can shave it all off for all I care.
I don’t understand, says Margot.
You do not ever take my scissors, says Maman. And what about when the baby is born? Do you think you can just wave a pair of scissors around then?
No, I say.
No, says Margot.
Maman, I’m so sorry. It was supposed to be a good idea, and also to get us some money from a hair fairy, and also I’m sorry.
But Maman has slumped down at the table, her head in her hands.
I can’t do it, she says.
We go back outside gloomily. If Papa had been here he would have given me a hug. Papa had a hug for every day, happy or sad. I look at Margot. Margot is good at words but no good at all for hugs and sometimes the words won’t do.
We’ll go to Windy Hill, says Margot. She always knows what I’m thinking.
We walk without saying anything until we get to Windy Hill where the knots inside me start to unravel. It is late, and the sun is behind me, pushing my shadow out in front of me like another, much taller person. The wing turbines stand like sentinels, but only one is turning. Nothing is going right today. I feel my stomach tighten back up like someone is squeezing me on the inside. I don’t know if one is enough. If the wing turbines are not turning, there will be no electricity and tonight I will have to sleep in the darkness. Over the blue-grey étangs, the sunlight is making the little seaside houses glitter, their whiteness sparkling like jewels with little red roofs. The moon has come up already, a dappled lemon shape reflecting across the water. If she hurried she could kiss the sun in the sky before he sets, but it is already too late; the sun is disappearing at my back and taking my shadow with him.
Chapter 14
Get out of bed, says Margot.
It’s another red-hot day. Already the air in the bedroom is too warm and too sticky. The shutters are open and the light is bright, even with my eyes closed. I press my arm across them and there are red-black sparkles where the world would be.
I’m too tired, I say. I’m going to stay here.
Don’t be ridiculous, says Margot, it’s too hot. Get up.
Leave me alone, I say. And I roll over so she can’t see me.
Margot is being bossy again. The shower’s running, she says, listen. Even Maman is getting up today; it’s market day.
Hmph, I say, well I haven’t slept. I Need My Rest.
It’s Market Day, says Margot, and she makes the words in thick crayon lines in the air with her pointing finger.
I don’t like market day, I say. It’s Boring. And Boring is in thick crayon too and with a line underneath it.
Free food, says Margot.
I roll back again and peer out from over the horizon of my arm. What kind of food? I say.
Olives for definite, sausage if we’re lucky, cheese maybe. Let’s see if we can get Maman to buy some paella.
She never buys the paella. When we have paella, Maman cooks it herself.
When was the last time she cooked paella?
I can’t remember.
Do you like paella? Margot crosses her arms and jigs up both her eyebrows, waiting for me to agree because she knows I do and that I don’t like lying. I do like paella, especially the prawns. And the yellow grains of rice, sticky and fishy and many many grains of sticky, fishy, savoury-tasting rice, one at a time, slowly . . . I do like paella.
Yes, I do like paella, I say.
My mouth is watering, here in my bed. I should get up and make breakfast.
The door swooshes open and Maman is right behind it, her hair wet and clipped up, all in white, bare feet, freckles. What are you rambling about? she says. Shake a leg, it’s market day.
Margot bounces out of bed and slips past Maman, first to the bathroom as usual.
On the way to the market, we walk slowly. Maman is taking it easy, she says. I am dillying and dallying. As we pass the wall to Claude’s garden Margot and I are sly, peering in to see if he is there. It’s hard to see anything through the lavender that is overflowing over the wall. Fat moths like humming birds are hovering around it, drinking the nectar with long tongues. The back of my neck is hot, hot, hot. I try to swish my