The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,38

of the wasps. The courtyard is hard work, though, because the dustpan and brush are small and the courtyard is quite big. Also because my hat keeps falling off.

That’s it, I say, I’ll just leave it off, it’s a stupid hat anyway.

If you don’t put your hat on in sunny weather you will die, says Margot, turning off her hoover.

Well how can I keep it on and do the cleaning? This house is a mess! I say.

You will have to use your head, says Margot, and I laugh. Margot makes up good jokes. Except for the knock-knock jokes that she is rubbish at.

The scorpion is in the shade of a big pink rock. He is almost black, except some yellow legs, and he is shiny and low to the ground. I don’t notice him until I sweep him out with the leaves and he starts to run.

Look, says Margot, it’s another specimen.

It’s an alive specimen, though, I say.

Well yes, so you can’t have him in your treasure chest, says Margot, obviously. But still, we could keep him – like a pet.

We could put a lead on him, I say, and take him for walks like a dog. I am only joking when I say this, because I know about scorpions. I know that if they sting you it hurts a lot and sometimes it means you have to go to the hospital. I know not to touch. So I get an empty jamjar from the box of glass for recycling, which like everything at the moment is overflowing. The jar has no lid, but it is much taller than the scorpion, and slidy, so I’m sure he won’t be able to climb the sides. I take a stick and poke the scorpion into the jar. He skitters about trying to climb up the glass walls, his pincers waving, his tail curled over his back like a sausage hook. I’m still a little bit scared he’s going to get out and sting me but I can see that I was right; the jar is too slippy and he has to stay in the bottom and be looked at. I’m glad that scorpions can’t fly.

Let’s keep him by my bed, I say. Do you know what scorpions eat?

I will have a look on the internet, says Margot.

Margot sits down at a rock, which she has made into her computer, and looks on the internet about scorpion food.

Hmmmm, she says, hmmm, aha, aha, right.

So what do scorpions eat? I ask.

Cheese, says Margot.

We are halfway upstairs when Maman appears at the bathroom door. She stands at the top of the stairs, a big dark shadow.

What have you got? she says.

I look at the jamjar in my hands: the little black scorpion still trying to climb up the slippery glass insides, his sting up over his back and the small piece of cheese which he has not eaten. I daren’t put it behind my back in case I tip it and the scorpion gets on to my arm.

Nothing, I say, looking her in the eye.

Peony, what’s in the jar?

Oh it’s just . . . I just found it by the rocks, I’m going to look after it. I’ve given it some cheese.

Maman starts coming down the stairs. Now the stairs are crowded, and there is no way past Maman and her belly. I hold my hands around the jar, trying to hide the scorpion. He is skittering at the sides, only the glass between his sting and my palm.

I look down through the banisters to the kitchen floor. I cannot throw the jar, it would smash, and there would be a scorpion in the kitchen. Both very bad. I look up at Maman, nearly here. I look behind at Margot, who just shrugs and looks back at me. I am trapped in the middle with my scorpion, who is now seeming like quite a bad idea.

Maman is trying to see into the jar. Cheese, she says. Is it a mouse?

No.

A spider? she says, coming down another step and peering.

Not a spider.

Peony, she snaps, what have you got in the . . .

Her hand is reaching out to take the jar. I am holding it tight. I am scared of dropping it but it is slippery and I am also scared of putting my fingers inside to hold it better, although the scorpion is still now, flat to the glass bottom. Raindrops of sweat drip down from my neck past my heart and make a paddling