‘Nothing.’
They replied in unison. It was that way with twins. In sync, in tune and always having each other’s back.
Remy
Remy was worried about her sister, knowing her well enough to recognise when she was struggling. This was the trouble with Ashleigh, she cared too much about ... about everything!
Her dad walked into the kitchen, whistling, as was his way. He looked smart in his white shirt and company tie, which was red with a small gold logo on it. Her dad sold concrete. People always made the same jokes when they found this out: ‘How does he carry his samples around?’Or,‘Now there’s a job you can really get stuck in to ...’He had explained to her in great, great detail that he sold concrete to companies who built things and it was probably the most important part of any project, getting the concrete right. Without it, the whole shebang could tumble down, literally.
Her dad took concrete very seriously. And as he liked to remind them, his smile gone, eyes blinking, ‘There’s a million people unemployed in this country. One million. I can’t even picture that many of anything, fellas who can’t put food on the table or shoes on their kids’ feet. There’ll always be a need for concrete, and for that I am thankful.’ His tone and manner hinted that he was not only thankful but fearful too, the slow rise and fall of his Adam’s apple suggesting that he was only one wrong move or one pay cheque away from being a fella like that.
She didn’t like to think of kids with no shoes.
‘How are we all doing?’ He always said this, as if he were addressing a crowd. She suspected it was because there were moments when he couldn’t tell them apart and was happier with this catch-all, often addressing them directly as ‘sweetie’ or ‘love’.
‘Mum’s getting us a special pudding.’ This, the thing that stuck in her thoughts from their earlier conversation. Remy had a very sweet tooth and was unashamedly motivated by the prospect of sugar.
‘Not Arctic Roll, is it? What are we, made of money?’
‘Don’t be an old grump, Dennis, this is a big day for our little doves, and they deserve a treat!’
‘Well, I’m going to work all day, so can I have some?’ He winked at her, her lovely dad; she knew he’d never take their ice cream, spoil their treat.
‘It’s a home-made pud, actually, but I’m not going to say more than that!’ Her mum beamed and gave a little wiggle. Excited, it seemed, at no more than the promise of her family around the table, all sampling her special pud.
‘How are we all feeling about the exam?’ Her dad got straight to it as he slathered marmalade over his toast.
‘Well, Mum’s excited.’ Ashleigh spoke quietly, eyes fixed on Remy. It made them both laugh; there she was, beneath the frosty exterior, her smart sister.
‘You’ll do great.’ Whether he hadn’t heard, wasn’t paying attention or simply chose to ignore Ashleigh, it was impossible to tell. ‘I’ll tell you something’ – he paused, using his marmalade knife as a pointer as he aimed it at them in turn, verbally ladling on the expectation she knew would do nothing to help ease Ashleigh’s nerves – ‘when I drive past St. Jude’s, do you know what I see?’
She shook her head, knowing he didn’t really want her to guess the answer. Ashleigh rolled her eyes and took a deep breath.
‘I see fancy cars, and fancy people. Drove past the other week and one bloke was in one of them new Ford Granadas. Cor, I’d give my left nut for one of them.’
‘Dennis!’ her mum shouted. Her dad was not allowed to say ‘nut’ in front of them. Unless it was of the pea, wal, or hazel variety.
‘And the thought that my daughters will be right there among it.’ He shook his head, his voice quavering with emotion. ‘It’s something I could never have dreamed of. I can’t imagine what my old mum would say if she were still alive. She’d not believe it.’
Her mum came up behind him and squeezed his shoulder. It occurred to her then how she, certainly, might be taking the examin her stride, but for her parents, and Ashleigh too, it was kind of a big deal.
‘If we don’t pass, don’t get the scholarships ...’ She spoke as thoughts formed.
‘It doesn’t matter!’
‘Doesn’t matter a jot!’
Her parents replied simultaneously before she had finished the question. They shook their heads, held up their palms and spoke with gusto and false grins, as if they might be able to convince her this was the case. She, however, caught the way they shared a brief but meaningful, wide-eyed glance, as if itdidmatter. As if it mattered a lot.
The colour, she noticed, had drained from Ashleigh’s face. Her sister placed her buttered toast on her plate, seemingly unable to take another bite.
‘Five eights?’ her mum yelled, obviously trying to change the atmosphere as she headed towards the sink.
‘Forty-four!’ Remy shouted.
‘Forty-four?’ Her dad pulled a face.
‘Goodness me, Remy! Do we need to go over our eight times table in the car?’ her mum asked nervously.
