The Night Rainbow A Novel - By Claire King Page 0,83
not a witch, just your maman.
And Papa?
Pea, I will tell you all about it one day, she says, but for now all you need to know is that Papa loved you. I love you.
Even though I get in your way?
You don’t get in my way, she says. Her belly goes up and down when she sighs. She tries to tuck my short hair behind my ears, but it won’t stay. The tears start to come, and she gives up and wipes them off her own face instead.
I’m sorry I’m always so tired, she says. It won’t be long now. When the baby is out it will be better.
It’s OK, I say. Even though it isn’t really OK, because Maman is crying. I don’t know what else to say.
Ask about the photo, whispers Margot.
No! I whisper back.
What is it? says Maman.
I’m so sorry I hit the baby, I say. I didn’t mean to.
I know, she says. But, Pea?
Yes?
Don’t ever, ever, do that again. Your baby brother is so tiny and so fragile and . . .
It’s a baby brother? I say.
Yes, says Maman. It’s a baby brother.
Oh, I say. Maman is looking hard at my face now, waiting for me to be happy.
What is his name? I ask.
His name is going to be Pablo, and Amaury like your papa. We are going to take care of him, you and me.
Now I start to cry a little bit too. I wanted a sister.
Get some sleep now, Maman says, and she kisses my forehead. It is the wrong place, but still it feels nice. I lie back down and she stands up and pulls the sheet over me. I stick my leg out, the way I like it, and behind her tear waterfall is half a smile like a slice of rainbow.
Chapter 20
Our band marches from tree to tree, cheering everybody up and having drinks and collecting money. We cheer up the ants and the fairies and the apricot spider who has made a new web. We cheer up the apple trees and the cherry trees and the mulberry tree. I have two sticks. When I clock them together they make good marching music. Margot has a guitar, a pretend one. Also, she has a tuba. The cuckoos join in too, and the doves. Our music is really clever and we are trying to get everyone to come to our fête that we are having later.
At our fête, I say, everyone will dance and so will we.
When we are not being the band, of course, says Margot.
We make up some songs to sing to go with the music. I have made up one about Maman. It is not especially cheerful.
That’s enough of that, says Margot. Your song is extremely boring and not the right song to make people happy and come to our fête.
What shall we sing instead then? I ask.
I have made up a better song, says Margot. It is about a dragon called Grimpy and a wizard called Merlin.
Merlin is a dog, now, I say.
Yes, says Margot, I know. Merlin is a dog-wizard.
So we sing her song. We make it up together. In the end the dragon gets killed with a killing-spell for being grumpy and Merlin stays alive.
The best thing about making up your own songs, says Margot, is that you can decide how you want things to happen.
In the low pasture the hay has been bundled up into parcels. Margot and I run around the field, making sure that we sit on every one of them. They are spiky and make my legs itch a bit but they smell sweet and warm. When we have sat on every bundle of hay we run instead over to the girl-nest. I am happy to be home at last. I take out my things and look at them and like them – the lonely photo, the feathers, the smooth round stone, the seashells, Papa’s glove. I can’t see the fairy but I say hello to her and I think maybe I can hear her singing. The feathers are beautiful and feel nice. Papa’s glove feels nice and smells nice. The shells are beautiful and smell like the seaside. The lonely photo doesn’t smell nice at all. It doesn’t feel nice, either. Even so it is the one I look at the most.
Why do I keep playing with something that doesn’t look or smell or feel nice?
Like Claude? Margot pretends to be smoking a stinky cigarette.