Page 41 of The Strawberry Thief
‘Are you hungry? I brought something.’
It wasn’t much. One of those vitamin biscuits they used to give out to poor kids at school. But it was flat enough to fit into the gap underneath the door, and I didn’t need Mimi to tell me that she hadn’t had any supper. She took the biscuit, and I heard her eating it, making little dry sounds, like a cat crunching on a chicken bone.
‘I’ll bring you another tomorrow,’ I said. ‘For now, I want you to go to sleep.’
A sound of protest, which I mentally translated as: ‘Don’t go.’
‘I won’t go,’ I said. ‘I’ll be right here. I’ve brought my blanket. I’ll sleep on the floor. You’ll be able to hear me breathing.’
A little laugh, which might have been fear, or nerves, or humour.
‘It’s all right, Mimi,’ I told her again. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you. I’ll be here. I promise.’
It took me half an hour or so to make her lie down and be quiet, but eventually, she did, and much later, I too went to sleep, huddled in my blanket. It wasn’t the most comfortable spot, but I slept far better there on the floor than I would have slept in my own bed, knowing Mimi was alone and afraid in our father’s bedroom. Besides, I was young. The young sleep well. It is a skill we lose with age, like laughter, and innocence. In fact, I was so fast asleep that when Tante Anna emerged from her room at eight and came to check on Mimi, I was still fast asleep by the bedroom door, wrapped in my blanket and dead to the world.
A cry of anger and surprise jolted me from a deep sleep. For a moment I wasn’t sure where I was, or even what was happening. Then I saw Tante Anna’s boots, those shiny little ankle-boots that gleamed as black as the cross at her throat, and knew that I was in trouble as deep as any I had ever known. I leaped to my feet, stammering excuses, but she stopped me with a gesture.
‘Are you some kind of a dog, now, sleeping on the floor?’ she said.
I started to explain once more, but Tante Anna was unstoppable.
‘Did I not tell you that Naomi was to be left alone?’ she said. ‘How will she learn to do as she’s told if you persist in indulging her?’ She sighed, and I knew that her mild tone was not the sound of indulgence. ‘I thought you were a reasonable child, but you’re as bad as your father,’ she went on. ‘Very well. If you want to sleep like a dog, you can do so outside, in the yard, and take your meals like a dog, on the floor.’
At first I assumed this was more of Tante Anna’s hyperbole. But, as I went down to breakfast, it soon became clear it was not.
‘Where you think you’re going?’ she said, as I started to sit in my usual place. ‘Dogs don’t eat at table. They eat from a dish on the floor.’ And she poured my milk into a chipped blue-and-white bowl that I did not recognize, and put it on the kitchen floor, with a piece of bread on the side, and said: ‘There. Eat your breakfast.’
I looked at the blue-and-white bowl on the floor. For a moment I considered kicking it over. Then I remembered Mimi, still locked in the bedroom, and realized how easily Tante Anna could punish me.
‘What about Mimi?’ I said. ‘Isn’t she getting breakfast?’
‘I’ll check on Naomi when you’re done,’ said Tante Anna, pouring café-au-lait into her little porcelain cup. ‘For the moment, I think she’s best left alone to consider her behaviour.’
I knelt on the floor and drank my milk. I knew Tante Anna was watching. She pretended not to notice me, as she grilled a piece of bread and spread it with strawberry jam. I would have liked some jam as well, but dared not ask for any. In her present mood, Tante Anna was likely to take it out on Mimi.
I spent the day in the strawberry patch, picking strawberries for jam. The berries were small, and very sweet – perfect for the kind of preserve Tante Anna liked best – but they were difficult to pick, being so ripe that they practically disintegrated between my fingers. It took a long time for me to fill the two buckets she had sent me with, and it was late in the afternoon by the time I came back to the farm. When I did, the first thing I saw was my bed blanket on the ground by the door, and the blue-and-white bowl standing next to it. There was some kind of food in the bowl – leftovers, by the look of them, cold and unappetizing.
Tante Anna took the buckets of strawberries into the kitchen. ‘No, not you,’ she said sharply, when I made as if to follow her. ‘You’ll be sleeping in the yard, with the rest of the livestock.’
For a moment I didn’t quite believe she would go through with her threat. But when she pushed me off the step and closed the door behind her, I knew that she meant to carry on until I broke. I promised myself I would not break; but looking at my blanket there on the floor by the bowl, I finally started to whimper.
Remember, Reynaud, I was very young: my father had left me in charge of Mimi; I was hungry, and tired, and my home wasn’t home any more. I hoped that perhaps Tante Anna was playing a cruel trick on me; that sooner or later she’d open the door, but time passed, and night fell, and I knew she was serious.
It was summer. The night was clear and cold, but not cold enough to worry me. I’d slept outside on summer nights before, and enjoyed the experience. This was different; the yard was large, and bare, and full of shadows. The hens were in the henhouse; a stack of rabbit-hutches looked ominous in the starlight. I curled up into my blanket, keeping as close to the door as possible. I could smell the uneaten scraps in the blue-and-white bowl on the doorstep. But in this light, the colours were gone. Everything was black-and-white. I lay there for a long time, sleepless, staring at the stars. Finally, I slept.
Well. I don’t like this story at all. People are all so mean in there. Why do they have to be mean like that? I hate Tante Anna. I hate not knowing what’s happening with Mimi. And I hate Narcisse’s father, too, going off on business like that and leaving his children to fend for themselves. I hope Tante Anna dies soon. I hope Mimi calls theHurakan, and blows her away forever.
I had to stop reading anyway, because it was time for breakfast, and Maman doesn’t like me to miss breakfast. She gave me apain au chocolat, and told me that she’d met Yannick, and that he’d come to the shop yesterday, and that he’d promised to come back soon. That made me feel better. I like Yannick. I’m glad he’s not in trouble because I stole Narcisse’s story. And Maman likes him: I can tell. She was asking all kinds of questions.
‘Why doesn’t Yannick go to school? He seemed a nice, polite young man.’
I shrugged.Maybe he doesn’t like school.
‘Maybe that’s it.’ She handed me a basket of ribbons and paper roses. ‘Could you wrap these eggs for me, please? I have chocolate hens to make.’
I nodded. I like wrapping eggs. I like the crinkly cellophane and the long, curly ribbons. I like decorating the hens, too, and adding the finishing touches – beaks, eyes, combs, feathers – in a lighter grade of chocolate.
‘Perhaps, the next time Yannick comes, you can help plan the Easter display.’
