The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,81

hope he left the tomatoes, she replies. And then she winks at me.

We go back around to the front door and the tomatoes are still there in the basket on the doorstep. They are hot from the sun, almost cooked, and their skins are tight. When I bite into one the sweet warm juice squirts out straight away on to my chin. For a while we just sit there and eat the tomatoes, staring up at the pink-blue sky, and the swallows diving past the window every now and then, catching insects as they go. A lizard scurries down the wall and around the corner to where we found our specimens.

Shall we go and look for more specimens before bed? I say. I would like to find another butterfly wing to match the one in my tin.

That’s a very good idea, says Margot, and I say, I know.

The problem with following insects is that they are flying, so you are looking up into the air instead of where you are going. This is why we chase the blue-green damselfly right into the nettles. First I notice the jaggedy leaves brush my legs with a kind of tickle. I stop looking at the damselfly, and look down instead, wondering why I didn’t feel any sting. But then it comes, the hot stinging right by my knee. I open my mouth because I am going to cry hard and loud, but then I see Margot in front of me. She has been stung much worse. My leg has a small pink patch, with white dots bubbling up. But Margot is smaller and she has the nettle stings all over her arms as well.

Oh, help me! she says.

OK, I say. Don’t worry. We will find you a dock leaf. My arm is stinging, but I am being brave, and when I find the dock leaves I make sure Margot is all rubbed better before I have one for myself.

By the time I am in bed the nettle bumps have gone, but I still cannot get to sleep. I can hear the thumping of faraway music in the village. People there will be dancing and being happy. I have never been to the fête in the night-time but I have seen the posters that are put up on the road to the village. There are men standing on stage wearing white trousers with gold on. They have microphones and trumpets and there are ladies in sparkling swimming costumes doing dancing behind them. There are people listening to the music, waving their arms and smiling. The faraway music doesn’t sound like I imagined it to sound. Still, I can imagine all of our neighbours, the people from the village, Tante Brigitte and Sylvie, the priest who buried Papa and the man from the post office, holding up their arms and dancing. I wonder if Claude is there, because Claude probably is rubbish at dancing and also he doesn’t have many friends. Maybe he went with Josette and they will do the slow dancing. There is also food. Party food, I think. I am hungry now, but I don’t want to get out of bed.

Instead, I plan what I would have for my midnight feast if I could make it appear magically in front of me. I would have ham and butter sandwiches. I would have the leg parts of roasted chickens that you can pick up with your fingers. You can always find a bit more chicken on them even after a long time. I would have pain au chocolat and lemonade, pizza and peaches and avocados and chips. Imagining my midnight feast makes me feel better. I am pretending to taste the butter and the fizziness. I am starting to half-dream things. People are coming to my picnic. Claude is there with Merlin. Some rabbits. Margot. We are on Windy Hill and all the wing turbines are turning but it is not windy. I watch my turbine number five and start to breathe with the turns. My breaths turn to yawns.

Outside my room the floor creaks, jumping me awake. I can feel my heart thumping inside. I wait to hear a flush from the bathroom but nothing comes. I listen carefully, but everything is quiet. Then the floor creaks again.

Margot! I whisper.

What’s up? she replies, straight away.

There’s someone out there.

Another creak. There is some shuffling of my bed sheet and Margot climbs into bed with me. Margot has never been in my bed. Normally