“Coffee. It was coffee surely.”
Helen shook her head. “Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee at that time.”
“Was Father alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much later—that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley’s, when she didn’t realize that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was some rhyme, ‘Tea, coffee—coffee, tea,’ that she said to him every morning at breakfast. Wait a minute—how did it go?”
“I know—no, I don’t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!”
“But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could have put up with it.”
“Ah, that greengage tree,” cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their childhood. “Why do I connect it with dumbbells? And there come the chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers—”
Margaret interrupted her. “I have got it,” she announced.
‘Tea, tea, coffee, tea,
Or chocolaritee.’