Part 17 (1/2)

I hear Charlie's voice piping in the background.

'He wants to speak to you,' says Tama. 'All right?'

'Um . . .' I clear my throat. 'Yep. Put him on.'

m.u.f.fled conversation, then the sound of small hands dropping the receiver. I wait with closed eyes, dreading the gentle optimism of Charlie's world because I know it may soon be destroyed.

'Mummy?'

I nearly let him down. Sorrow surges into my throat. I swallow it back but it sticks somewhere in my chest. 'h.e.l.lo, Charlie! Have you . . .' My voice splinters. I take a long breath. 'Have you had a nice time with Tama?'

'He took me riding. We saw baby calves . . . Where's Finn?'

I look at the ruined figure on the bed. 'He's here, beside me.'

'Did he fall off the balcony?'

'He did, Charlie.'

A sniff. 'Silly old Finny. Is he coming home today?'

'Not today. But he will be all right, you'll see. He'll be all right. The doctors and nurses are looking after him.'

'Can I talk to him on the telephone?'

Tears force their way past my defences. They hurt. They bruise. 'No, he's asleep. But I'll give him your love.'

'He hasn't got his Game Boy.'

'True, but he does have Buccaneer Bob. And when he's a bit better, you can bring him his Game Boy.'

'Tama and me fed the lamb. Tell Finn.'

'I'll tell him.'

He must have dropped the phone again. I hear scrabbling, and Tama's voice. Then Charlie's. 'Where's Dad?'

Good question. 'He'll be home soon.'

'He is home. He was by my bed in the night.'

I'm silenced for a moment, appalled. I can hear Mum laughing. Then I whisper, 'No, sweetie. Dad's not back from Ireland yet.'

Charlie shouts in distress, 'He was here, though. I saw him.'

'You didn't.'

'I did! He kissed me. He picked Blue Blanket up from the floor and tucked it in with me.'

'You were dreaming. We all miss Dad.'

Heavy, stubborn breathing. 'Wasn't dreaming.'

'He'll be home before you know it.'

'Wasn't dreaming! He promised to take us to Jane's. He wanted to see the baby rabbits.'

'And he will. Everything's going to be all right.'

'Mm.' There is a long pause, with babyish snuffling. I see the thumb going in, the wide and wondering eyes. 'Where do people go, when they die?'

'Charlie, n.o.body's going to die.'

'If Finn dies, he will be lonely. He'll want to come home.'

What do you do when someone you love has made the world explode?

Seventeen.

Charlie and Finn turned five on the first of December. In line with New Zealand tradition, we plotted to pack them off to primary school on that very day-midweek-thus committing the poor little b.u.g.g.e.rs to thirteen years on a wheel of suffering. Some birthday present.

We'd visited the school already. It had taken the twins about two seconds to work out that Torutaniwha Primary was paradise, even if they couldn't p.r.o.nounce its name. Mr Grant, the bearded princ.i.p.al, gave them lollipops, and the new entrants' teacher fussed over them like a broody hen. Mrs Martin was young, enthusiastic and heavily pregnant.

On their last night as preschoolers, we went for tea in Jane's cafe. There, I got chatting to a school mother, one of those chinless types who talk in little-girl voices. She had disturbing news. Mich.e.l.le Martin had developed complications and was out of action for the rest of the pregnancy. Her replacement had hurriedly been shoehorned into the job.

'Mr Taulafo,' said the mother.

'Oh dear. What's he like?' I was in a froth of anxiety.

'The kids love him. He's brilliant with them.' She leaned forward with her hand covering her mouth. 'I want to eat him,' she whispered, and giggled.

Charlie, who'd been listening with a quivering lower lip, reached for his blanket. 'I like Mrs Martin.'

Brings out the worst in you, sending your children to school. One day you're wis.h.i.+ng they'd grow up and sod off and leave you in peace; the next you're sniffling pathetically as you pack their spare underpants. Tiny Y-fronts, in case of accidents.

'It's at Hinemoana's hill. Hee-nay-mo-ah-na,' I coached them neurotically, as they bolted their breakfast on the first school day of their lives. They'd been up since six, opened all their presents and eaten the chocolate b.u.t.tons off their birthday cake.

'Ringy Moaner,' said Charlie, his fair curls stuck out at zany angles.

'Thingy Mamma,' added Finn, ramming a Sugar Puff up his nose. He giggled, inhaled sharply and got a piece of processed wheat stuck two inches up his nasal pa.s.sage. I had to fish it out with tweezers.

Now that school was finally upon them, they seemed not the slightest bit awed by the solemnity of the occasion; not even Charlie. They ducked my hairbrush as though it was a cat-o'-nine-tails and strutted importantly out of the house in their blue school s.h.i.+rts and grey shorts. While Kit and I searched for shoes they hopped merrily into their booster seats, backpacks bulging with Superman lunchboxes.

'So this is it,' said Kit, strolling out to the car with me. 'Our babies are schoolboys, Martha.'

'Where did the last five years go?' I asked sadly.