The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,53

them with all the hair. I think about taking them back to the kitchen. I think about the emptiness of the night-time house outside my bedroom door. I think about what Claude said about Maman worrying, but since she has been in bed all afternoon I think she can’t have noticed. I think it would be best if I keep the scissors under my pillow until the morning.

I wake up on the floor. I have fallen out of bed, although I don’t remember doing it. Margot is laughing at me. She has already got her clothes on and she is wearing a red dress with a silver belt and a silver tiara.

I am the Queen of Amazonia, she says, and I say, Good morning.

Let us have breakfast, says the Queen of Amazonia. I have prepared cake and watermelon and chocolate spread.

That sounds delicious, I say.

The cake and watermelon and chocolate spread is pretend. But we do have some jam. We run down to the path to get the bread.

This is extremely inconvenient, says the Queen of Amazonia.

I’m sorry, I say. It’s because Sylvie doesn’t speak English. And because she’s scared of Maman.

It’s like we are in the zoo, says Margot, who is Margot again (but still wearing a tiara).

It is a bit, I say, although I’m not sure I understand.

Like when you have to throw the meat to the tigers so they don’t bite you. Sylvie has to throw the bread to us so that she doesn’t get attacked by Maman, who is ferocious. Except if she threw the bread it would break and get dirty and Maman would be more cross.

So she has to leave it down here on the signpost, I say.

Exactly, says Margot, and she looks pleased with herself.

Like a zoo, I say. If it’s a zoo then I am the unicorn.

They don’t exist, says Margot.

Like dinosaurs?

Like witches.

Oh.

Well then I’m a giraffe.

I’m a kangaroo, says Margot, and she bounces away up the hill.

Back at the house, we sit on the step to the courtyard and we eat without talking. There are sparrows in the eaves somewhere, or in the barn. I can hear them chirruping.

Maman comes down and starts tidying the kitchen, and shoos us properly outside while she sweeps up our crumbs.

Where shall we . . . Margot begins.

The low meadow, I say. Come on.

As we get to the road we see Josette is standing at the gate, feeding the donkeys bread and carrots and floppy red and green salad leaves. We stop, look and listen, then run over to say hello.

Josette turns to us with a smile, but it quickly dissolves back into her wrinkles. Mon Dieu! she says. Then she turns and stares up at our house, as though it has done something very naughty indeed. Come with me! Josette tosses the rest of the vegetables in to the donkeys and then grabs my hand. She crosses us back over, leading us along the road, away from the village, to a small cottage made of bonbons and cakes. Well, yes, actually it is just a normal cottage made of stones, with a red roof, like all the houses. But it is very pretty.

We stand at the gate, staring up at her as she walks away. When she notices we are not following she turns around. Come on, she says, what are you waiting for?

Josette’s garden is green and full of flowers. From the side of the house, grape vines climb over big dark beams, and underneath is a table and chairs. The grapes, green ones, are hanging down over the table.

I think if we stood on the table we could get those, says Margot.

Now, you wait here, Ragamuffin. And no pinching those grapes, they’re not ripe.

It’s like she can hear you! I whisper to Margot.

We wait at the table, which smells of honeysuckle and bananas. The honeysuckle smell is not curious because there is a big bush on the corner of the house, all covered in white and yellow flowers. But the banana smell is. I can’t see a banana tree anywhere.

Josette comes back. She is carrying a yellow plastic mixing bowl and some scissors. Stay still, she says, sitting next to me. Josette is really old. Her hair is long and the colour of metal. It is pinned up in a bun, held up with a long black needle. I have never touched Josette’s hair, but I imagine it would feel scratchy and wiry. Her face is the most wrinkled face I know.