I spend ten minutes texting Grace and Christopher, who is at this moment in tae kwon do and probably kicking the living daylights out of the air. Then I spend the next ten minutes counting the number of dog poos there are in the alleyway. Five at last count, although I think there might have been six and I stood in one. As I’m wiping my foot on the nettles and getting my legs stung, a car swings into the lane and catches me in its headlights. I jump up and down, waving my arms.

“Dan?” Big Dave pokes his head out of the car window.

I explain Mum’s in labour and jump into the car. It’s fantastic. We’re like two cops zooming down the road after the villains. The tyres squeal as Big Dave takes the corners at speed. All we need is a flashing blue light. When the traffic lights turn red, Big Dave bangs on the steering wheel and screams, “Hurry up! Pray for green all the way.”

I do and I think it works on at least four sets of lights. The fifth set flash amber, but that’s because my mind has wandered off to the folic acid I gave Mum. I don’t know where the thought comes from or why I even remembered it, but I have.

“If Mum took two folic acid tablets is that the same as an overdose?”

“Huh?” Big Dave takes the corner so sharply I’m catapulted to the side of the car and bang my arm on the door. “Don’t be ridiculous. She was supposed to take folic acid.”

“I know,” I reply, rubbing my arm, “but I think she accidentally got one extra by mistake.”

“A stray folic acid tablet hardly counts as an overdose. I don’t know where you get these strange ideas from but I want you to stop worrying. I’m only rushing to the hospital because I want to be there for the birth.”

I settle back in my seat to check the spreading poppy-shaped bruise coming up on my arm.

Big Dave does make it in time. While he’s in with Mum, I hang around the corridor with ten pounds to spend. Big Dave pulled a ten-pound note out of his wallet and didn’t have time to take it back and give me change instead. You can buy a lot of chocolate with ten pounds. I’ve eaten five chocolate bars and started a packet of pickled onion crisps. It is a fact that chocolate and pickled onions don’t go together.

When Grace joins me, I hand her what’s left of the crisps and say, “It was you.”

A crisp-crumb fountain sprays from Grace’s mouth. “It was me what?”

“Months ago I got this letter from Dad. Only it wasn’t from him. It was from you. You pretended to be Dad. And you would have got away with it if I hadn’t just seen the note you left for Mum. You’d written it in capitals. You do a funny-shaped E, like a backwards 3, when you’re in a hurry. I’ve never noticed it before.”

Grace blushes and she looks down until her eyelashes tickle her cheeks. “You don’t hate me, do you?” She doesn’t even attempt to deny it. “I’m sorry. Dad hurt you so much at the Project Eco Everywhere show that I wanted you to forget him. I knew the only way was to make you think that he was asking you to get on with your life. If I’d told you to get on with your own life you wouldn’t have listened.”

“No,” I say carefully. “I wouldn’t.”

Grace scrunches the crisp packet into a ball and stuffs it into her pocket. “I did it for you.”

“You must miss him too.”

She turns away. “I try not to think about it.”

I feel a twist of regret when I realize that Grace only turned into a ninja when Dad left us. That’s when she first got angry and mean. Not once did I think being without a dad would affect her that way. It’s as if I’ve been in a car wash all this time and it’s only now that the foam is clearing. Dad used to call her “Princess”. No one has ever called her that since and I bet it hurts.

Grace’s mascara is smudged and she looks like a scared panda and although I want to be angry I can’t be. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m not annoyed. You probably did me a favour. You’re not a Ninja Grace, really. You’re sort of Princess Grace.” I almost choke on the words as I clutch her fingers. Half-bitten nails coated in glittery nail polish close around my hand and she smiles weakly. Then she pulls away and reaches into her coat pocket.

“I’ve wanted to give you this for ages. When I was looking for the walkie-talkies, I found a list under your bed. You can’t keep things from your sister, you know. I realize you’ve been sad too and, even though you crossed it out, I got you this.’ Grace pulls a small red toy rocket from her coat. On the side she has written HOPE 1 in white nail polish. “You don’t really want a new sister, do you? I saw that on the list too.”

“No,” I reply, taking the rocket in one hand and squeezing her with my other. “I’m happy to stick with the one sister I have.”

“You have more than one sister now.” Big Dave appears in the reception area with a goofy grin on his face. And just as he’s telling us that Mum has given birth, Christopher turns up in his white dobok, which, when you think about it, is pretty appropriate, because most people in the hospital look like they’re wearing one too.

We hurry into a side room where Mum is sitting up in bed, and beside her is a basin holding pink blancmanges.

