Whistle




Little Granddaughter tells Nam-ma that whistling is not possible.
Nam-ma observes the weather, she says: 'We should go to the beach and get wet and take dry clothes and eat…'
'Ice cream! Look Nam-ma!'
But Nam-ma has to keep her attention on the road so they don't crash.

Little Granddaughter goes careful down the steps in a pour of rain.
'Come on Fats,' she calls to the beagle.
He lumbers first then limbers up, has some moments: puppyish.
Dog flies off: a boomerang hound, round and back again.

They walk over snaky wild rivers, wade the Widemouth keys, the miniature mountains of low tide rocks. Grandad has the wrong boots for braving the waves: Nam-ma misjudges both depth and speed.
Everyone has wet socks.
'Ice cream?' Little Granddaughter remembers.

On the way back she proves herself quite wrong: sallies forth a passable whistle.








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