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 where 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.
I am watching them lying on my belly, looking into a puddle, where upside-down trees drop into a deep well of blue. At the bottom of the well a fat dappled morning-moon has just a small sliver shaved off one side. When the mother bird gets to the point of the barn roof, with the witch-catcher tile, she keeps going up, high into the space between the two buildings, and comes back down to sit on the wire again. Margot, I say, if there are no witches then why have we got the witch-catcher tile?
Those birds don’t want to fly, says Margot. They want to be back in their nest.
You don’t know, do you? I say, rolling over and looking up at the realness of the reflection, at the red tile that sits on the point of the roof like a crown. The tile is for catching witches, I say, and it was put there by
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 where 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.
I am watching them lying on my belly, looking into a puddle, where upside-down trees drop into a deep well of blue. At the bottom of the well a fat dappled morning-moon has just a small sliver shaved off one side. When the mother bird gets to the point of the barn roof, with the witch-catcher tile, she keeps going up, high into the space between the two buildings, and comes back down to sit on the wire again. Margot, I say, if there are no witches then why have we got the witch-catcher tile?
Those birds don’t want to fly, says Margot. They want to be back in their nest.
You don’t know, do you? I say, rolling over and looking up at the realness of the reflection, at the red tile that sits on the point of the roof like a crown. The tile is for catching witches, I say, and it was put there by
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