The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,54
It looks like a peach stone sucked clean. Her eyes are a long way inside her head, but they flash like dark wrong-way-round fireworks in a white sky. Josette smells of violets and donkeys.
I look at the scissors and the bowl and I am not happy.
Is she going to make you into a salad? says Margot.
Or a cake made of hair?
Josette puts the bowl on my head. Margot starts to laugh.
Are you a witch? I say. Are you going to make me into cake?
Josette smiles. I’m not a witch, she says. Just an old lady. She takes the scissors and starts cutting at the hair that is sticking out from under the bowl.
Josette’s house is not made of biscuits and bonbons, and her fingers are not very witchy, but it could all be a big trick and I jump back. The scissors nearly poke my face.
Stay STILL! she says.
I don’t want to, I say.
Pivoine, says Josette. Her voice smiles. What happened to your hair?
I am wondering whether or not to tell a lie. Margot is shaking her head but this could mean ‘Don’t lie’ or ‘Don’t tell the truth’. I shrug.
You cut it, didn’t you? As she says this, a very slinky little black cat appears and starts to wind itself around the table legs.
She IS a witch, whispers Margot. I feel my insides go tight. But I decide that in this case it is best not to lie because witches know magic and can probably tell if someone is lying to them.
Yes, I whisper.
It’s OK. But let’s just make it a bit better, she says.
OK.
Has your maman seen it?
Not yet.
Hmm. Josette snips short snips on my head. I’m trying to make you beautiful again, she says. I look up at her concentrating face and she smiles back down with all of her soft, brown lines. There, she says, done.
I thought it was better when I did it, says Margot.
Josette ignores her, brushing snips and curls off my shoulders and on to the grass. Now, have you had any breakfast? she asks.
I ate the end off the baguette, I tell her. I had to fetch it from down by the road because Maman growled at Sylvie.
Josette nods. Come on, she says, and she takes us to her kitchen, which is yellow and white and smells of cake. On the table is some fresh bread and some sausage. She cuts the sausage into round circles like small pink and white coins. She slices a big slice of white bread. Then she puts them on to a plate and makes a face. The bread is the face, the sausage is the eyes and nose. She cuts me a slice of tomato to make a mouth and pours milk into glasses.
Your house is different to ours, I say, with my mouth full.
How is it different?
You have clean plates, and it smells of flowers and cake, I say.
Josette comes over and kisses the top of my head.
Everything will be all right, Petite, she says. I wonder if she understood what I said.
You’re not allowed to kiss me when Maman is not here, I say.
And who told you that?
Claude.
Claude?
Yes, says Margot.
Well now, says Josette, you’d better get back home to your maman. She’ll be worried about you.
She won’t, says Margot.
And stay out of trouble! says Josette.
Josette’s throat is very frisky, says Margot as we walk home. Did you notice?
Frisky? I say.
Yes. When she talks it moves in and out.
It must be because she is old.
When I get old, says Margot, I will have a house that smells of flowers and cake.
When I get old, I say, I will kiss all the people that wanted to kiss me when I was young.
It doesn’t matter how quietly we close the front door, because Maman has been watching us come up the path. Her arms are folded, resting on her belly, and in one hand she is holding the chicken scissors, which I had left under my pillow. She looks at my hair, then my eyes. I look anywhere else but at her. It doesn’t work; she seems to fill everywhere today. She pushes the scissors towards us.
I don’t even know where to begin, she says. What are you going to tell me?
Margot takes my hand. We hang our heads.
Maman, I’m so, so sorry, I say.
It is mumbled to the floor, but Maman is on fire.
Sorry about what? she says. She is already shouting.