The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,8

already high in the sky, but Maman is still in bed. Down in the kitchen we talk very quietly, in case she’s sleeping.

It is day three of our challenge, says Margot. Today we are being helpful.

And also, we are not complaining, I say.

That’s right, says Margot.

I spread jam on the bread and pour glasses of milk. When Papa was here, he would get up before we were awake, and the breakfast would already be on the table. In the summer he picked us peaches from the orchard and in the winter when we came downstairs there would be logs crackling in the fireplace and hot chocolate on the stove. Papa liked breakfast time a lot. He drank long slurps of milky coffee out of a big white bowl, and if we had croissants he would dunk them in, pushing the soggy bits into his mouth and fishing with his fingers for the buttery flakes left floating on the surface. But Papa is not here any more because we put him in the ground. He isn’t ever coming back.

I wish Papa wasn’t dead, I say. I don’t think it’s complaining if Maman can’t hear me.

I know, Pea, says Margot. But people have to die to make room for the babies. If no one died then all the houses and beds would get full and there wouldn’t be enough jam at breakfast time.

I think about it, hard.

But then why would the baby have died to make way for another baby? I ask.

Margot is quiet for a while. While she is thinking she sucks her hair. Finally she says, Maybe the new baby is better?

I think of the new baby in Maman’s tummy, making her sad and keeping her awake all night. I doubt that this one will be good enough.

We eat slowly, licking jam off our fingers and trying to dunk the bread in the milk without making a mess. At last I hear the bed creak upstairs, and soon afterwards the toilet flushes.

I have laid out a place for Maman, a plate and a knife, a glass for juice and a napkin. I have put a mug by the kettle, but I haven’t boiled the water. The milk is in the carton because I can’t reach the pottery jug. I have put out bread, butter and two kinds of jam. Margot thinks she will choose cherry, I think apricot. We sit nicely at the table and wait.

Maman comes downstairs; she has put on a big yellow summer dress that gets to her belly and then floats around her legs like a cloud. Her hair is clipped up off her neck with a twinkling butterfly. Her feet are already filthy.

Good morning, I say, smiling my best smile. Margot smiles too, showing her teeth and batting her eyelashes.

Good morning, says Maman, heading straight for the apple juice. She drinks it fast and pours herself seconds. When she has drunk that too she pours a third glass and looks around at the breakfast things.

You’ve laid the table very nicely, she says, thank you. And she smiles at me.

Margot grins at me and parrots, Yes, Pea, you’ve laid the table very nicely!

My face feels hot and I try to stop my small smile from spreading into a big one.

You’re welcome, I say.

Maman starts the kettle boiling and then sits down at the table.

Would you like me to pass the jam? I say.

Yes, please.

Cherry? I mumble. Or some delicious apricot?

Oh, some delicious apricot I think, please, Pea. Maman smiles again.

I pass it over, carefully, frightened of breaking her smile.

Say something nice, whispers Margot under her breath.

You’re looking very beautiful this morning, Maman, I say.

Do you think so? she says. I don’t feel very beautiful.

I’m not sure what the best answer is to this. Your dress is very pretty, I try.

Maman looks down at her dress as if she is surprised to find herself wearing it. Thank you, she says.

The kettle has boiled and she pushes the chair back as far as it will go, the feet scraping on the tiles. She stands slowly, heaving herself up with her arms. As she squeezes herself out of the gap between the chair and the table, her baby-belly knocks into the full glass of apple juice and it starts to topple.

I try to catch it but I am too far away and the apple juice spills all over the table. Maman watches it happen. Then the glass rolls towards her, towards the table edge. She does nothing, and it