The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,82
I like to have my bed all to myself like a big girl. I can turn my pillow over when it gets too hot so that I can feel the cool side against my cheek. I like to have the cow that Papa gave me on the side nearest the wall, and on the other side I have the blue bear that I have always had. I would share my bed with Maman or Papa if they asked, although their bed is bigger, but otherwise it is my bed and on the wall above it there is a little plaque that says Pivoine and tells what my name means in French, just to prove it. But now I don’t mind Margot sharing because it is late and someone is standing on the other side of the wall. It is nice to have somebody close. Margot is clever and she is not afraid of anything. It’s just her personality.
OK, says Margot, don’t panic. Let’s think about this sensibly. Has there been a flush?
No! I say.
Hmmm, she says. Were they big creaks like a monster would do, or small ones like a very heavy cat?
Now I am not sure.
I hear something soft bump up against the wall. I sit up in bed and I try to scream, Maman! But my voice comes out a whispery nothing.
There is another creak. Margot wraps her arms tight around me. There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for this, she says. She talks like a grownup.
Then the door swings open, letting light slip in on to the floor. I hold my breath in the dark, staring at the slice of light and hurting to know whose face is going to appear in it.
It is Maman who creeps in.
I remember a surprising thing. How, when I was four years old, the door would open every night. The creak would wake me up but I used to keep my eyes closed because I always knew it would be Papa and Maman. I had forgotten that. They came every night, together, bringing their smells of tractors and cooking and shaving cream and face cream. They would whisper to each other and pull up the covers. I would stick my leg out again, the way I like it. Sometimes this would happen twice and Maman would make a soft tiny laugh. Then there would be two kisses, one on my forehead (Papa) and one on my cheek (Maman). And I love you, and Je t’aime. The door would click closed and the creak would creak and I would stop being awake again. I have remembered this and it makes me feel sad for everything.
Now, though, I am not pretending to be asleep, I am sitting up by the end of my bed with my eyes open. Maman jumps when she sees me, as though I were the monster.
Oh! she says.
Sorry, I say.
She comes over and sits down on the bed, lowering herself backwards with one hand on the bed and the other on her back.
I’m sorry, Pea, she says. She tries to pull me to her to cuddle her but the baby is in the way. I move around the side and do it like that.
Maman, I say, because the question is too big for me to keep in my mouth, is Papa not my papa?
Maman is crying, her tears on my cheeks, bothering me, so I uncuddle from her. She shakes her head. Peony, she says, Papa will always be your papa.
So who is my Real Father that you said . . .?
You know, Pea, it’s a long story. Once, before I came here and met your papa, I lived a long way away in England, and people were not always very nice. I mean, not that people in England are not nice, but where I lived there were a lot of not nice ones . . .
Maman’s nose is running. She wipes it on her sleeve.
Am I a princess? I say. Did you steal me?
Did I steal you? She laughs a little. No, Pea, you grew in my tummy, just like this. She smooths her hand over her big round belly.
So you are my real maman?
I’m afraid so, she says. Warts and all.
Witches have warts, I say.
Yes, says Maman. Big ones on their noses. Have I got one, could you have a look please?
I look closely at her face. Margot too. Her face is normal. Her nose is normal.