The Farm by the Lake

Chapter 9

By night the house appeared to Flo to be stocked enough for a siege. Thirty-two loaves and oven-cakes were stacked in the cellar pantry, on a cloth, at one end of the whitewashed stone bench; beside them were fourteen currant-spotted “bun-loaves”; and spread out along the bench were the tarts and pasties. The house was filled with a tempting crusty smell.

The following morning immediately after porridge Flo was told to go and light the iron stove in the cabin, and to set cups and plates and cutlery for a dozen. There were special pots kept in a cupboard near the door. They were of plain cream ware, substantial. Flo felt better and was curious to know where all these visitors were to come from. It was rather nice being alone in the cabin, like playing at house. The stove was stupid and smoked at first, but then it abruptly began to roar cheerfully and flickered brilliantly through its chinks.

Outside there was mist, particularly dense over the lake, so that she could not see the water, and the sallows were only shadows in the whiteness. Too early for visitors, and yet she was puzzled because Bert had not been in with the rest for porridge. Where could he be? She listened at the door, but the whole valley was still and silent, as if there was no one astir anywhere. She went back to the house slowly. Mrs. Nadin had a pile of bacon rashers nine inches high, and was steadily carving more from the long flitch. Dot was cutting a new loaf, and had three plates already built up with thick rounds. Flo was told to get the marmalade. It was in a seven-pounds stone jar, and she scooped till she had three glass dishes filled. Then she was set to rolling yellow butter into big pats, and this was like play, too, though the pats she made at first were any shape but round.

“Get th’ big tray,” ordered Mrs. Nadin, bustling.

Plates were inverted over the cut bread and Flo was told to leave it on the table just inside, as far from the stove as she could.

“Here’s a damp cloth; cover that over it,” said Mrs. Nadin. “If we give ’em dry tack they’ll, happen, stop layin’ their eggs.”

Flo wanted to ask who “they” were, only there was no time because Mrs. Nadin was halfway to the pantry. The tray measured a yard one way and two feet six inches the other. Flo’s arms ached when she staggered into the cabin and slid it on to the table. She set out everything as neatly as she could, and felt particularly proud of the three conical piles of butter balls, which almost seemed to glow.

When she got back Mrs. Nadin was cutting oatcakes into quarters, and the frying-pan was already busy. Flo was told to have her breakfast and then to put a clean apron on. While she was eating Bert came in. He wore waders which glistened blackly. He looked fresh and pleased. Flo noticed, because she watched him still with slight apprehension that he might ask what she had been crying for in the cabin. He had not mentioned it the previous evening. He dumped down without looking at her and exclaimed, “By God, I’m clemmed; give me summat.”

“How long’ll they be?” demanded Mrs. Nadin.

“Non so long; time’s past. They’ll be more for biting themselves than the’ fish is.”

He began to take his porridge in rapid spoonfuls. On the plate with her bacon Flo found an oatcake quarter crisp-hot and nicely browned. It had a clean, slightly mealy taste, and was so good that she wondered why they had never known anything about them at home. Then there was a rat-tat on the front door, and down the passage came a loud, “Anytime, Ma.”

Mrs. Nadin, in a hurry, tossed the long pink-white bacon slivers into the big frying-pan. Dot teemed steaming water into a huge brown teapot; when it was full she had to use both hands to carry it. Then the first plates of bacon were ready, and to each were added two segments of new crisped oatcake, and a rich fried egg. A cloth was put over everything, and Flo was told to hurry.

Waiting in the cabin were two men in big boots and tweeds, lounging close to the stove and drinking while Dot stood by. Her hair, which usually she kept in her copper-wire pins till afternoon, was already frizzed out, and her apron was pink with a frilled edge. One of the men was middle-aged, the other under twenty; both were pleasant and at ease. Flo hesitated.

“Don’t stand there,” said Dot sharply. “Don’t you know that the gentlemen want their breakfast hot?”

She flicked the cloth off and nodded to where the plates were to be put.

“Does it look good?” asked the younger man, and whistled and turned eagerly to the table.

Through the window Flo saw a boat with three men glide from behind the sallows into the little bay. Standing balanced in the stern, one of the occupants was winding line in down a long delicate rod, and another rod stuck out over the back-board.

“Breakfast for three more,” ordered Dot briskly. “Don’t stand staring.”

“You sound as though you got out wrong side this morning,” said the younger man rallyingly.

