The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

make an appearance.
    With as much enthusiasm as a dead frog bobbing around in the gunky stuff you find at the bottom of a pond, she forced herself to tear open the cards, her eyes skipping down the lines of verse, grimacing at some of the totally unnecessary and vulgar jokes about her advancing years. Eventually she was down to the final two envelops. She left the largest one, the one from Cal, until last. Tearing open the other one, she tipped out two similar sized cards, both handmade from the dismembered remains of a Cornflake box, which she knew would be from the twins. Placing them side by side on her lap, she studied them for a moment. They both portrayed the lodge, and apart from tiny differentials in the scale of the images, they looked almost identical. Although why was she surprised by this? Right from the time their tiny fingers had first held a crayon, the twins had frequently displayed an uncanny ability to draw or write similar things, even when separated.
    “Do you like them?” David beamed at her from where he was perched at the foot of the bed, his hair shining like a bowl of rich yellow custard in the glow of the overhead bulb. He was evidently extremely proud of the careful thought he and his brother had put into their home-made creations.
    “ They’re lovely,” she agreed, the green of her eyes flashing with a momentary glint of genuine pleasure, temporarily shrugging off the clinging, bleak cloud that was pressing down heavily over her head, threatening to flatten her. She picked up the last card. Opening it she read through the loving verse and Cal’s affectionate handwritten words. When she held out her arms he stooped down and they exchanged kisses.
    “ Oh yuk,” spat George, abruptly averting his gaze by burying his face in the quilt, while David allowed himself to roll off the end of the bed. They were clearly repulsed by the display of parental affection.
    Having the dubious delight of observing this over Cal ’s shoulder, she commented, “You don’t need to watch. Off you both go, and make sure you get ready for school. I don’t want to come down in a minute and find you still in your pyjamas.” Pulling back from Cal, she told him. “You should get on too, or you’ll be late.” Dismissed from their obligatory birthday duty, they all obediently left the room.
    Before the door had fully closed, the gloomy cloud descended again, and wrapped itself around her like a shroud. Trying to ignore it, she picked up her coffee and sipped at it slowly, cupping it in her hands, enjoying its warmth against her cold fingers. It was 7.25 a.m. when she finished it. Outside it was still raining, it was still windy, the room was like a chiller and she predicted with some certainty, that there wouldn ’t be any hot water for a bath. She definitely did not want to get up. In fact, maybe she wouldn’t. She snuggled down into the warm cocoon of the quilt. Let the kids make their own packed lunches. So what if they didn’t get dressed? And she certainly wouldn’t miss the sight of her fifteen year old daughter’s broody face.
    After ten minutes she couldn ’t bear it any longer: the isolation, the pea soup cloud nurturing her misery as it congealed around her body. Throwing back the cover she reached out, and grabbing her chunky woolen dressing gown she shrugged it on over her nightie. Life was such a bitch. Thrusting her feet into her slippers, she shuffled off along the landing to the bathroom.
    The small, white tiled room was about the same temperature as a meat-locker. Who ’d have thought that it was May? It felt more like January, especially with the sound of the wind and the rain continuing to hurl themselves against the window. Turning on the hot tap she let it run, on the off chance, and in reverence to the fact that it was her birthday after all, that the boiler would show some decency this morning, and actually yield something resembling hot water. Instantly the bathroom was filled with a concerto of rattling pipes. While she waited, her attention was caught by the sight of her own image in the mirror. Parting the two heavy plumb-lines of auburn hair that had fallen forward, where the first silver fibres had begun to thread themselves amongst the reddish-brown, she stared at her reflection.
    Her gaze was met by two steady green eyes, eyes reminiscent of the deepest depths of the Atlantic ocean, broken with delicate shots of hazel; over-large eyes that seemed to dominate her entire