Maman’s belly is at the stove, her bottom squeezed up against the table where we are colouring. Her arm is stretched forwards, stirring tomato smells out of the pan and into our socks. She isn’t singing.
It is mostly cool in the kitchen, but half of me is sunny and hot because I’m sitting in a ribbon of outside. The rest of me is in the stripy shade of the socks and knickers that dangle from the wooden airer above our heads. They have been there for five sleeps already, since that rainy afternoon when we couldn’t stop getting under Maman’s feet even when we were in a different room altogether.
A fly lands on the edge of the butter dish, and another on my empty plate. Then one jumps on to my arm, making the hairs stand up. Margot watches them. Her eyes roll around so they are mostly white and her eyebrows waggle. Two more flies skid to a stop on the oilcloth.
The flies think our house is an airport, Pea, she says.
Margot is like me and she is not like me. I am five and a half, Margot is only four, but she’s tall for her age. We both like cuddles and insects and cuddling insects and we both have freckles and green eyes, like Maman, with sparkles of blue and brown. In the sunlight Maman’s eyes are kaleidoscopes.
Margot and I are not the same, you can tell by our dreams. I am always dreaming about witches chasing me, or picnic-days at the beach before all the dying happened – those are the best ones. Margot dreams about tiny people that live in the cupboards and have parties on Thursdays, and about jigsaws that make themselves.
Ladies are like cars and men are like motorbikes, Margot says.
You have to listen to Margot because she explains things.
Motorbikes don’t have doors, but cars do, to put the people in, she tells me. You can put people inside ladies too. And they have doors for the going in and out.
I stare at Maman’s big fat belly, imagining the door. I have never seen it, which is strange. I have seen the doorknob, though, sticking out through her clothes where her belly button used to be.
Go and knock on it, Pea, the baby might answer, says Margot.
In my head I can see the baby opening up Maman’s tummy to say hello, or to sign for a parcel. Before I can stop it my laugh bubbles out of my lips like a raspberry. Maman’s head turns to look at me.
Peony, she says (because that is one of my names), and her face is grey clouds. Then she turns away again and stirs faster.
Maman, I say.
She turns back. But I have forgotten to think of something important to say, so I quickly say the first thing I can think of.
There is a fly stuck to your foot.
Well, there is. Maman has bare feet and under one of her heels I can see a little fly leg sticking out. And a little fly bum.
Maman stares at me for a moment with eyes that say ‘this is all your fault’, and then leans on the table so she can inspect her feet. She lifts one off the tiles and cricks backwards to look at it over her shoulder, her hair falling down her back like a red curtain. The bottom of her foot is black. Maman’s feet get dirtier than mine even though we both walk barefoot on the same floors.
The other one, I whisper.
She swaps feet. There it is: the squashed fly. She peels it off with the tips of her fingers and puts her foot back down slowly. Her mouth wobbles as though it can’t decide what shape to make. She looks at the floor, her eyes moving over the crumbs, the small bits of onion and garlic skins, the cat hair and the outside dirt. The table is not very clean either. We do try not to make too much mess, but if we do I can’t reach the sink to wipe it up.
I am quiet now, waiting for what happens next. Maman puts the fly into the dustbin and then holds on to the table with two hands, rocking as though there is sad music in the kitchen that only she can hear. The tomato sauce is spluttering in the pan behind her. Without saying anything else, she straightens up and takes her tears upstairs.
The darkness is in my stomach. This is what scares