Flo, as she went out, heard only the beginning of the reply: “If someone didn’t keep them in their . . .” It was not hard to guess at the next word. Flo dabbed the tip of her tongue half an inch out through tight lips and as quickly retracted it. She didn’t care, anyway, because it seemed as though it was going to be an interesting day. One of the other men was on the beach steadying the nose of the boat while his companions stepped ashore. All of them had such bulky clothes on it was difficult at the distance to tell whether they were young men or old. But when Flo got back she judged them all to be in the twenties.

“Gee, a new maid; we’re comin’ on. Where are you from, sweetheart?” asked one who had rather a Jewish look.

Flo, taken by surprise, said “Barrow.”

“Oh!” he yelped with a rising inflexion as if he had been bitten. “You don’t say! Do you happen to know Bill Smith there, a fellow with a cork leg and a backbone of bed-spring?”

“No,” said Flo, reddening.

“Don’t know Bill Smith?” he demanded, apparently tremendously surprised. “Oo, you should do. He never sleeps on a bed because his backbone’s so well sprung; and when he wants to pick his teeth he takes a splinter off his thigh.” And suddenly he put his arm round her so that she nearly dropped the tray.

“Stop that,” snapped Dot. “If there’s any carrying on you won’t get fed here.”

“Oh, thank you for those kind words,” said the long-haired young man, bowing. He laughed and his pals laughed, and Flo wondered what they would do next.

The amazing appetites all the men had! Dot stayed and poured tea and talked, but Flo was kept travelling to and fro, fetching more bacon, more bread, more oatcake. Another three men came up, older, more staid. They had done better than the others, and talked fishing and were listened to. Bert strolled in and lounged by the stove. Flo saw that he was popular.

“Have you done milking?” Dot demanded.

“No, cattle’s milking theirsel’s,” he answered easily. Dot could not think of a suitable retort at once and finished with a rather weak, “I bet they are.”

“Surprisin’, isn’t it?” said Bert.

Flo was sent back with dirtied pots. She soon found that there would be no time all day for anything but looking after men who had come to fish. For one o’clock dinner two more were added to the morning eight. Mrs. Nadin carved a great sirloin, the meat glistening with good blood. The potatoes were British Queen, white and mealy. “When you’re wed, allus get British Queen,” she advised Flo. “Men think more of their guts than owt; give ’em a bellyful and you’ll ne’er have any trouble.” Obviously Mrs. Nadin enjoyed catering. When the last plate was filled she bustled to the oven and peered anxiously inside. The Yorkshire pudding, eighteen inches square, had risen higher than the sides of the tin, and made Flo think of bubbles. “Out o’ me way,” snapped Mrs. Nadin, her cloth-muffled hands gripping the tin firmly. She led down the hall almost at a trot. At the cabin door Dot waited, holding it open.

“What-ho!” shouted the exuberant, long-haired young man.

The tin was planted on a waiting mat at the near end of the long table. Without waste of a second Mrs. Nadin began to cut the pudding into squares. The knife bit crisply and released sweet-smelling steam. All the Yorkshire puddings that Flo had seen had been flat and sodden-looking; but this was so light it collapsed like brown merengue, and made her mouth water so unexpectedly and abundantly that she had to swallow five times in quick succession.

“Never tasted Yorkshire puddin’s like this nowhere, Mrs. Nadin,” said one of the older fishermen, chewing, and at the same time scratching the centre of his bald head with his little finger, while his fork stuck up like a three-pronged lightning conductor.

“You never saw no one as put such good stuff in,” said Mrs. Nadin, rosy and sure of herself.

“I’ve bin comin’ here six years an’ oo’s never made a failure,” the bald man told the room generally.

“It’s eggs,” said Mrs. Nadin. “Eggs, an’ dunna be feart of ’em. You canna make good puddin’ ’bout good stuff.”

Dot poured extra gravy for those who wanted it. Flo passed the salt or mustard or water. Mrs. Nadin stood and talked. Then Bert came in hugging across his chest twelve bottles of beer.

“Good old fourpenny!” shouted the long-haired man. “Have one with me, Ma.”

“Nay, I’m too old for a cock like thee, lad. Offer thi drinks to a pullet,” retorted Mrs. Nadin. The older men laughed as though they had heard that before. The young man looked at Dot and then at Flo, and was about to speak when Mrs. Nadin broke in again: “If any on you gets drunk, it’s out you go. An’ if any on you tipples wi’ the old man, I’ll scrat your eyes out.”

