The Farm by the Lake

Chapter 14

The strangeness of Flo’s new life was wearing off. Living all together in the big kitchen it was impossible for any dividing line to last long. Indeed, Flo had already realized that Mrs. Nadin treated everybody alike, and that her tongue was always fiercer than herself. It said harsh things just for the joy of saying them; it announced threats when there was no intention that the threats should be carried out. Thus when Flo went down she knew by the vacant nail at the mantlepiece end and the absence of the stiff crusted boots from the hearth by the hot-water tank that the farmer must be back and out at his usual first morning jobs. Mrs. Nadin did not speak. She bustled about seeing to the porridge as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. When the farmer came in he seemed unchanged.

“Sit thee down an’ get that in thi belly,” said Mrs. Nadin, planting a plate before him.

He scooped it up without comment.

Flo wondered what time he had got back, and was puzzled that she had not heard any row. She had expected the whole household to be wakened. She went out about her own usual jobs, and then found the one difference that his escapade had left on the farmer: he was quieter than ever. During the whole of the milking he never spoke. He was shut in within himself. Bert and Clem talked occasionally to each other and to her, but they did not address their father, and Flo felt constrained and afraid of him; his silence was a kind of evil temper, much worse than Mrs. Nadin’s aggressive but open attack, and Flo wondered whether that explained why nothing had been heard in the night. Perhaps when he was in this mood even Mrs. Nadin was afraid. How strange to be married to a man like that. She hoped that she didn’t get anyone with moods; anyway she’d do her best to see that she didn’t. Did Mrs. Nadin know when she got married; or had she only learned since?

While these thoughts were passing Flo went on milking steadily. She was getting used to this job, too; her wrists were getting used to it, so that she could work mechanically. The rhythmical churring sound seemed to encourage easy drifting thought. Resting on the stool, her shoulders and head slightly supported against the cow’s warm side, she could relax in real comfort. On one of her early days, when Bert had told her how he sometimes fell asleep and had been awakened more than once by the bucket slipping, pouring milk into his boots, Flo hadn’t believed him. Now after her late night she knew that to fall asleep would be easy. She looked up at the wall-lamp, which threw its best light in a slightly tremulous circle on the whitewashed baulks immediately over the glass. Lower on the wall the light looked dirty, a yellow stain; this because of the contrast of the true white light coming in through the doorplace. And with the dawn light in came bird songs with a distant clean sweetness. But she was aware of this only as a pleasant background as her thoughts reviewed easily without special purpose the men she had met or seen who might, well . . . who might be possible husbands. There was the boy she had seen on the submarine; where was he? There was Jack Oates, probably off again round the world. Others there were whom she had seen and liked and remembered, though she had never known their names. And so . . . then she noticed that the cow was nearly done and stripping occupied her, for she was determined never to have it put against her that she had spoiled any cattle through not doing that job well.

She went into the four-shippon and began on Polly, the black “hornie”. Now her thoughts went back to the evening, and she wondered again if the man after the eggs were Jack Knight or not; and whether he got home all right. Suppose she married a poacher without knowing that he was a poacher till he came home one night dripping and slimy. Hurriedly she switched off Jack Knight and considered Dick Goldbourn. He at least couldn’t turn out poacher; he had no need to poach. Although she had never thought of them before, she remembered now his clothes: loose-woven greeny tweed, thick and expensive. How nice it would be to marry a man who could dress in good things, and, of course, who would buy whatever you wanted! She thought of her costume hanging behind the curtain under the triangular bedroom shelf, and of how long she had to work yet to pay for it. How exciting and fine when there was someone to buy anything; not just clothes alone, but a home and . . . and everything!

If only Dick had not been crippled, she decided, he would have been just right. He was quiet. He was of the kind she felt that she could trust; not a chancy sort like Clem.

