The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,41

I say. We will wear something yellow. For the challenge.

Oh, yes, says Margot.

In fact, I don’t have a yellow dress, or a yellow skirt, or any yellow trousers. But I have got a yellow T-shirt. The neck is a bit tight going over my head, but I manage. And I find some yellow knickers.

What are you going to wear on the bottom?

Nothing. It will spoil my colour scheme.

I think it will spoil Maman’s mood if you try to go out only in knickers. What about colours that match with yellow?

Which ones?

Margot shrugs. Pink?

So I find my pink trousers, the same colour as strawberry yoghurt, and put those on.

Very nice, says Margot.

The radio is playing down in the kitchen, where the table is laid for breakfast. A big checked bag sits on the kitchen floor with things falling out of it: towels and bottled water, plastic boxes with food inside, sunhats and suncream.

Are we going on a picnic? I ask.

We’re going to the seaside, Maman says.

Now? This morning?

Yes, if you hurry up. Maman has red eyes, but she is smiling. She is wearing trousers, rolled up at the bottoms, and flip-flops with a big red jewel sitting on top of each foot. She is drinking from a glass of water, covered in sparkling drops on the outside.

We hurry our breakfast, I tidy the table and Maman wipes it. Then we close and lock the door behind us and climb into the car that we hardly ever use. Today it is canicule. That means it is mostly a day for swimming or lying down in the shade. It is too hot for anything else. The car door handle burns my hand and I snatch it back again. Inside it is steamy and unbearable, and the smell of car is very strong. We wind down the windows as we set off, letting in the cooler outside air. The car drinks it up thirstily.

The drive to the seaside is all downhill, and Maman drives slowly. She is sitting far back from the steering wheel, because of her belly. Her arms stretch over the top of it. Every now and then her belly jumps and so does Maman, and the car swerves, making me jump too. On the drive to the beach I sing songs. Sometimes Maman joins in for a chorus. She is in a very good mood today. Margot catches my eye and I can tell she is thinking the same thing. I wonder what it is that has made her cheerful. It must have been the cleaning. While I am thinking about this I stare out of the window, watch us pass through the village. We cross a big road by a bridge and I look down to see the traffic speeding underneath us: lorries and caravans and cars. I wonder where they are all going, so fast and so many. When we get to the other side, which smells like Windy Hill only saltier, we turn so that the étangs are out of my window, dotted with clumps of moss and yellow grass. Seagulls swoop over them making shadows on the rippling water. I stare hard looking for the flamingos but there are none to be seen. I look at the trees instead. The trees down here are all bent sideways, leaning over because the Tramuntana, that’s our wind, has been blowing them hard all their lives. It makes me feel a bit sad for the trees. I think they deserve a rest.

Maman has gone quiet.

Are you OK? I ask.

Me? says Maman. I’m OK. Nearly there.

When the étangs turn to beaches we turn off and park the car. I can see the sea now, waiting for me to jump in and splash and swim. I want to run straight on to the beach and flop into the water, but instead I walk slowly beside Maman. As soon as the path down to the beach becomes sandy we take off our shoes, dangling them along as we let the sand scratch off the inland dirt from our feet.

We get to a big square of decking with thatched umbrellas and sun-hammocks.

I’m going to sit here, says Maman, putting down the bag. You go and play. She waggles her fingers over towards the sea.

Do you want to build a sandcastle? I say.

No, you go build one. Go and have fun.

Do you want to paddle, then?

Peony! she snaps.

Margot shakes her head at me and takes my hand. The beach is dotted with bellies and bottoms