Except me, of course. It’s because you’re four, I say.

Pardon?

Donkeys, I say. The donkeys in the low meadow where we play belong to Josette.

Donkeys, says Maman.

Donkeys, I say.

Watch out you don’t get kicked.

They don’t kick. They just eat grass.

Right.

Ooh look, paella, says Margot, and she is right. In a van across the square, in a flat round pan, a rainbow pile of paella steams smells of the seaside over to our noses. Salty, fishy, yellow smells. My stomach gurgles. Margot laughs.

Go on then, says Margot. I bet you can’t get us some.

I wonder what I could possibly say that would make Maman want to buy us some paella. I make lists in my head. It smells good, but we haven’t much money. She wouldn’t have to cook, but she doesn’t eat much these days anyway. She likes yellow. She likes mussels, but not now she’s got the baby in her tummy. Papa used to like paella.

That paella smells delicious, I say eventually.

Maman stops and looks over at the big black skillet full of rice and prawns and peppers and shiny black shells. She rests her hands on her belly.

Go on! says Margot.

Papa liked paella, I say.

Maman stares harder at the paella. People are pushing around her all the time. They’re cross at her blocking their way through the market until they get around the front of her and see her big baby-belly, with her hard breathing making it go up and down, up and down, and how she is looking at the paella, with the tears coming out of her like rain.

Pass me the bowl, I say to Margot.

Even the kitchen is hot today. The only parts of me that are cool are the bottom of my feet on the floor tiles. Upstairs Maman and the baby are having a siesta under the fan. Me and Margot have decided to make up for me making Maman cry in the market by getting some lunch ready for when they get up. We have had to use what we found in the fridge and the pantry. This is what we have found:

Cheese, three different sorts. Milk. Cornichons. Jam. Cold chicken. Tapenade. Lettuce. Courgettes. Dried apricots. There are also sausages and pork belly but we can’t eat those because they are not cooked.

We also have the bread from the market, and tomatoes.

We need to have goodness and flavour, I say.

And colour and texture, says Margot.

And love, I say. When Maman was still singing she cooked all the time and she taught us the right ingredients for a recipe. You have to have all of those things and also you have to have variety, and you have to smile when you are cooking or else the food tastes bad.

We can make a salad, I say.

You can eat goodness, says Margot, but you can’t eat naughtiness.

I think about it, and she’s right. You don’t get naughty food.

I haven’t used the milk because it is too wet, and I haven’t used the jam because it doesn’t rhyme with any of the other flavours.

I tear up the lettuce and put it in the salad bowl. I can’t reach the kitchen sink so I take the bowl outside to the courtyard tap. The water comes out warm, almost hot, and the lettuce shrinks a little bit, but I tip the water away quickly and I think it will be all right.

Margot has already found the grater and put it on the kitchen table with a chopping board.

Thank you, I say.

You’re welcome, she says. Today we are being super-polite.

I grate the courgettes into the bowl of lettuce and then we tear up the chicken that is left and put that in too. We find the wishbone and try to pull it, but it is too greasy, so I put it on the side to dry out. I’m not allowed to use the sharp knives so I get a dinner knife out of the drawer for cutting the tomatoes and cheese. The cornichons can go in whole.

The bread won’t cut with a normal knife, so I break up one of yesterday’s baguettes on a tray and put it out into the sunshine to dry. Papa used to do that. It is midday and the courtyard is hot like an oven, trapping all the heat in the walls of the house and the barn and making us turn pink. I want to take off my clothes but I know that would be worse. My skin is not the right skin for that. I have Maman’s skin. But I have Papa’s mouth. That is what they told me.

We have to stay out here to keep the swallows and the ants away from the bread while it toasts. Then it will be croûtons. So Margot and I take turns. One of us splashes tap water on our face and throat and hands while the other shoos the swallows away and disturbs the procession of ants. If you put things in their way, like twigs and leaves and crumbs of bread, they get very confused; it’s funny to watch. Then we swap. We stay out as long as we can bear, until I think I really am going to toast just like the bread, and then I say, OK, it should be done now. But the tray has got too hot to hold. I run back indoors to get another bowl and pick the pieces off one by one. We spread them with butter and tapenade and toss them in with the rest of the salad. I pour on some olive oil and do the salt and pepper. The salad actually looks very beautiful. I feel quite proud of what we have made. I want to go and wake up Maman to show her, but we decide to wait.

While we wait we sit at the table and play pat-a-cake until we hear the bedroom door open then the taps running in the bathroom.

Quick, says Margot, lay the table.

I set our places and wait for Maman to come down. She is wearing her yellow dress again, floating down the stairs, her cheeks pink, her eyes red.

There is a salad for lunch, I say.

A salad, how lovely, she says, pouring herself a glass of water.

It has goodness and flavour in it, I say.

And colour and texture, says Margot.

And love, I say, although it makes me feel shy.

Maman looks into the bowl. The salad still looks beautiful, although not as beautiful as it did at first because it has been on the table in the hot kitchen for a while and the lettuce leaves look a bit floppy and heavy with oil.

I didn’t use the jam, I say. It didn’t rhyme.

It looks lovely, she says. I’m not actually very hungry, though. I might just have some fruit.

She takes a peach out of the bowl and rinses it under the tap. The water soaks the skin, making it darker.

Why do peaches have skin that lets the water in? I ask.

Not like apples, says Margot.

Not like us, I say.

I don’t know, says Maman. Skin is all different. You have my skin.

I know, I say. And Papa’s mouth.

What? Maman’s head snaps back to look at me.

Nothing, I say, and watch as she sinks her teeth into the yellow peach.

What are you up to this afternoon? she says.

Just playing in the meadow, I say. Don’t worry, I’ll watch out for the donkeys.

And wear your hat.

Yes, Maman. Unless you want me to do some cleaning?

Cleaning?

If you wanted?

Cleaning what?

I look at Margot. She mimes mopping.

The floors, maybe?

Peony, you’re five years old. Why would I want you to clean the floors?

Sorry, it was just an idea.

Go on, off you go. I’ve got things to do.

OK.

Margot and I pick the chicken out of the bowl quickly with our fingers and put the rest in the fridge for later.

The cooking didn’t work, I say as we walk down through the orchard.

Not salad, anyway.

But she said she didn’t want me to clean.

I don’t think that’s important, says Margot. Sometimes grownups don’t know what makes them happy either.

Claude is sitting on the grass in the shade of the mulberry tree as usual, smoking a cigarette and listening to the birds. He has one leg stuck out straight and the other bent. Merlin is lying nearby, panting hard. He is wet.