Four candles. A whisp of sulphur, a spark and her gleaming eyes.
Happy birthday to you.
Paul, come on, sit, you’ll have your cake soon.
Victoria was still singing, hugging the back of the dining chair, her cheeks red and glasses wonky.
After three. One, two, three. Dawn puffed out her cheeks, blew hard and clapped excitedly.
Paul slipped under the table, round the sideboard and into the porch. The door was open.
He sat on the step and let a tiny spider crawl onto his forefinger, then crushed it with his thumb.
He wanted a be a grownup now.
MW Bewick 