The Night Rainbow (22 page)

They’re like poppies, says Margot. We shouldn’t pick those ones; they just go floppy and die.

I didn’t know, I say. I didn’t mean to kill them.

Shall we bury them? Margot says.

That is a good idea. Margot is only four but she really has some very good ideas. I nod.

Under the pomegranate tree, we press the flowers down so they fit into the hole that we scraped with our fingers. Then we sprinkle the soil back on top.

Ashes to dust, I say.

It’s such a tragedy, says Margot.

I’m sorry, I say. It was my fault. Then I cry some more, until the tears run out. Margot waits.

When I have finished my crying, Margot says, What about the sausages, then?

As we cross the peach orchard I can already taste the barbecue. Smoky wood smells are winding through the trees, pulling us towards Claude’s house. My belly bubbles and my mouth begins to water. I’m hungry. Really, really hungry. We start to run. Faster, faster through the trees. When we get to the canal we jump over and through the gap in the hedge. Claude is facing the hole and sees us straight away.

Just in time, he says, pinching the cigarette out from between his lips so that he can smile at us properly.

Claude has laid the table. There are tomatoes cut into slices like wheels, and radishes, and butter and a big loaf of bread. He sees us looking.

Maybe you’d like some bread, he says, just while the sausages cook?

Yes please! we say together, and hold out our hands. Claude breaks off the two crusty ends and passes them over. We sit ourselves down on the grass near the barbecue.

Now don’t touch!

I know, it’s hot.

Good girl.

The sausages are still cooking a long time later. The more cooked they get the more sausagey smells float to my nose, the smoke stinging my eyes a little bit. Merlin isn’t near the sausages. He’s lying under the tree in the shade. Claude has put some water down for him to drink. But Merlin just lies on the grass, dozing and watching us with one eye. His waggy tail isn’t wagging today either. He looks so sad that I have to leave the sausage air to go and give him a hug.

OK, says Claude at last. I think they’re done. And he brings the first sausage over for Merlin, waving it in the air on a fork and blowing on it to cool it down.

Merlin lifts his head up and looks at the sausage. His tail wags a little happiness, tap, tap, tap, in the dust, but he does not get up and take his lunch.

Claude frowns. He crouches down by Merlin. Here, take it, he says. But Merlin just says, Owwww, and lays his head back down. Claude puts the sausage by his nose and we all stare.

Maybe it’s the heat, says Claude quietly.

Chapter 16

I have had enough of these spotty clothes, says Margot.

Me too, I say. Also, I have no clean knickers now and there are some clean ones up there. Well, clean and tomatoey but we can fix that.

Let’s clean them, says Margot. We are going to win the challenge today, you will see.

We get on to the wooden table. I have to be the one doing the standing because I am the one with the biggest reach. I still have to do tiptoes, though, which is not easy because of my two bad feet. The one from the scorpion, which is still a bit sore, and the one that got trapped in the stones, which is freshly sore and aches a lot. Also, when I try to reach up to get the laundry I feel dizzy. Margot kneels next to me and holds on tight around my knees, staring up to see what I’m doing.

One by one I unpeg the spotty clothes and let them drop on to the table. It is all going very well until I knock a little pan with my elbow and it falls from the airer with a crash. I try to hurry, so that I can tell Maman I didn’t know what the bang was. I pick up the pan and try to hang it back up, but it is very tricky and I keep missing the shiny metal S with the sharp ends. In the end I knock that off too. It bounces off the table, leaving a tiny dint. I don’t think Maman will notice it.

Oops, I whisper. Sorry. But it’s OK, Margot is not hurt.

I climb down and we fill our arms with laundry and take them to the washing machine in the
buanderie
. I pour in some washing liquid on top of the clothes and shut the lid.

Which button makes it go? I ask Margot.

You could try this one, she says, pointing at one with a picture of some hands dipping in a bowl. That looks like washing.

OK, I say, and I press it. Nothing happens.

Try another one, she says.

I run my fingers along the buttons, pressing them all. When the machine starts up with a grunt it makes me jump even though I should have been expecting it.

Maman will be happy, says Margot.

I hope so, I say.

The washing machine takes a long time, longer than it takes us to give drinks and food to the chickens, and we can’t go and play until we have hung the clothes out to dry, so we decide to do dancing. The courtyard paving stones are hot under our feet. I dance slowly and Margot copies me. We are doing the same dance even though the music is in our heads.

Your dance is very beautiful, says Margot.

Thank you, I say, so is yours.

Maybe I’ll be a ballerina when I grow up, says Margot.

Not a flamenco dancer?

Probably both, she says. What about you?

I put my arms up above my head and spin. My hat comes off but I keep turning until I feel dizzy and a bit sick. I don’t know, I say.

The laundry basket is too big for me to hold and too noisy to drag. Also I cannot reach the washing line, but it doesn’t matter. I have a good idea. I take the wet clothes a few at a time out into the courtyard and hang them over the chairs.

We should go and find Claude now, I say to Margot, and tell him about our successful morning.

Definitely, she says. We are the experts in washing.

And when we get back Maman will have liked it, I add.

She will, says Margot. Today you had good ideas.

Nothing in the low meadow is quite right today. The donkeys are down at the bottom of the field but they don’t come over when they see us climbing over the gate. They are more excited by the grass. The apricot spider is not even there and her web is broken. The crickets are still there, pip-popping around my sandal-toes, but only a few and none of them land on my skin.

