There was a kettle, old and brown, that lived in Ivy’s house, in town, and every night, at half past nine, it started singing, soft and fine.

It started low, a kind of sigh, the way a breeze goes drifting by, and then it rose, a little more, like someone humming through a door.

And Ivy came, in slippers, down, and fetched two cups, one blue, one brown, and said, “Good evening,” to the pot, and to the kettle, “Nearly hot?”

The kettle sang. It sang of steam, of tea and toast and milk and cream, of Ivy’s mother’s house, and how it sang there then, and sings here now.

And Len came in, and Len sat down, and rubbed his eyes, and gave a frown, and said, “It’s singing flat tonight.” And Ivy said, “It’s singing right.”

The kettle didn’t mind. It rose, the way a kettle’s singing goes, until she lifted it, and then it hushed, and Ivy poured, and Len

said, “Ta,” and held the cup, and sighed, and put the crossword to one side, and Ivy sat down opposite, and neither spoke, and that was it.

The clock went on. The cat came in. The lamp was low. The light was thin. The cups went down from full to less. Len said, “That’s nice.” Said Ivy, “Yes.”

The kettle went back on the hob and sang again, and did its job, a little softer than before, as if it knew what nights were for.

And Len said, “Better. That’s in tune.” And through the window came the moon, and sat upon the kitchen floor in one long stripe from hob to door.

And Ivy poured, and Len said, “Ta,” and that was that, and near and far the lights went out along the street, and Ivy warmed her hands, and feet,

and Len was nodding in his chair, and Ivy took his cup with care, and turned the hob off; then the pot went tick, and tick, and then did not.

The moon moved on across the floor. The kettle cooled. Len gave a snore. And Ivy hummed, the way you might, the kettle’s song, and then, good night.