The Night Rainbow

by Claire King

  The sun is high above the courtyard now and baking hot. Maman is asleep or trying to be asleep in her room, with all her peach juice washed away and there are no more animal sounds. There is not going to be lunch today, so I get a drink of milk. Milk is great because it is good for thirstiness and hungriness at the same time, and because I can reach it out of the fridge. Then I go to the toilet.

  Margot is already there and she is leaning against the violet tiles wearing a great big smile.

  My good idea has got even better, she says, while I do a wee.

  What is it? But then she doesn’t even need to tell me because I see for myself.

  See? Génial! she says. Shall we?

  I nod. Génial! I whisper.

  The door is propped open by a cardboard box. The light has been left on and a metal staircase like one of Maman’s long curls twists down into the fusty cellar smells. Margot goes first and I follow. I forget to flush the toilet.

  The staircase makes a clanging noise as we go down. I try to walk more softly, on cat paws, but you can still hear a soft clank with every step. Margot gets bored and pushes to the front. She leads the way down fast, not paying any attention to her feet at all. As we go deeper into the cellar the air gets cold and salty. The coolness is a very nice surprise. I didn’t know you could find anywhere this cool at midday in August.

  The cellar is enormous, and very quiet. There are no windows, no outside noises. No birds, or crickets, nothing. There are cobwebs and corners. The walls are grey and unfriendly. There are boxes stacked high, and big black bags bulging in rows.

  Shall we open some? says Margot. But I can already feel my heartbeat thumping on my chest like banging on a door.

  I look up; above my head must be the toilet, the kitchen, the pantry, the living room, everything. What if it just falls down?

  It won’t fall down, says Margot.

  I tiptoe around a corner and the cellar is different again. There are two gigantic wooden barrels, lying on their sides, with holes in the front big enough to crawl through.

  I will if you will, says Margot.

  Through the cobwebs? I say. Yuck.

  Grey cobwebs like curtains drape from the ceiling to the top of the barrels and then down to the concrete floor. The cellar smells horrible.

  Margot is poking around a pile of shoeboxes. Some of them have names that I cannot read, but one of them, right on top, is labelled just ‘old’. The lid lifts off easily, it is not taped down. The box is only half full. Inside paper photographs are stacked neatly. The top one is a baby in a yellow laundry basket. It is awake and looking right at me. The baby is wearing a little yellow dress, but it doesn’t come far enough down. You can see its nappy, and its fat baby legs sticking out like chubby scissors. It has not very much orange hair, stuck up in funny points, and green eyes, with bits of blue and brown like a kaleidoscope. Like Maman.

  I hold the photo for a while, then put it to one side and look at the others. There are more baby pictures, and pictures of Maman on her own looking happy. In one photo Maman is standing under dark clouds by a lake, rain is coming in sideways at her and her hair is blowing the same way as the rain, a few strands of it plastered across her face. Her hair is the only colourful thing in the photograph. She is wearing a big black coat and she looks angry.

  The last picture I pick up makes me want to cry, because it looks really lonely. Maman is standing on top of a hill I don’t recognise. Beside her is a bench, and behind her is a clump of houses, with black walls and grey rooftops. There is a factory, with smoke coming out of two tall chimneys, and a sort of pylon on a hill, with a big wheel perched on the top. A few starlings are walking on the muddy grass near her feet. Maman’s face is white and thin, but her cheeks are wind-red. She has a baby, wrapped up warm and held tight against her chest so you can only see its back and sausage legs. I suppose it is the orange-hair baby from the first picture, but in winter. Maman is looking away, staring hard at the houses, the factory and the smoke.

  I look at the photo for a long time, trying to figure it out.

  Let me see, says Margot, peering over my shoulder.

  That’s Maman, she says. I wonder who the baby is.

  Me too. Does it look like us?

  Neither of us really, says Margot. Maybe it’s someone else’s baby.

  Where is she standing?

