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 wishing 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 shirts 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.

'Pa.s.sed in a flash.' He looked into the car, where the boys were serenading themselves with a tuneless chorus of 'Happy Birthday to Us'. 'But they've not been wasted, that's for sure.'

As I parked behind the dunes, the entire school-about thirty children- seemed to be playing rugby. Not one of them wore shoes. A couple of vagabonds were hoisting the New Zealand flag up a pole. The next time I looked, my sons were gone. They'd joined a blue-shirted mob of desperate characters, all trying to tackle one spindly little fellow who was making a run for it. He went down hard under the swarm, and mine were somewhere deep in the dog pile. Then the ball came shooting out from beneath a mound of wriggling bodies, and the game was off again.

Feeling abandoned, I made my way to the new entrants' cla.s.sroom, a technicolour haven with miniature chairs and tables. I hoped to meet the new teacher. A powerful male form dwarfed the furniture, balancing on a chair as he hung paintings along a string.

I stared. 'Ira?'

He looked round, his face lighting up. 'G'day, Martha!' His hair was tied back and he was wearing a shirt with rolled-up sleeves that more or less covered the artwork on his biceps.

'Nice to see you,' I said. 'What brings you here? I was looking for Mr Taulafo.'

'Yup.' He jumped down from the chair. 'That's me.'

It took a good five seconds for this information to sink in. 'You . . .? But you never said!'

He shrugged. 'Conversation never got around to it.'

Thinking back, I realised I'd never tried to find out much about Ira. I had been happy to like him as the brawny removal man who rode like a cowboy, was a magnet to small boys and told magical, mystical stories. I felt ashamed.

'You might have mentioned it to the twins, though,' I scolded. 'They would have been so excited.'

'Didn't know myself. I've been doing casual work like the house moving and relief teaching around the district while I looked for something permanent. Only had the interview for this job two weeks ago. I was waiting to hear if I'd got it. Then last week Mich.e.l.le Martin went to the doctor for a pre-natal and he took one look at her blood pressure and slapped her on bed rest. So I got a call: "You've got the job, bro, can you start tomorrow?" I've been chasing my tail ever since, no lesson plans organised or anything. And with all the chaos it was only this morning I got told I had two new entrants coming-I was pretty happy when I found out who they were!'

'So you've finished your training?' I asked.

He nodded. 'Did a couple of years' teaching in Auckland, but I always wanted to end up back in the Bay. Can't believe I landed this job! I sat in this same cla.s.sroom when I was a kid, used to daydream and look out at old Hinemoana.'

He strode across to the whiteboard and began to print in clear, slightly sloped handwriting: Morena, tamariki. Good morning, children. Today is Thursday-Taite.

'So,' he said, deftly outlining a sketch of SpongeBob SquarePants. 'Boys all ready for the big day?'

'They are! I'm not.'

He gave SpongeBob a speech bubble, writing inside it: KIA ORA TO FINN AND CHARLIE McNAMARA!

'They're going to have a riot,' he declared cheerfully, and I didn't doubt him for a second.

It was awfully quiet in the people carrier on the way home. No story tape was playing. No one was squabbling, or singing, or asking random questions. There were two empty booster seats where my merry men ought to have been. Buccaneer Bob sat in one, looking forlorn. Blue Blanket lay crumpled in the other. I leaned into the back, reached for Bob and snuggled him under my chin. I was still cradling that pirate as I wandered into the childless house.

Soon it was my turn: my first day at Capeview. I was determined to arrive early, to be calm and collected. Which, presumably, is why I was running late.

Kit had crept down to his studio at an unseemly hour. Actually, he hadn't crept. He'd crashed around on what he clearly thought were his tiptoes, banging things and sneezing in that annoyingly noisy way men do. At eight o'clock, though, Finn was still curled under his duvet, doing an imitation of a sloth on Mogadon; Charlie was eating Rice Crispies one grain at a time, picking them up between thumb and forefinger with infuriating delicacy. I made a half-hearted attack on the washing-up from last night, in a futile bid to leave things looking as though I was a real mother.

'Get a move on, Charlie,' I begged, as I struggled to find lids for their lunchboxes. 'I've still got to have a shower. What d'you want in your sandwich? Peanut b.u.t.ter?'

He looked as though I'd offered him road kill. 'Peanut b.u.t.ter is 'scusting.'

'Oh. I thought you liked it. Um . . . ham?'

'Yeuch.'

'Tuna?'

He was making gagging noises when Kit appeared in the kitchen carrying a bug-eyed, bed-haired Finn. 'You'll have peanut b.u.t.ter, young Mr McNamara, and like it,' he growled in his pirate voice, and Charlie giggled.

I glanced at the clock, cursed, and raced upstairs. Where does the time go to when you're late? I was in and out of the shower in five minutes and pulling on some clothes-after a brief moment of despair, I found one last pair of clean knickers under the wardrobe. My tights got stuck on my legs and then I smudged mascara down one cheekbone. Still, it felt novel to walk downstairs in proper grown-up work clothes. Kit had taken charge of the boys and was shoving minuscule pairs of swimming trunks into their bags.

'I need a memory stick for the school computer,' said Sacha. She'd chosen to go in to do an ICT course, though Year Eleven had finished formal school for the year. 'Can I have twenty-five dollars? They sell them in the office.'

'Okay.' I began to riffle through the nest of old receipts in my wallet. 'b.u.g.g.e.r. I've run out of cash . . . no, I can't have. I got two hundred out of a machine the other day.' I tipped everything onto the table. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, where did I spend it all? I think I'm going mad!'

'You'll have bought lattes in every cafe in Hawke's Bay,' said Kit soothingly. He fished in his wallet and gave Sacha thirty. 'I'm Stay-at-Home Sid so I never spend any dosh. You can blow the change in the canteen.'

'Thanks, Kit.' Sacha folded the notes and stashed them in her pocket.

'Mr Taulafo took us onto the beach,' said Finn. 'We played ball tag.'

I was searching distractedly under a pile of school newsletters. I was sure I hadn't spent all that money. We needed to watch our budget.

'That's Ira,' explained Finn. 'But at school we call him Mr Taulafo. He tells stories after lunch.'

'He's got a gorgeous girlfriend,' said Sacha. 'She coaches the Kapa Haka group at school. Seriously cool-she can sit on her hair. I spotted her and Ira at the cinema.'

I gave up on my search. 'You're not jealous?'

She gaped at me in contemptuous incredulity; it's a look teenagers reserve for their parents' most ill-informed remarks. 'Euw! Mum, I don't hit on teachers. Can I drive to the bus stop?'

'Car key, car keys,' I chanted anxiously.

'They're in the ignition,' said Kit. 'Chill, old girl.' Humming a waltz, he slid his hand onto my back and danced me to the door. 'Remember in England we used to lock the doors and set an alarm whenever we went out? Like rats in a cage, we were.'

He was right, I thought, as we spun our way across the yard. We were wrapped in a coc.o.o.n of peace and isolation. Kit kissed me, wished me luck and stood saluting as my chauffeur drove me away.

Once on our way, Sacha glanced at me. 'How're you feeling, Mum?'

'Very glad to be earning some money at last.'

'b.u.t.terflies?'

'Millions of 'em . . . Did you have breakfast?'

'An apple,' she said happily. 'My self-control is legendary.'