Coming back from Boston, Jack drove, his baby son slept in a Carry-Cot on the front seat beside him, and in the back seat Clare sang to their girl, Jo, aged two.

‘When the pie was open, the birds began to – ?’

‘King,’ the child said.

‘Wasn’t that a dainty dish, to serve before the – ?’

‘King!’

‘That’s right.’

‘Sing birdy nose song.’

‘Sing birdy nose song? I don’t know the birdy nose song. You sing the birdy nose song. How does it go?’

‘How does go?’

‘I’m asking you. Who sings you the birdy nose song? Did Miss Duni do that?’

Jo laughed at the old joke; ‘Miss Duni’ was a phrase that had popped magically into her mouth one day. ‘Who’s Miss Duni?’ she asked now.

‘I don’t know who Miss Duni is. You’re the one who knows Miss Duni. When did she teach you the birdy nose song?’

‘Birdy nose, birdy nose, knock knock knock,’ the little girl chanted lightly.

‘What a good song! I wish Miss Duni would teach it to me.’

‘It’s the second stanza of the blackbird song,’ Jack said. ‘Down came a blackbird and picked off her nose.’

‘I’ve never sang it to her,’ Clare vowed.

‘But you know it. It’s in your genes.’

In ten minutes – the trip took fifty – the child fell asleep, and Care eased this weight off her lap.