  I don’t think it’s near here. Perhaps she’s on holiday?

  What’s the big wheel thing?

  I don’t know.

  Then we stop talking so we can think. We cannot ask Maman any of these questions without her knowing we have been down in the cellar where children are not allowed. Also, I remember that the door we cannot open is only kept ajar by a box, and that no one knows we are here. The cellar seems creepy now, and dark with secrets.

  We’d better tidy up, I say. But I don’t put the lonely photo back. I am glad that I chose my cheerful green dress this morning. I plant the photo in with a daisy; maybe it will make it less lonely.

  Even though every step up the air gets a little bit hotter, it also gets fresher and more colourful. We walk out of the house and back into the bright heat. It is coming up off the courtyard slabs and down out of the sky. It is making my hair bother the back of my neck. Last summer Maman used to tie my hair up into plaits, before she put my hat on. But I’m not big enough to do that on my own, so even though I try to stuff it up inside my hat, hot strands keep falling down again, tickly and annoying. My neck is too hot and very itchy. We need to get into the shade, fast.

  I’m bored of running, says Margot. So shall we decide to fly to the meadow today?

  Oh, yes! I agree.

  I pick up the baguettes that I dropped earlier and we stick out our arms like aeroplanes and speed as fast as we can, all the way down the path. Crossing the road is sticky, our sandals coming up with black bottoms from its meltiness. Then we are over the gate, and just hot and fast-flying legs all the way down to the water.

  Claude is down by the stream. He is throwing a stick all the way over it to the other side and Merlin is racing to fetch it. As he splashes through the water his fringes are getting soaked, which he seems to like. Every time Merlin runs back to Claude with the stick, Claude crouches down and smiles at Merlin, ruffling his ears. As we get closer, still quite a long way off, Merlin lifts up his nose and sniffs the air. He can smell us coming. He starts to bark his hellos. Claude looks up and spots us.

  Run! he shouts. Come on, run!

  We laugh and start chasing down the field, Merlin running towards us, wet and wagging. When we reach Claude we are puffed out but very happy and it is hard to stop. He sees that we are going to tumble into him and drops his cigarette, lifting out his hands palms forwards. I charge straight into them and his fingers close around my arms. He is laughing, his eyes and his ugly face crinkled up. Smoke still trickles from the edge of his mouth. The skin on his fingers is rough against my arms and it reminds me of Papa. I straighten up, feeling as though a wave has come right over me, washing all my happiness off and sucking it back into the sea. Claude seems to feel it too and he uncurls his fingers and holds his breath. Merlin slaps my legs with his tail.

  So, how is Pea today? says Claude.

  Fine, I say.

  And Margot?

  Margot is fine too, I say, because this is my conversation. And how are you?

  Impeccable, says Claude. I roll the word around on my tongue, it is a new one. AmPeKarBleu. Lovely.

  Look what I found, he says, pointing into the grass. There are little brown mushrooms hiding in amongst the green.

  Can we eat them? Margot and I say together. Mushrooms are delicious. We could make sandwiches.

  No, says Claude. You can’t eat anything you find down here.

  But I like mushrooms, says Margot.

  I really like mushrooms, I say. And I’m hungry.

  Again! says Margot.

  I’m always hungry.

  Well, says Claude, maybe in the autumn we will go out
together and find lots of mushrooms, and we will take them down to the pharmacy to see which ones are good.

  Don’t you know? I say.

  I do and I don’t, says Claude.

  What does that mean? Margot asks.

  Here, look at this one, says Claude. He has a wet stick in his hand and he pokes at a big white snowball in the grass. A puff of smoke comes out of it, like magic.

  Wow!

  Puffball, says Claude. And no eating those either.

  I am going to add it to my list of ‘Don’t Dos’, says Margot. But it’s getting very long now; I need more paper, please.

  Where have they all come from, so quickly? I ask.

  The toadstools? says Claude. The storm brought them. Speaking of which, are you all dry now?

