had a joint activity. It amused him, at evening, to teach her to count, or to say her letters. He remembered for her all the little nursery rhymes and childish songs that lay forgotten at the bottom of his brain.
At first she thought them rubbish. But he laughed, and she laughed. They became to her a huge joke. Old King Cole she thought was Brangwen. Mother Hubbard was Tilly, her mother was the old woman who lived in a shoe. It was a huge, it was a frantic delight to the child, this nonsense, after her years with her mother, after the poignant folk-tales she had had from her mother, which always troubled and mystified her soul.
She shared a sort of recklessness with her father, a complete, chosen carelessness that had the laugh of ridicule in it. He loved to make her voice go high and shouting and defiant with laughter. The baby was dark-skinned and dark-haired, like the mother, and had hazel eyes. Brangwen called him the blackbird.
"Hallo," Brangwen would cry, starting as he heard the wail of the child announcing it wanted to be taken out of the cradle, "there's the blackbird tuning up."
"The blackbird's singing," Anna would shout with delight, "the blackbird's singing."
"When the pie was opened," Brangwen shouted in his bawling bass voice, going over to the cradle, "the bird began to sing."
"Wasn't it a dainty dish to set before a king?" cried Anna, her eyes flashing with joy as she uttered the cryptic words, looking at Brangwen for confirmation. He sat down with the baby, saying loudly:
"Sing up, my lad, sing up."
And the baby cried loudly, and Anna shouted lustily, dancing in wild bliss:
"Sing a song of sixpence
Pocketful of posies,
Ascha! Ascha!"
Then she stopped suddenly in silence and looked at Brangwen again, her eyes flashing, as she shouted loudly and delightedly:
"I've got it wrong, I've got it wrong."
"Oh, my sirs," said Tilly, entering, "what a racket!"
Brangwen hushed the child and Anna flipped and danced on.
