The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,74
cleaned all the clothes from the kitchen that had the tomato sauce on, says Margot.
She stopped stirring because of the dead fly on her foot, I say.
And Maman loved us, says Margot.
Yes, Maman loved us, I say. Until she saw the bird blood on my dress.
Bird blood?
Oh and there was a big fire and Margot called a flying fire engine.
A fire?
Yes and a flying fire engine.
You don’t say things twice on the news, says Margot, that’s boring and there is no time for that.
Sorry, I say. And then we wondered where you were and the spider’s web has gone and we had nothing to drink when we were in our nest.
Claude looks extra-sad.
But we didn’t mind, I add, we weren’t really thirsty anyway.
It works; a small smile. A good start.
And yesterday the hills were all set on fire and there were caterpillars in my head. And now for the weather.
But there is no time for the weather report. Three knocks, clonk, clonk clonk. Loud knocks.
Let’s not answer it, says Claude.
That’s what Maman says, I say. Don’t do that. It’s not polite.
I think it would be best just this one time, says Claude.
I shake my head. Papa used to say that it is never just this one time. Just this one time is always the first one of lots of times, he said. Let’s answer the door.
I know she’s in there with you! A shout, a lady’s voice. Angry. Outside the house.
Who’s that? I say.
I know! I know! says Margot.
Josette, sighs Claude.
Can we say hello? I say.
We have to, says Margot, it’s only good manners.
Clonk, clonk clonk. CLONK, CLONK, CLONK! Claude, you open this door right now! Josette sounds furious.
OK! yells Claude. Just stop your yelling. And he stomps to the door and opens it. Josette barges in.
Ha! she says. She is staring at me. She throws her hand out towards me, as though she is a magician and I am the trick she has just done. Ta dah!
Josette, says Claude.
Stop Josetting me, says Josette. And then she looks at Claude’s face. What happened?
Merlin is dead, I say. And Claude is sad.
You would have worked it out, Margot says, if you had followed the clues.
Do you really think . . . ? says Claude. Which isn’t a proper sentence. And he looks over at us.
Well what was I supposed to think? says Josette.
Excuse me, I say, but what are you talking about? They do not answer. They are nose to nose above us, shouting, angry.
Well I thought you would have known me better than that.
No one knows you any more, Claude. It’s as though you died with them.
Well here I am, and I’m not the only lonely person around here. You can take care of yourself, I can take care of myself, who is taking care of her? He points at me.
It’s not your job, says Josette.
It’s lamentable, says Claude.
Well then someone should do something about it, says Josette.
Right, says Claude. I will.
Chapter 18
The house is asleep and we mustn’t wake it. Instead I give it a hug, standing with my skin pressed up against the cool white of my bedroom wall. I am making it grey with sweat. The windows are open but the shutters are closed to keep out the sunbeams. One fat one comes through the crack like an arrow, stabbing at my clothes, which I’ve left in a pile on the floor. Dust-fairies dance in the light.
Margot is reading books out loud. She can’t really read, but she knows the words to most of them in her head, and she turns the pages and tells the story, actually quite well. Her voice makes the silence sing.
Before the doorbell rings I hear the footsteps, a broken heartbeat on the paving stones, and I know that Claude is here.
Listen! I whisper to Margot.
Who could it be? she says.
Well it can’t be Sylvie the breadlady, because she’s not allowed at our house any more, I laugh.
And it can’t be the peachman because this isn’t the day he comes! says Margot.
And it can’t be Papa, because . . . I have had enough of that game. I stand up and go to the window to be sure it is Claude.
Because he’s got his key, says Margot, firmly.
Claude is standing a few steps back from the door. He looks strange at our house. A bit wrong, like strawberries on toast. He is holding a big basket, with newspaper stuffed down the sides, all around a big pile of fat pumpkin-tomatoes.