Clem happened to be mooching up the shippon. He dropped his left eyelid and arched his right eyebrow. If there were no other men in the world than Clems she would never marry, she thought. But his passing reminded her of his advice, about asking for time off. It was Thursday, just a fortnight since she had gone round the lake and rescued Dick Goldbourn. Why shouldn’t she ask? It wasn’t right that she should work Saturdays, Sundays and all days. When she went with milk to the churn again she was determined that she would ask; but she would be careful—she would wait until Mrs. Nadin seemed to be in a good mood. Despite her apparent usualness at porridge time, Flo suspected that Mrs. Nadin was still bitter about her husband’s desertion. So Flo watched and waited all morning. But, whatever Mrs. Nadin’s mood, there was scarcely an opportunity when Flo could have asked her. Flo was told to clean all the windows, and a long, difficult and quite dangerous job it was. The windows were of the sash type, but never till she came to clean them had Flo realized how big they were. Seated out on the sill with the upper half of a window down on her thighs it was all that she could do to clean the top corners. When she got to the attic at first she was too afraid to get on the sill, and tried to reach from the bottom and then over the top without sitting out. Only it was no good. The parts that she cleaned showed up the parts that she had not cleaned, and she was ashamed. She looked round her room for something with which she could tie herself to the bed, but there was nothing; a sheet would not have been long enough. So that all that she could do was put the lucky heart-stone and the green pig in her apron pocket and pray to be kept safe. She put her head out hesitantly, gripping hard on the bottom frame. And then, except for the awful thought of how far off the ground was, it was no different from doing the lower windows. She had been foolish to let the height scare her, and when the panes shone iridescently, as well done as she could do them, she dared to look about. The two views were quite different from those she normally got through the window. Rightward she looked over the lake, but across the eastern end. She was surprised to be able to see right over the willows the pear-shaped lagoon in full. There on the very tip of the point where she had walked she saw Dick Goldbourn in his wheeled chair. Out of bravado she waved, not expecting any return. Nevertheless, she was disappointed that none came. She faced petulantly the other way and saw over the ridge end of the barn the top of Adam’s Pike, like an immense grey-green pyramid. As she stared a swallow shot up from behind the barn in a smooth swift glide and came flickering towards her at express rate. It came so close that she saw its chestnut throat and purple-blue, and as it fled its confidential twitter, heard for a moment only, seemed to be meant to tell her that summer was coming and that life was good and all would be well. It was the first swallow of the year. She turned her head swiftly to watch, and the bird swooped on towards the lagoon and the distant fisherman, and then became invisible against the meshed background of the willows.

She got back into the room carefully, glad that she had risked it, but glad to be safe again. She looked at the stone and lucky pig on her palm.

“Find me a nice husband,” she whispered impulsively, and at once laughed and put them back on the dressing-table, the pig on the left just under the glass from where he regarded her quizzically, all of him tilted to one side because of his missing leg. As Flo went downstairs her thoughts flew back to the fisherman on the point; she wondered whether he had caught anything.

Dinner passed and she was never once alone with Mrs. Nadin. Then Pot went upstairs and Flo was told to swill the flags.

“Scrub ’em. I canna abide green moss; it’s the mark of a slut. Use plenty of water, an’ a good hard brush,” said Mrs. Nadin briskly. “Good clean stone’s worth lookin’ at.”

“And when that’s done, may I go out?” asked Flo, quaking.

“Heck, an’ what for?” demanded Mrs. Nadin. “You’re not runnin’ the boys already?”

“No,” said Flo, reddening. “But it was Thursday last time and I thought . . .”

“There’s no lad in pants worth runnin’ after,” the little woman broke in tartly. “I thought I’d some sense when I chose my man, an’ look at ’im! A dummy in a raffle ’ud be more obedient, an’ happen a damn seet prettier. ’Stead o’ marryin’ a man, get a pup; you con turn that loose when you’ve a mind.” She reached up into the big cupboard and seemed to have forgotten how the talk had begun.

“But may I go?” asked Flo desperately.

“Go? Ay, go to the devil, an’ marry ’im . . . happen he’s no worse than t’others.”

