The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,12

has cherries in and now I am not so hungry I pick them out and eat them first. When my tummy is so full that I can’t eat one more cherry I climb down the ladder and sit next to Merlin in the shade. Merlin is having his belly rubbed and making small happy noises.

Claude, I say, you made the girl-nest, didn’t you?

I did, he says.

And the stepping stones to get here?

Those too.

For us?

For you. Claude looks up at me. His fingers go too far across Merlin’s belly and touch my knee and it tickles.

Why did you make us a girl-nest? I say.

Claude shrugs and keeps stroking Merlin. The scratchy tips of his fingers brush my skin, back and forth. Every little girl needs a secret, he says.

Chapter 4

Today is Wednesday, and on Wednesdays we go to the market. Well, in fact the market comes to us.

We walk together down to the village road, on the lane, not through the peaches. Maman walks ahead, leaning back as she goes down the hill, walking so fast that her hair can’t keep up. The air is warm and wet and the hurrying makes me sweaty. Maman looks up at the white sky and rushes on. When we reach the road she pauses to catch her breath, which is coming in short huffs.

I used to love market day. We would spend all morning winding around the stalls, touching the carved wooden toys, hiding in the racks of bright patchwork trousers. We would dilly and dally by the stalls that let you taste things: honey, fruit juice, olives and jam. We would even sometimes have our lunch there, sitting outside in the sun. Every Wednesday morning in the village was like a party. But now we just do our shopping, we don’t speak to anyone, and we go home.

I wonder, whispers Margot, if we just crossed over here, would she notice we’d gone?

I wonder too. The gate we climb to get into the low meadow is just across the road. The donkeys are hanging their heads over it and grinning at us. The brown one pushes his nose forward and does a noisy hee-haw! They are pleased to see us.

Come on, let’s go, says Margot. She takes my hand and we look and listen, ready to cross the road.

But Maman has got her breath back. She grabs my other hand and sets off again, turning right, towards the village. Margot and I are pulled along behind her like ducklings in a row. On the crumbly tarmac we have to stick close to the side because it is narrow and cars come too fast.

There is only one house between our lane and where the village begins, and it is far back from the road. You can just see the red roof tiles peeking through between gaps in the trees. As we pass along the garden wall we peer in, wondering who lives there. Every now and then I can taste the sweetness of jasmine, but the flowers are hidden. We run our fingers along the rough stones. Skinny brown lizards bake themselves in the cracks. When they see our hands creeping closer they blink their shiny black eyes and skitter away.

You can hear and smell the market a long time before you get there. Chattering grownups and laughing children, dogs barking and paella cooking – the smells and sounds all pour up the street to meet us. By the time we get there the village square is dancing with colours. Lots of people are going from stand to stand, the ones who carry baskets are shopping, and there are others just having a look. Some people are sitting outside the café under the plane trees, drinking teeny cups of coffee or glasses of beer. They don’t seem very worried by the clouds. I recognise some faces that are here every week, but others are new.

In summertime the market is bigger and full of people who are here on their holidays. It’s easy to tell who is who. The people that were born here move slowly, when they move at all. They are brown-skinned, and smile at each other and say hello. They stop and chat in the middle of crowds, while the holiday people hurry around, turning red in the sun and snapping at each other. Sometimes it seems that there are two markets, both happening at the same time, one for normal people doing their shopping, and one for the others, having a holiday.