  Margot fluffs her hair up to show him and I do the same.

  The peaches are broken, I say.

  Broken?

  They have holes in them. The ants are eating them.

  Ah, he says. And, Oh. And, So that’s why …

  Last night there was a night rainbow, I say.

  I saw it first, says Margot.

  A night rainbow?

  Yes! I say. Have you ever seen one?

  I didn’t know you could have night rainbows, says Claude.

  You can, I say. There was one right outside our house and it had all the colours, just like in the daytime. I saw it. It was like magic, it was … I stop, because Claude is staring at me with that look again. As though he can see through me and behind me there is something that is making him smile.

  What? I say.

  Pea, says Claude, I believe you.

  Oh.

  Um, how is your maman today? he says.

  I heard you, I say.

  You heard me?

  You know how Maman is; you were there when she was throwing the peaches.

  Claude’s face is flat with surprise. Ah, he says. You heard me.

  Yes, I say. Your feet have a special sound because of the tiger-bite walk that you do. Can I have a go at throwing the stick?

  Of course, says Claude. I just …

  I pick up the stick, slimy with dog spit, and throw it as hard as I can. It bounces on the ground right by my toes and almost hits my face coming back up again.

  Oh la la! says Claude. Here, let me show you. He crouches down behind me with one knee on the floor, and he holds my wrists from behind. A bit too hard but I don’t say anything.

  Hey! says Claude, turning my arm so he can see the old scabs and the new scratches. What happened here?

  I don’t know, I say.

  You don’t know? Did you fall over? Did somebody hurt you? You need some antiseptic on that.

  I don’t know, I say. Maman said it was broken when I was a baby.

  Broken? Claude runs one finger over the pink skin and the bobbly red scabs. But this? he says, where it was bleeding.

  It stings. I snatch my arm away. It itches, I say. I was scratching it.

  Don’t scratch it, says Claude. You’ll make it worse.

  Can I throw the stick now? I say.

  OK, he says. First, look where you want the stick to go. So, remember that rainbow you were telling me about?

  Yes …

  Now you have to imagine the stick is going to make the same shape, from here to there. Can you see the rainbow?

  I can, it’s easy. Yes, I say.

  Show me the shape with your finger.

  I draw the rainbow in the sky.

  Great, says Claude, so now you throw the stick up the rainbow like you were trying to reach the very top. He pulls my wrist down and back. Are you ready? Off you go.

  He lets go of my wrist and I fling the stick forwards with a grunt. It goes a bit further than before, but not very much. Merlin pounces on it and takes it back to Claude.

  Margot laughs. You sounded like a pig! she says.

  That’s not funny, I say.

  Hmmm, let’s try again, says Claude, handing me back the stick. This time, take your time, and keep imagining the rainbow. His fingers close around my wrist again.

  Can you let go of my wrist please? I say. I want to do it by myself.

  The fingers uncurl and I feel a breeze on my back as Claude moves away from me. I look out across the meadow, then I close my eyes. I paint a full high rainbow in the sky of my mind and I let the stick fly up out of my fingers. When I open my eyes the stick is high in the air and still going up. Then it turns and starts to tumble down, curving towards the ground.

  Impeccable! says Margot.

  Very good! says Claude.

  I smile proudly. Can I do it again?

  Claude shakes his head. I think we should stop now, he says. Merlin is getting tired.

  Merlin has got the stick, but he has not brought it back. He has taken it into the stream, where he is lying on his belly, chewing it.

  Do you want to go over to the girl-nest? asks Claude. There’s a snack there and some water.

  Yes please! we shout.

  Claude, what are you? I ask as we walk.

  Claude looks at me strangely. I don’t know what you mean, he says.

  Well, what do you do?

  I used to be a gendarme, he says. Now I just look after my garden. And I like to make things.

  Why haven’t you got a proper job?

  Are you too old? says Margot.

  Not too old, says Claude. But a bit broken.