“Mum, you’ve got someone else’s baby by mistake,” says Grace, peering into the basin.

“No,” Mum says. “They both belong to us. Surprise, surprise: twins.”

Big Dave tells us they knew it was twins all along but didn’t want to tell us. “We wanted to keep it as the biggest surprise ever. We thought you might spot it on the scan, but you didn’t.”

I look at baby number one, who is snuffling softly like a little piggy. “I thought the scan looked like a prawn,” I say, adding, “I couldn’t even see one baby.”

“The second was hiding behind the first one.” Mum claps her hands in delight. “This is the beginning of our lives together.” She beckons me over and asks me to open my palm and then drops something back into it. “Here, this belongs to you. It made us happy today, because look what we’ve got.” Mum points to the twins. “And they’re both healthy and beautiful girls. That’s three sisters now, Dan and Christopher. You’re going to be outnumbered.”

I stare down at the red rocket in one hand and Saint Gabriel in the other. I’ve had him over six months now, so surely I can give him back. Mum has had the babies and says we’re all happy, so I don’t think things could get any better. But, to be honest, I’m going to miss having Saint Gabriel. I’m not sure what help he’s given me but, at this moment in time, the Hope family are content. Mum looks over and smiles at me and asks me if I want to hold a baby. I shake my head but she lifts one from the basin, instructs me to sit and plonks it into my lap. There isn’t much I can do except look down at the blob and smile. It wriggles and I feel a rumble come from its bottom so I hand it back to our mum.

Mum smiles. “I think Big Dave’s got a job there. But while he’s doing it, I wondered if you three could do a job for me? I’d like you to come up with names. Nothing too outrageous, mind. I don’t want a Nectarine or a Harpoon or an Emmental.”

Grace wants to call a baby Gracie, but I swear there’s no way we’re calling a baby after her. I think it would choke me. “What about Danielle? That’s an epic name,” I say.

“Or Christy,” replies Christopher. “What about Kitty?”

It takes us ages to agree, but in the end we announce the names we’ve picked to Mum and Big Dave. “We’d like to call the babies Faith and Hope.”

Mum looks shocked and then her face breaks into a huge grin. “They’re the best names I’ve ever heard. They’re absolutely perfect.”

Not wishing to take all the credit, although they were my idea, I step forward and say, “I thought we should call one of them Hope as a way of connecting our two families. The baby will have our surname as its first name and then Big Dave’s surname.”

“Brilliant,” says Big Dave. “You didn’t consider Caroline? I’ve already got the name tattooed on me, so that would make it easy.”

“Nope. We’re sticking with Hope and Faith,” says Grace, elbowing me out of the way, “because they go together.”

Mum looks down lovingly at the babies and says, “With the twins, we are complete.”

I set my red rocket in their basin and say, “Welcome to the world, Faith and Hope.”

The following day, Faith and Hope come home and settle into drinking, sleeping, pooing and being sick. I think they’ve been taking tips from Charles Scallybones, who, incidentally, is quite stunned at having two new wiggly things in the living room. Not only that, he’s eaten a bit of their muslin cloth and a tiny baby rattle. Still, it means I’ll never lose him, because he rattles when he walks now.

I’m taking my role of big brother quite seriously. I’ve already explained how they can rival the supermassive black hole in my bedroom by creating one twice as big when they get older. Mum would relish this challenge. I’ve told them that skateboarding is the best fun you can have on four wheels, even better than a pram, and that mashed carrot is best when spat onto the ocean of swirly carpet.

I’m explaining how Grace needs to have her make-up and clothes borrowed at least once a week when I notice Dad’s programme come onto the telly. I don’t know why, but I stop everything and watch as a new woman reads the news, and when it comes to the weather she introduces a new weather girl. At first I think Dad has a day off, but then my stomach feels as though it’s playing a game of Twister.

“And tonight,” says the newsreader, gently tilting her head to the side, “we end on some very sad news.” My breath catches inside my throat. “Malcolm Maynard, one of our own presenters, died in the early hours of this morning after a short illness. His career started when he was a journalist for a local newspaper and he worked his way up, eventually moving into television to much success. Malcolm Maynard is survived by his wife, Barbara Ann Maynard, and his son, Jeremy. Our condolences go out to the family.”

The beefy boy is called Jeremy.

How can anyone be called Jeremy?

How can Dad be dead?

Jeremy?

Dad?

Dead?

The woman turns and faces another camera while saying, “That’s it for tonight. We’ll be back again tomorrow at six o’clock. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

With one catastrophic blow, the little Dad tree growing inside my soul is axed.