There were two cakes, one on either side of the table, each bearing ten candles surrounding a sugar snowdrop. This was the ritual for the start of February. In the church’s calendar it might be Candlemas Day. For the poet, it was the month of snowdrops. For the Bradwells, February the second was the twins’ birthday. And this year they were ten.
Lydia lit the candles one at a time, going back and forward from one cake to the other so that both were equal. She had to stop twice to strike another match. Then every candle was lit. The curtains were already closed because the day had been dark and dusk had come early. Lydia turned out the light so that the twenty little candles glowed more brightly. Then she said, ‘Now, my February fair-maids, let’s see which of you can blow out your candles first!’
Beth and Josie stood over their cakes and each gave one powerful puff. Then all of the candles were out and it would have taken a gimlet eye to decide who was the winner. In near darkness, the others at the table applauded. Steven reached over and switched on the light.
‘I won!’ said Josie.
‘No you didn’t. I did.’
‘I did!’
‘Cool it, my children. You both won,’ said their father. ‘It was definitely a dead heat!’
‘Did you remember to make a wish?’ said Kerry, careful to look very quickly from one to the other so that it would be clear that she was addressing both of them.
‘I wished-’ Josie began and then stopped as her mother put a finger to her lips and said, ‘Oh no! No, no! You must never tell your wish or it won’t come true.’
Next to Kerry, Jacob sat silent. Wishes don’t come true anyway, he thought. Things just happen or they don’t. If anyone had looked his way, they would have seen his cynical expression. But no one did: he might as well not have been there.
Uncle Mark had not been able to come: Aunt Jane was in hospital having her toenails cut. (That unkind remark was courtesy of Steven, who never believed in any of Aunt Jane’s illnesses.) Mark had sent an expensive baby-doll for each of his nieces. At first they had pretended to be disgusted at such a childish present, but secretly they were pleased. The dolls looked like real babies and were soft and cuddly. It clinched matters when Lydia said, ‘Poor little things, they look as if they need someone to love them.’
The only outsider at the party was Kerry, and she scarcely seemed like an outsider at all. At long last the twins were beginning to develop individual characters. Beth was glad that this was a family tea party. Not that she was shy, but she enjoyed tradition. Josie had asked for a proper birthday at McDonald’s with school friends and paper hats. In the end, she had to settle for the paper hats. Only Jacob quietly declined to wear one.
He had given each of his sisters a silver chain bracelet with their name on: ‘JOSEPHINE MARY’ and ‘ELIZABETH ANN’.
They were delighted. ‘Our proper names!’
‘Yes,’ said Jacob. ‘Names are very important.’
So his part in their birthday was not entirely negative.
There was one moment when Josie looked his way slyly. ‘You’re not the only teenager in the family now,’ she said. ‘We are ten and that is double figures so we are teenagers as well.’
‘No,’ said Jacob with a smile. He did appreciate being included but he had to stick to the facts. ‘You aren’t. It has to have “teen” in it. So it can’t start till you’re thirteen.’
‘What do you think, Dad?’ said Beth.
‘I’ve done enough serious thinking for one day,’ said Steven. ‘Let’s all have a game of Monopoly.’
If I land on Park Lane, thought Jacob, I’ll get to see Nesta tonight.
That evening in the computer room, to Jacob’s delight, his father decided that they should check up on the Gwynns to see how they were doing.
‘I’m feeling a wee bit guilty about putting off going to see them,’ he said. ‘There is a side to the argument that says, Give them time to get used to their new situation. Strictly speaking, I could argue that they are no longer entitled to any support from me. But habit dies hard. If they are no longer Ormingatrig that is something I shall have to get used to.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ said Jacob with conviction. ‘And you really are supposed to keep an eye on them. You never know what they might be getting up to.’
‘I’ve a fair idea,’ said Steven, unfurling the screen above the Brick and tuning in to York.
‘Yes?’ said Jacob.
‘Let’s see,’ said his father, looking at his watch. ‘It is now nine-thirty. I’d guess they are reading, writing or watching television.’
‘They might be out,’ said Jacob.
‘They might be,’ said Steven absently as he concentrated on getting the view he was seeking.
The screen showed the front of the house in Linden Drive. Gradually, Steven homed in on it till the probe was able to enter the front room. Sure enough, there they were. Matthew was watching television – some programme about ancient ruins. At a desk in one corner of the room, Alison was working at something, pen in hand, papers either side of her. From time to time, she looked towards the television screen and made some remark about it.
‘She’s half-watching and half-working – a bit like your mother!’ said Steven.
‘Where’s Nesta?’ said Jacob. He was just beginning to think that landing on Park Lane hadn’t worked when the door opened and Nesta came in. She took what looked like a schoolbook to her mother, who set aside her own work and gave her full attention to her daughter.
‘She’s getting help with her homework,’ said Jacob. Nesta’s fine hair fell over her cheek as she looked down at the book. The fingers of her left hand settled on the page, a small, fine hand with tapering fingers. As she turned her head to look at her mother, Jacob saw once more the blue-grey eyes and remembered how they had met his as he looked in from the garden.
‘There,’ said Steven, ‘what did I tell you? Nothing to see.’
‘Maybe we should watch a little longer,’ said Jacob.
‘Or maybe I should check on Elgarith,’ said Steven. ‘I am never sure that he can manage on his own. The Marseilles situation is always fraught with danger. The shield around him might need intensifying.’