At the Music Bowl, Scott, age six, sat on a soft tartan rug on the grass with Mum-Jane and Mum-Sue and his sister, Jasmine, who was nine. They were surrounded by thousands of people. Everyone had come for the folk song concert. They swayed and clapped as they listened to a sailors’ song, sung by a group of ten young men and women.

Scott looked at the sailors’ uniforms—white, with blue v-necked collars and jaunty round hats—and watched the swaying movements, but he was too far away to read the singers’ lips. Near the stage the audience sat on chairs, but Scott’s family was further away, up on the hillside.

Some people sang along. Scott looked from face to face nearby, seeing the singing on people’s lips, but not hearing it or the sound of the band. Watching the crowd, Scott saw shades of brown, tan, peach, and cream—a multicoloured sea of people.

The song finished, and Scott asked, “Was it good?” signing with his hands.

Jasmine nodded, tossing her curly, black hair.

Mum-Jane smiled and turned to him so that he could read her lips. She signed with her hands, too, saying, “Very good.”

Scott smiled and snuggled closer to her, escaping a chilly wind that sneaked around as the day faded. He looked up into Mum-Jane’s warm brown eyes, loving the way her olive face lit up when she smiled.

A new song began, and Mum-Sue tapped her foot as she sang. Scott patted her arm in time with the tapping. Then he patted her soft, pale cheeks and chin, and she laughed.

I wish I could hear the music, he thought.

He watched a man and a woman sitting in front of them. The man had shaggy blonde hair and wore a red plaid shirt. He lifted a baby, who looked almost a year old, out of her pink carry-cot.

“Supper time,” he said, and took a bottle from the woman, who had a black ponytail tied with a bright red ribbon. The man fed the baby.

The baby sucked hungrily and stared at Scott, her blue eyes unblinking. Scott stared back with his brown eyes, raised his eyebrows several times and grinned. Her tiny hand opened and closed rhythmically.

Scott leaned forward and put his finger into the palm of her hand. She gripped it tightly. Gently he moved the baby’s arm up and down, up and down, as he sang his own song softly to her.

“Up and down, shake, shake! Up and down, shake, shake!”

The parents looked around and smiled.

“You have a new friend,” said the father. Scott read his lips and nodded.

When the milk was finished, the father lifted the baby into her carry-cot. Their supper was finished, too. A shortbread biscuit tin, a plastic bag, and a thermos lay beside the carry-cot.

Scott wished he had a baby brother or sister. He made faces at the baby, then put on his doggy-act, barking, “Woof woof!”

The baby laughed and waved her arms.

Scott wished he had a rattle to put in her hand.

A few weeks ago, his class had been making percussion instruments: drums, rhythm sticks, castanets, triangles, and shakers. He had made a shaker from an empty shampoo bottle. He had painted it with quick-drying red enamel and put buttons in it.

If I had a baby sister, I’d make a shaker for her, he thought.

Jasmine was watching Scott. She reached across and touched his arm. “That baby loves you,” she said, signing.

Scott nodded, then asked, “Are you hungry?”

Jasmine pressed her hands to her stomach and frowned. “Starving!”

“Mum-Sue,” said Scott. “We’re starving.”

Mum-Sue reached into their basket and took out four packages. Scott opened his and found sandwiches. First he ate his favourite: tasty cheese and crunchy sprouts.

“Yum, Jasmine!” he said.

“Yum, Scott!” she replied.

Then he ate the tuna and tomato, sniffing the aroma as he chewed. Finally, Mum-Jane poured cocoa—hot and comforting.

Eating supper, Scott forgot the baby, but as he leaned across to put his mug in the basket, he looked at her again. Her arms were flailing, and her face was blurred.

Something’s wrong, Scott thought, and looked more closely. The plastic bag must have blown into the carry-cot, and the baby had grabbed it and pulled it over her face.

“The baby!” Scott shouted, hitting the father’s arm. “Look!”

Quickly the father turned, dragged the bag off, and lifted the baby up. She gulped a deep breath of fresh air and screamed. Startled, everyone nearby turned and looked.

The mother took the baby. “My darling Prue,” she crooned, holding her to her shoulder and rubbing her back.

“Your boy saved our baby’s life,” said the father to Mum-Jane and Mum-Sue. “She would have suffocated.”

“His name is Scott,” said Jasmine.

‘Thank you very, very much,” said the father. “What is your address? We’d like to send Scott a gift.”

“No, thank you,” said Mum-Sue. “There’s no need to do that.”

“We’re so glad he noticed,” said Mum-Jane.

“We live in Parkside Avenue , Highwood,” said Jasmine.

“ Parkside Avenue !” said the mother. “We live just around the corner, in Woodville Court .”

Scott looked from one to the other. What were they saying?

Jasmine repeated the conversation to him, signing, and added, “They live near us.”

Scott understood. He grinned. “Could I come and play with Prue?” he asked.

“Please do,” said the mother, with welcoming eyes and lips.

“Tomorrow?” Scott asked. He looked at Mum-Jane.

“Yes,” she said, “if it suits the family.”

“Will you all come around?” said the baby’s mother.

“Have afternoon tea with us,” said the father.

“We will,” said Mum-Jane.

“Thank you very much,” said Mum-Sue.

The mother jigged the baby up and down. “Scott’s coming to play with you. Won’t that be fun?”

Everyone started singing the last song.

Scott told Mum-Jane his plan. “I’ll make a rattle for Prue,” he said. “I’ll put some buttons in an empty shampoo bottle, and paint it. I’ve got some leftover red.”

“Lovely!” said Mum-Jane.

“The concert’s over,” said Mum-Sue. “It’s time to go home.”

So the two families walked away together, Scott beside the carry-cot, with Prue clutching his finger.