to do with horses when they’re afraid of you.
No! he shouts, and it feels like a thump in my stomach. He looks at the windows, shuttered. He looks at the door behind us, open, empty, then back at the windows again. He starts to shoo us back out of the door and then he gets distracted by his stripy pyjama sleeves flapping at us. He looks down at himself and shudders. He steps back and changes his mind, shooing us into the room. His face is red and teary. He smells awful.
Stay there! Claude says, and goes out of the room, closing the door behind him. We stand there in the dark, bad-smelling room. Claude is not dead, but he has gone strange. He has gone like Maman, in fact. Crouching here in the dark, smelling bad and crying.
This is no good, I say to Margot. We need Claude. He can’t do this.
Maybe his papa died, says Margot, or maybe he is having a baby.
Men don’t have babies.
I hear a door slam shut, and feet going upstairs. Two feet, limping feet. One-TWO, one-TWO, one-TWO. Margot suddenly spins around, and again, and again. Where, she says, is Merlin?
I had forgotten about Merlin. Merlin is not here. Two feet, not six feet. One-TWO not one-TWO-patter-clatter. That is not normal. Merlin is always with Claude. He’s like a shadow that listens. He is Claude’s best friend. The bad feeling comes out of my stomach and crawls over my skin, over my neck and face and right up to where the hairs grow out of my head, making me cold and hot at the same time. I can’t say it.
It’s Merlin, isn’t it? says Margot.
I do a small shrug. But the tears are already starting to prickle. Because I know it is.
I sit down on the tiles, pushing a pile of photos out of my way, and hug my legs to me. It feels a bit better. While I wait for Claude to come back I look at the photos, separating them with my finger. Little girls; lots of photos of little girls. Girls in a garden, Claude’s garden. Girls climbing apple trees. Girls on ponies, one white one black, up on Windy Hill, blowing black hair escaping from their riding hats, angel’s wings turning behind them. Girls in a tree house; not our tree house. Two girls riding two shiny little red bikes.
Clues, says Margot, lots of clues.
Lots of little girls and none of them are us. I wonder why Claude has not taken a picture of us? Why did those girls get to ride the two little red bikes and we haven’t? The girls have dark eyes, like Claude. They are smiling out at us from the photos. Maybe it’s their eyes. We are riding the bikes, they are saying. He loves us more. In the smallest picture frame, on the table by the chair, there is a tiny picture of a lady. She is smiling too. I pick up the picture. The lady looks a lot like Maman did when she was still happy, when Papa was alive. The door handle slowly turns. Slowly, slowly. The door opens a crack, a little more, slowly. Claude is here. He is wearing clothes now. Crumpled ones. He has combed his hair. He looks down at me on his floor.
Sorry, Claude, I say.
Claude bends down and starts to pick up the photos. He gently takes one out of my hands. He still smells quite awful. He takes the photo, the one with the bikes. He collects the photos like they are blackberries; press too hard and they fall to pieces in your hands.
Are you OK? I ask. Claude sighs, his shoulders go up and down, his mouth pursed tight. We wait.
It’s Merlin, he says at last. He died. So I’m feeling sad.
I know, I say. I feel sad too.
You know?
There were clues, says Margot.
We worked it out, I say.
Oh. You shouldn’t have come here, Pivoine.
Another thump in my stomach. Claude doesn’t want us here. Maman doesn’t want us there. Claude is calling me Pivoine.
Because we weren’t invited? I say.
Because it’s, it’s not . . . Claude loses his place in the sentence and shakes his head.
Claude, I say, I know that you are very sad, but please, can you still play with us. Please don’t stay in your bedroom.
Pardon? Claude leans closer.
Like Maman. We like it when you play with us in the meadow.
Yes, he says, I know. I just needed some time. Sometimes