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The great advantage of the ayah was that although grown up she could be dealt with. When my sister was furiously angry she would try to distract her. From what? I do not know – for reasons which I have forgotten I was extremely circumspect in dealing with my sister.
The long call of a Sarus crane gave the ayah an opening. “Oh, listen” she said in synthetic rapture “to the pretty Dickie Bird”. My sister stopped screaming at once, magically, then exploded in rapturous laughter. “Dicky bird, dicky bird!”, she said with adequate scorn as soon as she could speak again. Sycophantically I joined her, being careful not to become too involved. I had no idea what it was all about, but at least the hateful child had got her socks on.
In a sunny room I showed my father a vase of some yellow flowers for him to admire the skill with which I had arranged them.
“Yes”, he said, “very good”.
“But do look Daddy.”
“I am; it's lovely.” Still I was not satisfied. “It's very pretty isn't it?”
“Yes”, he said, “it is.”
“I'm not lying Daddy. I did it all myself.”
That stopped him in his tracks. He was upset. “Why did you say that?”
“What Daddy?”