“You should ‘ear my new sweet’eart.” She was trying to create a diversion. “‘E can make a winder rattle in its frame; it’s that loud and shrill, the noise ‘e do make. If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll get ‘im to teach you ‘ow.”
He was bursting with his strange new knowledge; he was sure his mother would understand. While his father was at the table he kept silent. His father soon hurried away; the front-door slammed.
He plucked at his mother’s skirt. “Last night God was in my cupboard.”
“But darling, little boys oughtn’t to say things like that—not even in fun, Peter.”
“I heard him, mummikins. An angel was with him, doing like this.”
He puffed out his cheeks; but he wasn’t so clever as the angel. No sound came.
His mother gazed long into the eager face, trying to detect mischief. “Whistling—is that what you mean? But angels don’t whistle, Peter.”
“This one did—in our cupboard—in my bedroom.”
He wagged his head solemnly in affirmation. Then he drew down his mother’s face. She was smiling to herself. “God was making our baby,” he whispered, “and the angel was waiting to bring her.”
The rain came into her eyes—that was what Peter called it. “Hush, my dearest. That’s all over. You’re my only baby now.”