“I mean go out.”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Nadin keeping at her work. “I reckon you’ll be like a bitch in heat till you’ve getten what they aw get. But dunna forget them flags.”

Flo finished washing-up and hurried out in Dot’s clogs which she had worn before for swilling. She liked the clatter of them, and would have tried a dance only for Mrs. Nadin listening. Splashing the buckets into the trough one after the other she let them gurgle full, then carried them brimming to the door. Half of a bucket she tossed down at one splash, and seizing the brush she began to scrub as if she would wear the flags through.

“Dunna waste water; use elbow weight,” ordered Mrs. Nadin, standing on the step. “Th’ edges is as important as middles.”

But apparently Flo’s energy satisfied her, for she went off up the passage. After that Flo spilled water more sparingly because it saved carrying, and a big flood only ran away before she could properly use it. She scrubbed till she felt that she could scrub no more. The path at the back was easy because footwear kept moss off. She soon had that clean to the buff and knew that it would dry cream; but round the house the real surface was hard to get to. Only now that she had permission to go out she was in no particular hurry, because she did not know where she should go. So she kept at the flags till they shone and there was no speck anywhere. She felt that she had really earned time off. She even looked from the bedroom window to admire the flags as the birds would see them.

She dressed in her best, in her costume, and Dot was in the kitchen and saw her.

“Where are you off?” she demanded crossly.

“To Moss,” retorted Flo on an impulse. “It’s my day out.”

Dot sniffed. Flo gave her turban an extra little tug behind her right ear and walked out straight-backed. But she was glad that Mrs. Nadin wasn’t there. Because of her retort to Dot she had to turn leftward at the lane, though she was doubtful whether she really wanted to go to Moss. If she went to the lake perhaps Dick might still be there. But dare she . . .?

She went on more resolutely, past where she had stopped with Colonel by the hedge and talked with Jack Knight; and down the dip towards the bridge over the sluggish willow shallow that she had had to cross with Bert. From the bridge the lane began its curving climb to the main road, the slant at first gradual, though quickly increasing. Walking by the left-hand hedge and rounding the first curve she saw thirty yards ahead on the same side with one of its wheels against the grass bank Dick Goldbourn’s chair, and he in it looking along the slope of the fields towards Moss. Her impulse was to stop and slip quietly back; then she asked herself, “Why?” She went on and after a moment a recognizing smile chased his thoughtfulness and he greeted her with a cheerful:

“Pass, friend, all’s well.”

“What do you mean?” asked Flo.

“Pass; I can’t trouble you a second time.” He looked up and the smile in his eyes seemed to take on more depth. “I can’t quite manage up the brow; I usually wait till somebody comes.”

“Well, I’ve come,” said Flo practically. “I can push as well as anyone.”

“I know you can.” He smiled again, still hesitating, then grasped the handwheels and slewed the chair square with the hill. Flo pushed. He was heavy, but it was easier than at the lake-side because her feet had grip. He worked his hands alternatively, always having hold of one wheel or the other so that the weight should never be entirely left to her. At the steepest part they were shut in by the tall banks and the hollies, and Flo wondered what would happen if a car came round the bend suddenly too far over. But the road was left to them and they came out on the level panting a little.

“Thanks again; I’m sorry to have had to trouble you,” he said rather formally.

“I was glad to help.”

“You’ll be waiting for a bus?”

“No; I don’t know how they run. It’s my day off. I thought I’d go to the market,” said Flo, walking beside him.

“Then if you don’t mind, and I don’t go too slow or too fast, two’s company and one’s none.”

She did not answer. Looking away she saw a flock of pigeons flash white as they turned in the sunlight against the grey-green of Adam’s Pike half a mile north. A yellow six-wheeled lorry rushed by down the main road taking limestone to the Cheshire plain. They crossed and got on the footpath on the far side.

“Been to the market before?” asked Dick, suiting his pace to her’s. “It isn’t much, you know.”

