Candlemas

 

 

Today, when we pile into the schoolroom, Miss Shelley is up by the whiteboard with a look on her face that says we aren’t doing maths this morning.

“Today,” she says, “is a very special day. Can anyone tell me why?”

The boys all stick their hands in the air.

“It’s your birthday!”

“It’s Mrs Angus’s birthday!”

“We’re having a party!”

“We’re having a trip!”

“We’re going home!”

I don’t want to go on a trip and my home is a long way from here. What I hope is happening is art. Something quiet and soothing, with flowy water or coloured beads or crayons in soft pastel colours.

“No,” says Miss Shelley. “Today is Candlemas.”

“What’s Candlemas, miss?” says Matthew.

“Candlemas is the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox,” says Miss Shelley. She looks at our blank expressions (not mine! I remember this!) and laughs. “In one sense,” she tells us. “It’s the first day of spring. In Roman times, people used to have processions through the streets with torches and candles. They would take the candles to churches to be blessed.”

“Torches?” says Matthew, like the Romans had electric torches, with batteries.

“Flaming torches, stupid,” says Hannah.

 

Miss Shelley puts us into groups and we make candles all morning. Usually we’re three groups; boys, girls and littlies, and it ends up with me and Emily getting bossed about by Hannah. But today Miss Shelley puts Hannah with Josh and Matthew, and Alexander with me and Emily.

It’s a nice change not being in a group with Hannah. I can hear her on the other table, arguing over scissors.

“But you aren’t even using them!”

“They’re mine!”

Emily and Alexander and I look at each other, shyly.

Miss Shelley gives out cardboard to make candle moulds and crumbly wax and soft white string for wicks.

Emily makes cone-shaped candles. Lots of cone-shaped candles.

Alexander’s candle is like a rocket. It’s the inside of a toilet roll with a cardboard cone Sellotaped to one end of it. He makes the mould, then he stares at it for ages.

I’ve never talked properly to Alexander before. He always tags around with Josh and Matthew, but I think that’s just because there aren’t any other big boys in the school.

I like Alexander’s rocket mould. And I think I like Alexander. So I say, “What’s wrong?”

Alexander scratches the back of his head. Then he says, “It’s fins. It needs fins. To go on the side.”

We look at the candle.

“You could make them out of cardboard,” says Emily, in her soft voice.

“They have to be wax,” says Alexander. “A red wax candle and blue wax fins.”

“You should make more moulds,” I say. I lean forward to show him. “Out of plasticine. Then, when the wax has set, you peel away the plasticine and stick the fins to the candle. See?”

Alexander’s plasticine rocket-fin moulds seem to work. Everyone else has cardboard moulds except for us. Emily makes a fish-shaped plasticine mould and a dog-shaped mould. I make moulds that are supposed to look like flowers, only they don’t quite come out right.

It’s nice. Almost like having friends.

“Look at Alexandra!” says Matthew, barging past our end of the table. “Making flowers with the girls!”

Alexander goes bright red.

“I am not!”

And he spends the rest of the lessons bent over his candle, so it doesn’t look like he’s talking to us.

 

We melt the wax and pour it into the moulds and leave it to set while we do maths, then transporter bridges, then the water cycle (again). Just before home time, Miss Shelley turns off the big light and we light them all. Rocket candles and rainbow candles and candles scratched all over with graffiti.

There’s a whole tableful of pointed yellow lights.

I close my eyes. Even with them shut, I can still see the fuzzy orange candle flames.

Tiny little points of light in the darkness.