The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,76
crumbs and the outside dirt. It must make her feel the crumbs and the dirt on her feet because she rubs each foot on top of the other, one at a time. Maybe this makes the bottom of her feet feel better but now the tops of her feet are dirty too.
Hello, Madame, says Claude. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m your neighbour.
Have you just moved here?
No, Madame, I’ve lived here all my life.
Oh.
Maman rocks from side to side, one foot then another. She doesn’t like standing up if she doesn’t have to.
Why don’t you sit down, Maman? I say.
Not now, Pea.
Margot slinks around from Claude’s side to come and stand next to me.
My name is Claude. Claude frowns. I think he can’t think of anything important to say. I scratch my arm.
I’m Joanna, says Maman. So what did you want? Peony says it’s important.
Beh . . . I brought you some tomatoes, says Claude. I mean, I have too many. My garden is big. I thought . . . would you like some tomatoes?
Maman is staring at him again.
Five years, she says.
I beg your pardon?
Five years I have lived here. And you have lived here all your life. And now you have chosen today, when I was sleeping, with Amaury dead, to come and bring me tomatoes? Her voice is getting louder, her hands are on her belly, the air in the kitchen is being sucked down into her so that she can shout out whatever is coming next. I can’t breathe. Claude can feel it coming too. He opens his mouth to say something but it is too late.
Tomatoes! she yells. Who sent you? Was it his mother again? Why can’t you all just leave me alone?
Claude is shaking his head. Really, he says, it’s not like that at all. I met Pea, I mean Pivoine . . .
What? Maman is still shouting.
Maman, I say, it’s just . . .
Not NOW, Peony, she yells, and then she bends over again, over her belly, over the baby.
Get out, she says quietly.
I’m truly sorry, says Claude, and he turns, limping away across the courtyard. We slide past Maman and try to follow him, but he looks back over his shoulder and holds up a finger.
Not today, he says.
We watch him leave. Behind us the door slams shut.
Papa used to tell me when you get angry you should count to ten before saying anything. So I stand in the sun, my eyes screwed up against the brightness of it and stinging with the sweat that is already running into them from my head. One, I say out loud, two, three.
You should maybe say hippopotamus, says Margot.
It’s not a game, I snap back. I’m angry.
I know, says Margot.
I finish counting to ten and turn back to the kitchen.
Shall we just do up to twenty? says Margot.
No, I say. Papa said ten and I did ten and I am still angry and now I am going to tell her.
Are you sure? says Margot.
She isn’t being very useful. I am sure and I am angry and I don’t care what she thinks any more because she is . . .
The door opens and Maman is standing there. Get in the house, she says. What are you doing standing out there shouting? Get in here.
But I am boiling and I run at her. You’re NOT a very good mother! I shout at her. You don’t look after me, you don’t say please and thank you. You’re ALWAYS grumpy. You’re a BAD mother and I’m not your friend.
Her hand slaps me so hard that I am knocked sideways into the chair. The chair moves and I land on the floor on my bottom. My bottom hurts from the floor. My shoulder hurts from the chair, and my arm stings from the slap. She was trying to smack my bottom but my arm was in the way and now a cherry-stain handprint is stuck there, as though Maman had just been playing with paints.
I start to scream, not because it hurts as bad as all that but because I am really, really cross. As I scream she backs away from me. I get up off the floor and I scream some more and right at her face.
You DON’T do that! I shout. And then I scream some more until my throat hurts and my screaming turns into crying. Proper crying, that I can’t stop, that shakes me like the wind, with tears.