They talked about markets for a quarter of a mile while Flo let her eyes wander over the hedges to the hill slopes on either side of the broad valley, all the time walking as primly as she could. After that there was a silent hundred yards till she was surprised to hear him ask if it was she who had been at the window. “The top one. I reckon it’s pretty dangerous.”

“Not if you hold on,” said Flo, wondering if he had seen her wave.

“But how can you hold properly when you have the leather to shift from one hand to the other . . . and to do other things?”

“Oh, I hold on all right.”

“I don’t know whether you do,” he answered gravely. “I saw you signalling to someone. If you were to fall and damage your back there’d be two lame ducks waddling about in push-chairs. You don’t know how lucky you are: you should take care.”

She thought he sounded like a father. But she was relieved because apparently he hadn’t guessed who her signal had been for.

“I do know,” she protested, looking down on his unnaturally straight legs, experiencing a gush of sympathy. “It must be horrible; I don’t know how you put up with it and keep so . . . well, you don’t really seem to mind.”

“What’s the use?” he asked, smiling slightly, but not in his eyes which she saw acorn brown and still. “I’m lucky, too, in some ways. I’m not forced to work, and I can get about. There’s the lake and . . . well, lots of things.”

“Nothing’s so bad as it can’t be worse, I suppose,” murmured Flo, feeling that it was false; the kind of thing that Mrs. Howell would have said.

“No,” Dick agreed unconvincingly. “The worst is being dependent on other people. Things I can’t do.”

“You mean me again,” Flo accused. “But I like to help.”

“I’m sure; but everybody isn’t like you.”

An elderly woman poking with a stick stood back against the hedge while he manœuvred past, and Flo had to step into the roadway. They had come to the first houses of Moss. They were villas, half red brick, half grey pebble-dash, and faced one another aloofly across the road, their backs austerely turned on the beautiful views of the valley which even passers-by had a job to see over their shoulders. The intimacy which had been growing between Flo and her companion fell away and she felt that it was time to leave him. Probably he wouldn’t want to be seen with her there, though she could not detect any change in his manner. It was simply their talk that had been stifled by the villas. Then they were between long continuous rows of gritstone, the old cottages that stood unashamed on their own doorsteps up to the road without the least attempt at a garden. Flo liked them at once; they were so much more homely than the villas. As she went past she caught the yellow flickerings in the grates of little kitchens, suggesting welcome. Dick called, “How do?” across the street to a man in a floury cap and jacket and bran-bag apron who was unloading from a horse lorry. “Non so bad. How’s yourself, sirrie?” the man called back, pausing with a sack balanced on his shoulders. The close cottages kept the talk in, almost as if they were in a room.

The road became a street, too narrow for more than one pavement, and this too narrow for the chair. Dick had to go in the roadway and Flo watched alertly for any cars coming. Then, where two pubs faced—The Royal Standard tall and haughty, its sign in a glass case hanging from iron scrollwork, The Bull low and ancient with a stone-cut head minus horns jutting over the door like a sailing ship figurehead—the street opened abruptly on the left into a square. Where Flo and Dick had come to, street and square were level; fifty yards farther on where the square ended and houses began on the left again the street was ten feet lower than the square, and went on descending steeply. The built-up side of the square was walled. Along the top were railings and a row of youngish lime trees. Over the railings leaned five men and a woman, as over a balcony, watching traffic plod uphill or coast easily down. Behind the watchers Flo saw the top of a dark stone cross; “thousands of years old” she thought at once. Two-thirds of the way up the centre piece of the cross a rope was knotted, its other end going to the tilted-up shaft of a flat cart. Over the rope hung a rectangle of dirty grey canvas giving crude shelter to a vegetable stall. To the other shaft was tied a black pony with collar and tracings on, its nose tucked into a sack on an empty orange crate.

“It’s not much, but what there is, it’s there,” said Dick, stopping at the corner below the steps of The Royal Standard.