There was a pop! as Bert drew a cork, but no one spoke. Flo was told to bring more glasses, and on her way back she passed Mrs. Nadin, carrying the pudding-tin empty. Their own dinner was kept till all the fishermen had finished and everything had been sided except bottles, glasses and ashtrays. As she left for the last time, Flo heard loud laughter and knew somehow that it was about something that referred to herself. There was no pudding with the meat in the house, and the potatoes and carrots were dry, having baked to the pan bottom. Mrs. Nadin, however, seemed unaware, and chewed quickly and indifferently. Mr. Nadin, who very seldom said anything at meals, this time never spoke, and as soon as he had finished, got up and went out. Bert soon went also, though out by the front, and only Clem wasted time as usual on the couch.

After dinner Flo looked at all the stacked pots dismayed.

“Shove a bomb under ’em; that’s best way to get shut,” said Clem, leaning with his forearms along the table, and grinning.

But Mrs. Nadin bustled in from the pantry, turned on a heavy spurt and held her hand under the tap, waiting for the hot to come. She set the pots out so quickly that Dot and Flo working hard, could not keep up with her, till Flo realized that this time it was not necessary to polish everything.

“We give ’em a good do when we finish,” said Mrs. Nadin, noticing how she had quickened.

All afternoon there was no rest. Just before three a party of four tramped up to the back door, knocked, and without waiting, clamped in to the stairs, and stacked on the bottom steps two worn suitcases, two bulky haversacks, and a bundle wrapped with black oilskin. Then one of them, very tall and round-faced, with a curious growth like a quarter-inch wart on the left of his nose, came back and leaned into the kitchen and asked: “Okay till Monday, Ma?”

“If you can behave,” said Mrs. Nadin.

“I reckon we could do with a wet before we start.”

“Ale or a brew?”

“Brew; . . . I think fish smell ale.”

“They should be used to it wi’ you lot,” she answered. “I ne’er knew such swill-bellies.”

“If they’d come in a lot, ’stead of all ta pieces, there’d be more sense,” said Mrs. Nadin when he had gone.

The big kettle was put on and was kept on till after six, being topped up whenever there was chance. Not all the folk who came were fishers. Some came simply for a row, though not many, because of the empty trees and the water still being grey, but there were five parties of walkers who stopped on their way through the valley. Dot kept in the cabin. Mrs. Nadin stayed in the house, except for an occasional vigorous trip to see if everything was being done right. Flo was kept at it to and fro; and whenever there was a moment, she was told to wash and wipe pots. Dot ordered her in the cabin, and Mrs. Nadin ordered her in the house. The little woman’s patience gave out about the time when normally she went upstairs for her after-dinner rest. Clem came in for his drink.

“You great gawp, clear from under mi feet,” Mrs. Nadin exclaimed. “There’s noo tea for idle bones.”

Flo had just gone to the fire to lift the kettle back. He put his arm round her, and she felt his hand heavy on her hip.

“Do me an’ the old man a cup, or there’ll be ructions,” he said cajolingly.

She glanced doubtfully across at Mrs. Nadin.

“Give it the babby; he’ll blub ’is eyes out if you dunna,” came the bitter retort.

Flo brewed in a little pot, but was uncomfortable. Then the farmer came in and sat in his chair, and held out his hand.

“It’s a good job somebody’s got time for us,” he commented gently; and Flo felt better.

“A fine one you are ta talk,” stormed Mrs. Nadin. “Muckin’ an’ messin’ from month end to month end; an’ when somebody’s mekkin’ a bit, all you con do is plank your great mucky self in the way.”

He sucked at the edge of his cup and stared over it into the fire as though he had not heard. Clem winked at Flo.

“The four’s here, so dunna be upsettin’ ’em wi’ none o’ your soft blather,” said Mrs. Nadin threateningly. But it passed over the farmer with as little apparent effect as a wave over grey rock. There was no suggestion of Flo helping with milking. The farmer and Clem went off morosely, and Mrs. Nadin aimed after them a brisk: “Good shuttance!” After seven, while helping to clear up the cabin, Flo saw Bert steering in with the four men in the punt which he forced along cleverly with a heavy wood paddle. The four made for the house and went in by the front door.

“Finish off this lot,” ordered Dot.

