“Why can’t you fly now, mother?”
“Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the way.”
“Why do they forget the way?”
“Because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless. It is only the gay and innocent and heartless who can fly.”
“What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I was gay and innocent and heartless.”
Or perhaps Wendy admits that she does see something. “I do believe,” she says, “that it is this nursery.”
“I do believe it is,” says Jane. “Go on.”
They are now embarked on the great adventure of the night when Peter flew in looking for his shadow.
“The foolish fellow,” says Wendy, “tried to stick it on with soap, and when he could not he cried, and that woke me, and I sewed it on for him.”
“You have missed a bit,” interrupts Jane, who now knows the story better than her mother. “When you saw him sitting on the floor crying what did you say?”
“I sat up in bed and I said, ‘Boy, why are you crying?’ ”
“Yes, that was it,” says Jane, with a big breath.
“And then he flew us all away to the Neverland and the fairies and the pirates and the redskins and the mermaids’ lagoon, and the home under the ground, and the little house.”