There were seven other stalls with proper wood frames and canvas awnings, and pots were displayed in a coloured circle twelve feet across without sky protection of any kind.

“My, but it’s diff’rent from our market,” exclaimed Flo, pleased by the number of persons about, more than she had seen together since passing through Manchester.

At the far corner over the stalls, looking down another narrow street of grey houses she saw the square tower of the church; and beyond again were the hills watching as they watched over everything.

“Well, so long,” said Dick, and he gave a kind of salute and started off down the street. All five men leaning over the railings nodded to him, and Flo felt that they had been staring curiously. She started across to the pots. All the crockery seemed to be piled up, but she found that this was merely an appearance caused by the things in the centre having been placed on boxes of different heights. At one side there was a big wicker clothes basket full of odd cups. Two women kept dipping, examining cups and putting them back. Another younger woman, “just getting married” Flo thought, had an eighteen inches high “Cherry Boy” which she held at arm’s length, tilting her head leftwards while she seriously considered it. There was no one trying to sell any of these things. It looked as though anyone could have walked off with anything. Apparently the stall-holders didn’t come to Moss to try to sell much, but more as a holiday. After five minutes spent by Flo idly looking over three tea-services, the woman with the “Cherry Boy” began to stare round in a business-like way.

“Five an’ six, I think,” said a man in a slouched cap, grey shirt-sleeves, and a long apron striped light and dark blue. He was leaning against a motor van with an open back in which could be seen several not very tempting cuts of beef. “Sal’s over yonder,” nodding towards a cheese stall where two women in black aprons and gum-boots were talking. Flo watched the statuette being rolled unceremoniously in yellow paper. The stall-holder handed it over rather as though it were a pound of tripe, but the young woman at once uprighted it and carried it carefully against her breast. Flo felt envious. She turned away towards a stall that was more busy than any of the others. From the cross-pieces under the awning swung attractive blouses and summer dresses on hangers, and over the rails were neatly folded nightdresses, pyjamas, vests, petticoats and knickers. But the thirteen women clustered round were not interested in these. They were all reaching and picking things up like children dipping in a bran-tub. Flo saw that the stall was really a shallow oblong box, the sides nine inches high. In it was a great tangle of material, of many kinds, many patterns, many colours. Anyone who caught sight of an end or corner that looked interesting, got hold and gave a pull. Flo couldn’t resist. After a few seconds she managed to get to the front. At first she was shy and simply watched. It was funny. Nobody appeared to want what was on top; they all seemed sure that the best bits were underneath, so that the tangle was never left still. Everything in it was nearly continuously on the move, “like a bloody lot of squirming guts” as the butcher by the open van had often thought. At last Flo reached for a piece of sky-blue crepe-de-chine, simply to feel its silkiness, and just as her fingers were about to close it started to ebb away, to disappear beneath a heavy end of red-and-brown tweed. Flo snatched back her hand, as if it had been about to do something wrong. Then a glance across showed her a tall thin woman in gold pince-nez and a feathered straw hat vigorously tugging sky-blue by the yard. Flo couldn’t imagine what she could want crepe-de-chine for. She was tempted to grab and try to tug the material back. But she reached for a piece of deep red velvet instead because it looked so rich. There was only half a yard, but it was thick and even more luxurious to touch than to look at. While she was still enjoying it she was surprised to see the stall-holder straightening the blue crepe-de-chine along her round, scratched yard-stick. Fifteen yards, and after a little arguing the woman with the pince-nez tightened her lips and began to fiddle in her black leather handbag which had a gold clip. Flo forgot the velvet and stared after her. The antique feathered hat showed up above all other hats. It went round the outside of the cluster and Flo turned to see where the woman was going with the precious parcel. In the centre of the market stood a black-and-yellow Rolls Royce, but of antique type, with a grey-haired chauffeur in fir-green livery. The woman gave him the parcel and went on towards the pot heap.

“Bargain hunter,” said a familiar voice close behind Flo. Turning quickly, she found Jack Knight there. He grinned. “Enjoyin’ yourself?”

