The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,30

sighs. She drops my arm and rubs at her belly, through her dress. She rocks back and forth, heel toe, heel toe.

I’m sorry your arm was itching, she says. I’m sorry I scared you. But try not to scratch it. Please. Her hands move round to her back again. I need a sit-down, she says. Shall we go inside?

Maman’s legs are not hard enough. They wobble as we walk together back to the house. She holds my hand, tight, and we walk slowly. A cough from behind the barn makes me jump, and I hear the soft sound of raggedy footsteps moving away. I smile, and squeeze Maman’s hand to let her know we’re all right.

Outside I could feel my skin starting to burn and my head getting dizzy. The cool kitchen feels better already. I blink away the white spots as my eyes get used to the shadiness. Maman turns on the light, letting go of my hand. She was holding it so tight, though, that it feels as though her fingers are still there.

Would you like a drink? I ask her.

It’s OK, she says. She turns her back to us, starting up the stairs slowly, her legs shaking with every step.

I think she forgot to put her skeleton in, says Margot.

I’m going to lie down, Maman whispers.

You’re all sticky, I say.

She turns and looks at me with dark eyes.

Perhaps a shower would make you feel better, I add.

Oh . . . yes, she agrees.

Margot smiles at me. Just in time, she says.

Pea, says Maman.

Yes?

Don’t go out. Stay here for a while.

OK, Maman, I say.

Just until I’m asleep, she says.

Now what are we going to do? I say, when she has gone and the shower is running upstairs.

Well, says Margot, with crafty-bright eyes, I have a very good idea.

Chapter 8

Our house is big up and down and side to side and front to back. There are a lot of rooms before you even count the barn and they all smell different. When you come in from the courtyard, you are in the kitchen. That is where most things happen and it smells of our family. Papa’s best boots are by the door. Sometimes I put them on when Maman is asleep, and walk around the kitchen floor being Papa. Afterwards my feet smell like Papa too and I have to sit and smell my toes. Papa also has some tractor-driving boots. They are hidden upstairs in a sadness box in Maman’s bedroom. I am not supposed to know this, but I do.

From the kitchen you can either go into the living room, where we sit down in soft places, and I have toys and there is the television and the desk, or you can take the stairs up to where our bedrooms and bathrooms are. Maman’s bedroom smells of Maman. Papa’s smell was one of the first things to follow him away.

My bedroom is yellow and smells of nothing at all unless I open the windows. Then it smells of outside. I don’t know what it smells like in the baby’s room because the door is closed to keep the remembering shut-in.

Also, from the kitchen which actually has a lot of doors, you can go into the pantry, which is painted white and doesn’t have glass in the windows, only wire netting. The pantry smells of cheese. There is another door that goes to the summer rooms. They are down some stairs and are quite dark and smell of gone-bad fruit. They are colder than the upstairs bedrooms which is bad in winter but good in summer. But all our things are in our bedrooms and so that is where we always sleep, in the summers and in the winters. Sometimes I go to the summer rooms just to see if anything is different. It never is.

From the kitchen you can also go into the laundry room. It is called the buanderie and smells of soap powder and has a door to the downstairs toilet, which is not interesting, except that it has a toilet-roll holder shaped like a wide-mouthed frog, and purple violets on the white wall tiles. From the downstairs toilet there is another door, which is always locked. This door is brown underneath, but has been painted over. The paint is peeling away in shiny flakes like sage leaves. The handle is old and feels greasy. I know that this door leads to the cellar, and children are not allowed down there. In any case I