grownups. So grownups must think there are witches.
Well, Maman says there are not.
Maybe Maman is wrong, I say.
The mother swallow is twittering at her children. Come on, I think she is saying, flying is easy. But her children edge from side to side on the wire, cocking their heads and looking nervous. They’re not sure they can do it, so I start to feel scared that they can’t too. I remember them as tiny baby birds when they just hatched. From my window I could just see their small fluffy grey heads and yellow beaks poking out of the mud nest. They yelled for their food. As they grew bigger there was less room, but they still huddled up, a nest full of shiny feathers and bright eyes, and their mother still put food in their open mouths. She doesn’t do that any more. They have to do it for themselves.
You should be able to choose when you want to fly, I say.
Yes, Margot agrees.
Fly, fly, sings the mother bird, edging up beside them and chittering. She is helping them. If they had fingers instead of wings I imagine them all holding hands.
It’s sad that birds can’t hold hands, I say.
They can’t even hug, says Margot.
What do you think they do instead?
They just snuggle up together in their nest.
That sounds nice too, I say.
Then something seems to scare them, and they all lift off the wire together, flashes of white and blue. The mother leads them on the tour of our courtyard, and they follow her. They have remembered that they can do it after all. The wire bounces as they land, one, two, three, four . . . and five. Brothers and sisters, all together. Something brushes against my legs and I jump. But it’s only a cat-visitor. He rubs up against me, silky against my skin, and purrs, but he is not looking at me, he is looking at the baby swallows.
He’s waiting for one of them to fall, says Margot.
They don’t fall, I say, they’re birds. Birds fly.
Not always, says Margot.
That’s not right, I say. Birds don’t fall over while they’re flying. I look at the cat. He is still staring at the swallows.
They won’t fall! I say.
The father bird arrives on the wire, bigger and even more glossy. He sits at one end of the baby birds and the mother bird sits at the other. I look at the swallow family on the wire and start to feel the darkness dripping into me out of nowhere.
It seems best, I say, if a family has the maman and the papa.
It’s twice as many people as just a maman, says Margot. But mamans are still best.
I put my fingers into the pocket of my dress, which I have chosen again today, and feel the edges of the lonely photo. Papa loved me, I say. He used to pick me up and swing me about.
Maman loved you too, says Margot. You used to bake cakes and pies and biscuits shaped like stars.
That was before the baby died, I say. Papa tickled me, used to let me ride on his tractor.
Maman is the most beautiful, says Margot.
Papa had big hands and a splendid smile, I say.
Maman let you help with the laundry, says Margot, even when you dropped things on the grass.
I remember that, I say. Maman floofed the clothes and put them on the line, and I passed the pegs.
And Maman used to sing to you, says Margot.
We sang together, I say.
You knew all the songs, says Margot. Children’s ones and grownups’ ones. French ones and English ones.
But then the baby died, I say, and took her voice away.
Right, that’s quite enough of this, Pea, says Margot. You are being grumpy and it’s boring!
She throws herself on top of me, squashing all the air out. Her face is right on top of mine, her nose pressing my own nose and her eyes so close that I can’t see her at all, just a smudge of colour. Come on, she says, we are going to do some science.
If you go around the side of our house, on the sunniest side that looks out over the mountains, everything is very wild. There grass is seedy and scratchy and there are lots of nettles. There are also big thistles, taller than me, with beautiful hairy
Well, Maman says there are not.
Maybe Maman is wrong, I say.
The mother swallow is twittering at her children. Come on, I think she is saying, flying is easy. But her children edge from side to side on the wire, cocking their heads and looking nervous. They’re not sure they can do it, so I start to feel scared that they can’t too. I remember them as tiny baby birds when they just hatched. From my window I could just see their small fluffy grey heads and yellow beaks poking out of the mud nest. They yelled for their food. As they grew bigger there was less room, but they still huddled up, a nest full of shiny feathers and bright eyes, and their mother still put food in their open mouths. She doesn’t do that any more. They have to do it for themselves.
You should be able to choose when you want to fly, I say.
Yes, Margot agrees.
Fly, fly, sings the mother bird, edging up beside them and chittering. She is helping them. If they had fingers instead of wings I imagine them all holding hands.
It’s sad that birds can’t hold hands, I say.
They can’t even hug, says Margot.
What do you think they do instead?
They just snuggle up together in their nest.
That sounds nice too, I say.
Then something seems to scare them, and they all lift off the wire together, flashes of white and blue. The mother leads them on the tour of our courtyard, and they follow her. They have remembered that they can do it after all. The wire bounces as they land, one, two, three, four . . . and five. Brothers and sisters, all together. Something brushes against my legs and I jump. But it’s only a cat-visitor. He rubs up against me, silky against my skin, and purrs, but he is not looking at me, he is looking at the baby swallows.
He’s waiting for one of them to fall, says Margot.
They don’t fall, I say, they’re birds. Birds fly.
Not always, says Margot.
That’s not right, I say. Birds don’t fall over while they’re flying. I look at the cat. He is still staring at the swallows.
They won’t fall! I say.
The father bird arrives on the wire, bigger and even more glossy. He sits at one end of the baby birds and the mother bird sits at the other. I look at the swallow family on the wire and start to feel the darkness dripping into me out of nowhere.
It seems best, I say, if a family has the maman and the papa.
It’s twice as many people as just a maman, says Margot. But mamans are still best.
I put my fingers into the pocket of my dress, which I have chosen again today, and feel the edges of the lonely photo. Papa loved me, I say. He used to pick me up and swing me about.
Maman loved you too, says Margot. You used to bake cakes and pies and biscuits shaped like stars.
That was before the baby died, I say. Papa tickled me, used to let me ride on his tractor.
Maman is the most beautiful, says Margot.
Papa had big hands and a splendid smile, I say.
Maman let you help with the laundry, says Margot, even when you dropped things on the grass.
I remember that, I say. Maman floofed the clothes and put them on the line, and I passed the pegs.
And Maman used to sing to you, says Margot.
We sang together, I say.
You knew all the songs, says Margot. Children’s ones and grownups’ ones. French ones and English ones.
But then the baby died, I say, and took her voice away.
Right, that’s quite enough of this, Pea, says Margot. You are being grumpy and it’s boring!
She throws herself on top of me, squashing all the air out. Her face is right on top of mine, her nose pressing my own nose and her eyes so close that I can’t see her at all, just a smudge of colour. Come on, she says, we are going to do some science.
If you go around the side of our house, on the sunniest side that looks out over the mountains, everything is very wild. There grass is seedy and scratchy and there are lots of nettles. There are also big thistles, taller than me, with beautiful hairy
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