Chapter Four - A Birthday

Hamilton held up a hand. "You mean to tell me, Edwards, you dreamed about your home? The house where you live with your parents?"

The boy shook his head. "No, sir, it wasn't like that. I've never seen this house before, but in my dream, I knew it was mine. And I'm not married, sir, and I don't have any kids."

Hamilton couldn't stop a corner of his lips from lifting into a half-smile.

"But I knew they were my family. I recognised my wife, my daughters, and my sons. And my oldest son, sir, well, he was the same age as me. Not as old as I was in my dream, but as I am now. And I—" Charlie struggled to find the words. "I can't explain it, Mr Hamilton, but it felt real."

The headmaster stopped handling the cane on his desk and sat back. "Go on, Edwards, carry on with your tale."

Once again, scenes replayed through Charlie's head as he continued the recount of his dream. This time he felt a little more confident Heavy-Handed Hamilton might believe him:

Charlie sat with the family — his family — around a dining table, eating roast lamb and potatoes. They were all there, except for his sixteen-year-old son. He ate his dinner sitting on the sofa, watching the TV.

There was a babble of conversation at the dining table, mainly from his daughters, talking over each other. But none of it made any sense to Charlie. It was as if they were speaking in tongues.

The main meal ended. The weary-looking woman — his wife — collected the dinner plates, and Charlie's daughters helped her carry them into the kitchen. His fourteen-year-old son joined his older brother on the sofa, and Charlie was left sitting by himself at the table.

The dread he'd carried from the van into the house had made him feel nauseous during dinner. And suddenly Charlie realised why. He had bad news for the family. That afternoon, Charlie had lost his job with the building firm. He was unemployed — again!

A birthday cake with candles appeared. Charlie tried counting the candles. But there were so many burning brightly that he didn't have time to finish before his daughters were helping blow them out, covering the table in smoke.

Charlie's weary-looking wife summoned his sons from the sofa, and discordant voices sang "Happy Birthday". Charlie looked around the table at his family's faces and his eyes locked with his sixteen-year-old son's. The boy glared at him with undisguised loathing. Charlie knew why: his son wanted to leave school but needed his father's permission. And Charlie would not give it to him.

There was a silver knife in Charlie's hand, and his youngest daughter mentioned making a wish. As he cut into the cake, Charlie closed his eyes and whispered to himself: "I wish I'd known what I know now, as an unemployed husband and father. Back when I was the same age as my son. When I was still at school, and life wasn't a bad dream."

When Charlie opened his eyes, the birthday cake, dining table and house, and his family had disappeared. He was back in his old bed, in his bedroom, living with his parents.

And he was a sixteen-year-old boy again.