“But I haven’t, Peter.” She was frightened by his earnestness, mistaking it for anger.
“Did you never hear it in the cupboard in the bedroom—the one that was yours and mine?”
She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not. I’m in dead seriousness.”
The tears came. “I’m telling the truth. I never knew it till this moment.”
“Whistle it again.”
“I can’t. I forget it.”
As the children’s legs grew stronger they went further afield, conquering new territory, exploring all kinds of dusty lanes and by-roads. They had turned off from Potter’s Bar to Northaw, working round through Gough’s Oak to Cheshunt when they were hailed by a freckled boy, about Peter’s age, who sat astride a gate, playing a mouth-organ.
“Hey, kids! Want to buy anything?”
They jammed on the brakes and addressed him from the trike. “Got anything to sell?”