Les · petits · moineaux

“She’s a little clam.” The woman glanced at the strange girl sharing the back seat with her own children. “But I think she’s really quite bright. Perhaps even the tightest of little parcels can reveal pearls.”

“You’re talking nonsense, woman. Pearls have nothing to do with clams,” stated her husband wisely.

Silence, like a particularly persistent and repulsive mould reared its ugly head once more. It was more than a lack of sound: it became something rotten, touching every one of them.

She didn’t speak. Just sat there, frowning, rosebud lips tight together. She’d been kept in the special children’s hospital for almost a week before her placement in a foster family. The foster family were glad to think that they could help a lonely, lost child, but they’d never come across a little girl like her before, completely self-possessed and silent. The adults of the household, a Mr. Donald Brow and his wife, already had four young children of their own. Their children were loud and boisterous, pushing each other, playing, demanding, shouting, screaming.

Half a year went by. July came and went. August arrived, leaves rushing to touch the ground, the days getting shorter and the nights darker.

They didn’t – couldn’t – understand their silent guest. As they tried and failed to pull her into the life of their bustling family, the girl simply stared, rarely even blinking.

Their house became claustrophobic, the atmosphere awkward. The presence of the girl, still and wordless as a statue, made the whole family feel uneasy, although none of them voiced this.

“We’ll take her to the seaside, Chris,” the husband told his wife. “It’ll do her good to get out and see things, and children always love the beach.”

The little girl’s eyes were wide as she stepped out of the car, fixed on the silver, shimmering sand. Her shoes and socks were taken from her, and her delicate toes tentatively felt the gritty surface under her feet.

She uttered not a sound.

A picnic basket was produced. Neat triangle sandwiches, dainty fairy cakes: all exquisitely arranged. The other children grabbed each morsel as if they were starving, cramming food into their mouth; fingers, palms, noses smeared with chocolate and stray shreds of lettuce. Ravenous wolves. Huge, satisfied smiles, cheeks bulging.

Her eyes devoured her food, and yet she failed to reach for it. She continued to stare at the castle she had earlier watched the other children enthusiastically build.

The man whispered to his wife, “What’s wrong with her now?”

“Let her be.”

The family decided to paddle in the sea. They took the little girl’s hand and let her into the cool, swishing water. Her eyes were wary; she followed them slowly, cautiously. Her dark eyes reflected a queer, repressed curiosity. As the other children splashed one another, carefree and giggling, she simply observed the family and its antics.

“Her legs are going blue with the cold! Pass me the towel.”

The woman waded back onto the beach and attacked the girl with a fluffy towel. The towel had a baby seal on it. The girl scrutinised the seal, eyes ever critical. The woman continued to rigorously rub her frozen little body.

The vehicle was no longer moving. She knew that much. She blinked furiously, the ghosts of cold tears lingering, clinging stubbornly to her delicate eyelashes. Before she could think of the tiny baby, she began to shiver. To tremble violently. And then, as so many of the other children had, she vomited. Green, yellow, beige. A watery red. She allowed herself to look at the mess on the floor, and was promptly sick again. She felt as if she was going to fall over, except she had nowhere to fall because she was sitting down. She wondered if they were moving again, except she could see they weren’t. The same broken tree branch taunted her with spindly fingers, reaching for the window nearest her. She closed her eyes tightly.

“They’re past help, the lot of them.”

The little girl half-opened an eye, curious. She wriggled in her seat slightly, trying to get a better view. This man wasn’t one of their men. It was a strange voice that spoke, and she didn’t understand any of their words. She strained her ears to hear.

“It’s chaos, Rob. Chaos.”

She moved her little blue lips and tried to imitate these strange words. Kay-ohs. Kaay-ohss. It meant nothing to her; it confused her. Kay-ohss? She frowned and began to study her surroundings instead.

The baby!

Her eyes darted all around as she frantically searched for the infant. She should be mother to it like she pretended to be a mother to her dolls. Sometimes her mother had let her help bathe and feed her baby brother at home: she knew exactly what to do. If she felt cold and lost and ill, then she knew the baby here would too, and she knew how to hold its head gently and cradle it so softly to stop it from crying.

This thought puzzled her yet more. The only sounds she could hear were the voices of those strange men somewhere outside, and that of her own shallow breathing within. Her baby brother had always cried. He’d cried and cried and cried, and her mother had always held his head gently and rocked him.

“Hang on – there’s a child in here!”

More strange words, but she could tell that this new voice belonged to a woman.

“Of course there is. There are at least ten kids jammed in there.”

“Mike, get Greg over here. NOW!”

She was being lifted up, up – away.

The argument had gone on for at least an hour. Several hours. It didn’t matter to any of the children in the back. Few managed to sleep, and most simply stared, stared, stared, eyes not focusing on anything in particular. Even the young Chinese girl with her beautiful dark hair and eyes no longer saw any of the things she stared at. They were all exhausted. The bumpy movement of the vehicle thrust them up out of their seats, shoved them to the left and to the right and threw them onto each other. The distinct scents of sick and urine merged.

The tiny baby’s hand had reached the Chinese girl’s mouth. She struggled to breathe, struggled to lift her own hands from where they were pinned beneath other children to lift the baby’s hand.

Gulped.

She watched, silent. The snowflakes brushed the window; she pressed her nose to it, eyes opened wide in wonder. Snow had always fascinated her. She loved the way it was so pale and feathery, how it contrasted with her thick, dark hair.

The vehicle jerked forwards - her forehead hit the back of the driver’s seat – she whimpered.

“Shut up!”

An isolated tear crawled, sluggish, down one chubby cheek.

The car bounced along the uneven country road, racing into the night. The young girl was silent once more. In the darkness of the vehicle’s interior she was almost camouflaged, and soon the man who had spoken had forgotten about the child who had cried out. She sat there, perfectly still, half-frozen despite being so squashed by the other children making the journey. A toddler was positioned on her lap, and a tiny baby lay on her foot. Her foot was numb, but she couldn’t move it for fear of crushing the baby. It was so very small.

She stared at it lovingly. She didn’t know its name, or even where it had come from, but it was just like her baby brother at home and she wanted to look after it.

“Bloody hell, what are you trying to do to us?”

“Shut your bloody mouth! Can’t you see I’m driving?”

“Don’t-!”

I will be using this beautiful new journal to post my most recent writings, in light of my not being able to update my website while at university.

I hope some of my readers will visit de temps en temps!

Apologies for all the French. I have French on the brain at the moment!