Flo was glad to be alone and dawdled a bit. She was weary, and wandered what else there would be to do. She had hoped to have a little time to herself at weekends at least. When she got back to the house there was loud talk and gusts of laughter in the front room. She heard the plup! of a cork, and soon the piano began to ding out: “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do”. The men sang spasmodically, and sometimes the tinkling went on, alone. Mrs. Nadin was looking after a tremendous hot-pot from which seasoned steam clouded up every time the oven was opened. Flo, having finished washing up the last of the cabin things, leaned back, half sitting on the sink edge, not caring to use a chair while Mrs. Nadin was still on her feet. Mr. Nadin came in and hooked his cap on the nail in the frame of the grate just by his chair. In the varnish graining there was a segment of a circle marked by peaks left momentarily swinging, pendulum-like. He sat in shut-in silence for five minutes, then abruptly demanded: “What the hell is that row? If it’s Dot, fetch the bitch out.”

“Fetch ’er out thysen; tha’s big enough,” snapped Mrs. Nadin, “an pig-headed enough.”

He did not move, gazing into the fire in sombre silence again. The tinny piano played on and choruses were sung noisily, tune-careless.

“I’ll hack the damn thing up,” announced the farmer unexpectedly.

“An’ it’ll cost you twenty quid,” was the instant retort. “Smash thi long legs, summat as is thi own; but if thee smashes owt o’ mine, tha’ll rue.”

He kept silent again, and Mrs. Nadin ordered Flo to get the tray and stack pots. At nine promptly she was sent into the front room. Dot was sitting very erect on the stool playing with nimble fingers, while a youngish man with sandy hair, on a chair beside her, leaned over the keyboard and sang and beat his right hand on the piano end. Abi g fire winked on five empty bottles on the blue and white Dutch-girl-and-boy patterned hearth tiles. The fug of ale and tobacco made Flo choke. The big man with the growth on his nose was full-length on the horsehair settee, his big stockinged feet sticking off the end. Bert, drawing on a big cherry-wood pipe on the right of the fire in a flat-backed armchair, was talking seriously to a middle-aged man with a completely bald head. The fourth, of the party, younger again, was watching Dot from the side on the right of the door. His hand held a glass and he sang between drinks. Flo looked round where to rest the tray, while she put the cloth on, and he patted his knees. As she leaned towards him he completely surprised her by slipping his left hand round her neck, hooking her head down, and wetting her forehead with a quick, dabby kiss. She jerked away, all the pots shifting and tittering, as if scared, too.

“Take care,” ordered Dot harshly over her shoulder.

The young man winked and grinned and licked his lips. Apparently no one else had noticed. Flo looked in appeal to Bert, but he merely glanced with a slight arching of his sandy eyebrows and went on talking. She had flushed and knew it, and she felt sweat under her arms and between her thighs. The fug seemed all at once to thicken and become more distasteful, and she coughed in an effort to clear herself. There was nowhere to put the tray, except on the table corner, so she managed as best she could, aware all the time of the young man watching. She dared not lean with her back to him. Setting was awkward, because in addition, she could not get down the side where the settee was. Only at last she was ready to go. She held the empty tray as a shield on her left. The young man let her get past and then she felt her right wrist gripped hotly from behind and he jerked her round so violently that she almost fell. The startle made her cry out. The piano rhythm broke, but was picked up after Dot, by the briefest glance, had learned what had happened. The rest stared and then laughed as Flo smashed the flat of the tray clumsily on the young man’s crown. He started and the dregs from his glass spattered his knees. His grip momentarily weakened, and Flo snatched her wrist free. The next moment he was thrusting himself up, his face creamy-white, eyes staring.

“Now then!” came unexpectedly from Bert; there was a terse so-far-but-no-further tone in it. The young man seemed to grope for something, then said: “Eh?”

Flo slipped out.

“Ma’ll toe your backside and out you’ll go if you try that here,” Flo heard Bert saying. Nevertheless, she was afraid. She held back till Mrs. Nadin asked exasperatedly whether she thought that they wanted to be at it all night.

“Let the child be,” said Mr. Nadin quietly.

“I’ll let thee be if tha dunna shut up,” she threatened, transferring her anger. “Get thi great gob stuffed wi’ that,” and she planked the first loaded plate of hot-pot by his side on the oven top. Flo, grateful, held out a knife and fork. He took them, got up leisurely and tugged his chair to the table. Flo, with the loaded tray, went nervously along the passage, though determined to fight. But the steaming plates with their meaty smell turned the thoughts of everybody except Dot to feeding.

“Th’ biggest for me,” said Bert jokingly.

She selected it quickly and put it close to him. It was half-past eleven before the last of the things was washed. Then Mrs. Nadin at once ordered Flo to bed, adding: “There’s another day to-morrow, dunna forget.”