I don’t really want to cross the stream on my own but since we were too busy to have some breakfast I want to go and see what Claude has left us. We hold hands and walk carefully and slowly across together. But the girl-nest is all wrong too. There are no bottles of water by the tree trunk, and up in the nest there are no raisins, no biscuits, nothing. It feels empty and bad and I don’t even want to get my tin out to like my treasure. We sit on the ground with our backs against the tree trunk and wait for the grass to move apart to show us Merlin and then Claude.

After a very long time waiting, when I am getting very thirsty and tired, I let the sadness win.

Claude hasn’t been yet, I say. And I don’t think he’s coming.

That is strange, it’s nearly lunchtime.

He can’t have forgotten. He must be cross with us.

He likes bringing us the treats, says Margot. There must be an explanation.

Maybe he didn’t like it that we said he should be our new papa?

He should be pleased, says Margot, then he would be a proper family.

Maybe he didn’t like it that I said his hug was rubbish?

It was rubbish, says Margot.

Maybe he didn’t like that we said it.

Maybe Claude was invisible today. Maybe he watched us play shops and was laughing at us, we just couldn’t see him.

Claude is not very magical but Merlin is, so maybe it is that. I think about it for a while. I look around for clues.

At the bottom of the tree the ground is scuffed up, as though something has been digging.

What made that? I say. That could have been Merlin?

Merlin isn’t a very diggy dog.

No. Margot is right. Perhaps it was just rabbits?

It could be rabbits?

Margot makes her eyes wide.

Big rabbits?

Or monsters, trying to climb our tree to get us?

No! I look at the scratching around the tree.

Could be.

The darkness is filling me up. I want to go to Windy Hill now, I say.

The grass is so long here and there are hundreds of flowers – clover and cow parsley and buttercups – pink and yellow and blue. As we walk back to the stream they cheer me up, so even though I am in a hurry because of monsters I pick a posy as I go. I don’t pick any of the evening primroses, though.

I have got a nice big bunch and am nearly finished collecting when the grass rustles behind me and I cry out. I spin round to see what it was but my rock-foot doesn’t work properly and I fall flat on my back.

Oh!

Sorry, says Margot. I didn’t mean to make you jump.

Margot! I say, looking up at her. But I am pleased she isn’t a monster. High above us, two buzzards are circling, their fingery wings stretched out, as though they want to hold my hand but can’t reach.

When I’m a bird, I will fly like that.

Me too, says Margot. Come on, get up.

Right by the stream, as we are about to cross back to the low meadow, I see a big patch of grey under a tree. I go to have a look and discover more feathers than I have ever seen. They are grey and fluffy, the kind that keep the bird warm, not the kind they fly with. There are one or two flying feathers too, brown ones. I wonder what bird has left these, and so many of them. Then I spot a tiny one in the middle, striped with bright blue. A jay! Then I see another. The blue feathers are scattered like jewels in amongst the grey. I rush to pick them all out, rummaging around to find the treasure hidden underneath.

In amongst the downiness my fingers touch something wet and I pull them out. They are covered in blood. For a while I just look, feeling the darkness again in my stomach, but eventually I use a stick to poke the feathers aside. There is part of a bird’s head, with a beak on it, and attached to it is some meat.

That bird’s been killed, says Margot.

I start to cry. I am trying to wipe the blood off my fingers and on to my dress. Part of it is coming off, but my hands are still stained red.

Maman!

The word seems to come out of me all on its own. I think it’s strange my mouth would do that. The rest of my head knows she’s never there.

By the time we got back up to the house and had a drink, the hotness of the day and the badness of the morning were pushing me down flat. The clothes in the courtyard were dry already but I just wanted to go inside for a rest. I decided to put them away after I’d had a lie-down.

It was too hot on my bed, so I slept on the floor with a pillow and woke up feeling woozy and damp. My throat is dry.

Margot is awake too. She is running her finger around the patterns in the floorboards, the circles in the wood. Of course she is counting them.

Do you know how these patterns get into the wood? says Margot.

I don’t, I say.

I will explain it to you, she says. When this wood was a tree, someone threw a stone at the tree, and it made these ripples.

But when you throw a stone in the river, the ripples disappear, I say.

That is because the river is made of water, not wood, says Margot. Wood ripples last for ever.

So if we throw stones at the floorboards we can make new ripples? I say.

Don’t be silly, says Margot. You can only make the ripples when the tree is alive.

Oh, I say. And I run my finger around the dead-wood ripples as well.

Can you smell the winter? Margot says.

I sniff the air and she’s right. Winter smells are coming in the window. I open the shutters wide to see what is causing the muddle, and step back in surprise. There is a smoke monster peeping out from behind the barn, black and billowy. It is bringing a smell so strong that I can taste the burning as though I was drinking it.

Oh no!

I’m going to have a look, says Margot.

You can’t, it’s too dangerous.

I’ll be careful, she says. Maybe I will have to call the firemen.

I’d better come with you then, I say. We do tiptoe-running down the stairs because Maman is still not out of bed, and out of the kitchen door, closing it behind us with a click.

We run around the house and stop at the pomegranate tree. A wolf-wind is blowing, howling through the gaps in the buildings and between the trees. The leaves flap like a rush of birds’ wings. Even though the burning smell is close, the smoke is further away than it looked. It is not behind the barn, but there is really a lot of it and it is blowing towards us. The air is crackling.

Windy Hill, I say. Let’s go!