Chapter 8

Mr Camara continued to stay at home. Pascal’s parents could no longer hide the fact that they were concerned about the news of rebel activity in nearby towns. His father regularly walked to the centre of the village to meet with the village elders. They gathered in Mr Bon’s bicycle repair shop to listen to the radio and, very occasionally, to watch news broadcasts on a borrowed television. Wired up to an old car battery, the radio crackled away about unrest on several borders, raids by disaffected mercenaries and clampdowns by government forces. Pascal was forbidden from going into the shop, but his cousins, who hid round the back and listened through a grille in the wall, reported what they heard – with great relish.

None of them was allowed to go off into the forest any more. If they wanted to play shoot-’em-up games, they had to confine themselves to the immediate neighbourhood of the village. Pascal was relieved. He didn’t feel safe going too far from home and it didn’t seem right to play with pretend guns when people were being killed by real guns.

He was overjoyed when his father finally sat down with him to teach him a card game, but Mr Camara became impatient with him when he kept forgetting the rules and he quickly found something else to do. Once again, Pascal felt that he had failed to live up to his father’s expectations.

‘I think Papa thinks I’m stupid,’ he said to his mother when his father was out.

‘Of course he doesn’t!’ Mrs Camara sounded shocked. ‘Why do you say that?’

Pascal shrugged his shoulders. ‘He gets annoyed with me if I can’t do things.’

‘Your father’s got a lot on his mind, that’s all. He’s very proud of you.’

‘I’m not good at anything,’ Pascal replied.

‘You’re good at plenty of things and you’re good at being you. You’re unique and you’re blessed,’ smiled his mother. ‘What more can you ask for? As for your father, he’s just no good at showing how he feels.’

Pascal wasn’t convinced and became more determined than ever that, one day, his father would want to tell the whole world how proud he was of his son.

I just need to do something, or be something, he thought.

He had no idea what, and was relieved when his cousins called round, inviting him to fish for tiddlers with them in the nearby stream.

‘What’s your papa like with you?’ he asked Bobo on the way over.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Does he . . . approve of you?’

‘Approve?’ Bobo pulled a face. ‘I’ve never really thought about it. I guess he does, except when I don’t do what he tells me to do. Then he puts on his big, deep voice and roars at me like an angry lion. He’s always roaring at Kamil because Kamil never does as he’s told.’

‘My papa thinks Kamil will go far,’ mumbled Pascal.

‘Our papa thinks he’s a pain in the butt, and so do I most of the time.’

‘I think Papa thinks I’m a bit . . . soft, or something.’

Bobo nodded his head, much to Pascal’s dismay, then said, ‘You’re not soft, but you’re sort of quiet and a bit thoughtful. Nothing wrong with that. We can’t all be the same.’

Pascal wanted to argue, wanted to defend himself, but he didn’t. They walked on in silence until they reached the stream, where several of the village women were washing clothes, and where Kamil and Olivier were already splashing their way towards a small waterfall. In a moment of abandon, Pascal threw himself in and raced after them, legs pumping, arms rotating like a whirling dervish. When he caught them up, he pushed Kamil over and stood above him, laughing hysterically.

Kamil hauled himself up. ‘What did you do that for, jerk?’ he growled. He jabbed Pascal in the chest.

‘It was only a bit of fun,’ Pascal said, still laughing. He looked for support from Bobo and Olivier. They avoided his gaze.

‘I don’t call that fun,’ Kamil hissed. ‘What’s got into you?’ He bent down and looked at his knee, which was livid with blood.

Pascal stopped laughing and bit his lip. ‘Sorry, Kamil,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘Sorry, Kamil,’ Kamil imitated. ‘You didn’t hurt me all right, but you’re lucky I’m not going to punch you.’

‘Let’s forget it, eh?’ said Bobo. ‘Let’s go get those tiddlers.’

Pascal wanted to go home, but he knew it would make things worse. He didn’t know where the impulse to lark around and push Kamil over had come from, but it made him look like a fool, and now he wished he could disappear. Along with the others, he waved his net in the water, but had no interest in how many fish fell into it, or what type they were, or whether they were big enough to eat. Kamil teased him regularly about his inability to catch or kill anything with scales or wings, making him feel smaller and more insignificant than ever.

He was glad when, as the shadows lengthened and the village women gathered in their washing, it was time for them to return home to help with chores and sit down for their evening meal. They heard gunfire as they returned along the path. It was too far away to cause them undue concern, but Pascal found himself walking faster, only to slow down again when he realised that he was leaving the others behind.

As soon as he was in sight of his homestead, he sprinted over to where Bijou was watching Angeline grind manioc. He picked her up and swung her backwards and forwards through his legs.

‘Mind you don’t make her sick,’ Angeline smiled. ‘She’s only just finished eating.’

Pascal lifted Bijou on to his shoulders and galloped round the yard. ‘She’s all right, aren’t you, mon petit chou-fleur?’ he called up to her. Bijou giggled and squealed loudly. Pascal put her down again. ‘Time to collect eggs,’ he said.

‘Egg,’ Bijou repeated after him.

He put her in the tin bath and pulled her across the grass from one of the chickens’ favourite laying places to another. Every time Pascal plucked an egg from its hiding place and gave it to Bijou, she shrieked, ‘egg, egg’, and cradled it gently in her lap. When they had collected four eggs, and Bijou was in danger of letting them roll into the bottom of the bath, Pascal fashioned a nest of straw for her to put them in, then began to pull her carefully back towards Angeline.

‘You’re good with her,’ Angeline said, nodding approvingly. ‘Plenty of boys can’t be bothered with babies.’

‘She’s funny,’ said Pascal. He picked Bijou up and rubbed noses with her. Bijou giggled loudly and grabbed his hair. ‘She’s funny, when she’s not pulling my hair,’ he yelped.

Pascal blew raspberries on her tummy until she let go, then turned to see his father coming up the path. Mr Camara’s face was set and he scarcely acknowledged them as he crossed the yard and went indoors.

‘Something’s up,’ said Angeline. She put down the pestle she had been using to grind the manioc.

‘Do you think it’s bad news?’

‘It certainly doesn’t look like good news,’ his sister replied, tipping the prepared manioc into a bowl. ‘We’d better go and find out. I’ll get the eggs.’