  Because of the tiger, says Margot.

  Ah yes, I say. The tiger.

  Claude shivers. He looks like he is going to cry. That’s right, he says. The tiger.

  Don’t be sad, I say. The tiger is probably dead now.

  Claude screws up his mouth.

  Also, I say, why don’t you live in a proper family? With four people, or three people, or a man and a lady? Where are your children, Claude?

  Claude chews his tongue, so I can tell he has something important to say. He reaches out for my hand, not grabbing at it, but putting his palm forward, emptily. I put my own inside it and he closes his fingers, one at a time. Pea, he says, you know, sometimes there are some questions that can make grownups sad. It’s OK to ask them, but it has to be OK to not answer them too. I wish I had my own little girls and my own lady. But I don’t.

  At least you have us, I say.

  Yes. That is a thing that makes me very happy, says Claude. As we arrive at the tree he leans back against it with a big sigh. Merlin flops down at his feet.

  Go and have a look, says Claude, pointing up to the girl-nest. See if there is anything you’d like.

  We scramble up the ladder to see what there is up there. A paper bag with the top corners twisted into cat ears. Inside are brioche and pain au chocolat, doughnuts and apple turnovers. One, two, three, four! counts Margot.

  I’m only going to eat one, I say, and save the rest for later.

  Happy, happy, happy! We make Claude happy! sings Margot.

  But not Maman, yet, I say. My fingers find the lonely picture in my pocket.

  Do you like them? Claude shouts up.

  Oh yes! we shout back.

  Would you like one? I wave the bag out over the edge.

  No thank you, they’re for you. Claude is smiling again.

  Claude, I say, if I tell you something do you promise not to tell Maman?

  Hmmm, says Claude. Well I can’t promise that. It depends, is it going to be something like you have made your maman a birthday present, or something like you are running away to join the circus?

  The circus? I say.

  Never mind, says Claude. Yes, tell me, what is it?

  We went somewhere in the house today where the secrets live, I say. The door was open.

  You should be careful with opening doors to secrets, says Claude. Sometimes secrets are secrets because that’s the best way.

  I found a photo, I say, and I take it out from behind the daisy and have another look. It still looks lonely.

  It’s Maman, I say, but she is in a lonely place. Do you know w
here it could be? I lean over the uppy-bit, holding the photo out for him to see.

  Don’t reach out too far, says Claude, and he stretches up his arm. I let the photo flutter down into his fingers.

  I watch Claude, looking at the photograph. His thinking makes his face move – his lips pout and twist, his eyebrows frown and lift up. After a long time he breathes a big breath and lets it come out of his nose.

  It’s a lonely photo, isn’t it? I say. Did it make you feel sad?

  It does look lonely, says Claude. Your maman looks beautiful, though, don’t you think?

  Maman is very beautiful, I say. She is the most beautiful person in the world. She is probably a queen.

  Maybe this was England, says Claude.

  But then what about the baby?

  Well that must be … Claude’s face stops moving in the middle of his sentence, like it was frozen. Then it makes a kind smile. I don’t know, he says, but I bet they have babies in England too.

  Come on, he says, we’d better tidy up the wrappers.

  Claude helps us back over the stepping stones, first me, slowly, then Margot, all quick and bouncy.

  Now, he says, see how fast you two can run home. I bet your maman has had a nice rest by now and she’ll be looking forward to seeing you.

  We’re flying now, not running, says Margot.

  We always fly on Thursday afternoons, I say.

  OK, Claude smiles. Fly home, little birds, I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Chapter 9

  A row of dark blue swallows sit on the telephone wire that goes between the house and the barn, under the blue, blue sky. These are the summer babies, all thin and wobbly and not as polished as the grownups. The mother bird is with them. She keeps leaving the wire and flies in big circles, whizzing past the blue shutters of our house, past the cherry tree and the eaves of the barn where they were born. Their nests are right by the big scar where the earthquake shook the stones apart in the olden days.