She took a step back and her place was at once taken by a woman in navy blue serge who pushed unceremoniously against her shoulder.

“Have you paid up?” asked Jack.

Flo was shocked to find the velvet still in her hand. She turned confusedly to put it back, but found the way blocked.

“Dunna bother,” said Jack, grasping the velvet in a far-from-clean hand. Flo let go, and he tossed it in a ball over the head of the woman in serge.

“I don’t know whatever I was doing!” exclaimed Flo. “She’ll think I was trying to steal.”

“I’ve seen it done before; but the right way is to have a handbag to stuff it in. They’re a rum lot that get round this stall. I come specially to watch ’em sometimes.” He chuckled. Flo thought that he might be kidding, but though his lips curved humorously, his light blue eyes were serious. “I get more entertainment out of watching folk like that than I do at the pictures,” he said in his curious flat assertive way; rather suggesting that he expected her to doubt it, but didn’t care if she did.

Flo did not know what to say.

“It’s like honey to bees; they can’t keep away,” he went on.

Flo felt that she ought to stick up for herself. “I don’t know,” she said. “If you don’t look, you don’t know what bargains you might miss; there might be something ever so cheap.”

“I bet there is; I bet what old Miss Bamber got,” slightly tilting his head towards the Rolls Royce, “was cheap. She can afford it, anyway. But there’s lots as sees stuff as is cheap, an’ buy it ’cause of that, an’ don’t really want it. However cheap it is, if they dunna need it, it’s dear.”

“It might come in sometime.”

“Yes, but some of them can’t afford it even for that. They’re just tempted and can’t help it . . . on’y they never think.”

Flo had not expected him to talk like this. She remembered what Mr. Nadin had told her. “Anyway, you’re always buying, so they say. Do you always know what you’re going to do with things?”

“That’s my job,” he retorted. “If I canna sell a thing again, or make something out of it, it’s my own fault.”

“And isn’t it just their own fault if they buy something that they don’t need?”

He smiled. “That isn’t an argument. It’s my job to buy; it isn’t their’s. They buy ’cause they can’t help it . . . like a youngster taking a toffee off a counter. He doesn’t mean to steal. He just sees it and wants it. When they go to the stall they don’t mean to buy. But they just see something, and that’s that.”

“You seem to think you know,” said Flo unconvinced.

“I’ve watched ’em,” he said, a teasing gleam in his eyes. “You can sell a woman anything if you go about it right.”

“You seem to think you know,” Flo repeated. “I don’t think you could sell me anything I didn’t want.”

“No; but before I tried to sell, I’d get you to want it. That’s the trick.”

“Oh,” said Flo. “I should call that deceit.”

“Pretty nearly all business is,” he said, his high cheek-boned features set. “Only folk don’t think of it that way.” He turned away and asked if she had seen the cheese stall. “It makes my mouth water. There’s nothin’ better than cheese. I sometimes feel I could buy a whole one . . . whether I need it or not,” he added with a sly smile.

Under the awning were five cheeses in a row, the left-hand marker a marigold yellow, the rest creamy or nearly white. Behind them was a tall, pink-cheeked man in a pure-white long linen slop. “Hello,” said Jack, “owt any good, Amos?”

Amos unfolded his arms. “Aa didna see yo’ last week?” he said in a slow satisfying drawl. “What yo’ bin buyin’ lately? Bedsteads or barrels or buckets; or is it poultry this week?”

“Nay, I’ve had a thin week,” Jack replied. “Been gettin’ on with a bit o’ work. If I don’t get the stuff in, it’ll be too late.”

“Got your greenhouse up yet?”

“I’ve started; be able to let you have some tomatoes this back-end.”

“My favourite fruit. Try that; a bit of the best.” To Jack he held over on the two-inch blade of his knife a cube of the creamiest cheese.

“Go on, take it,” Jack told Flo. Amos nodded. There was scarcely any need to bite; the cheese melted. But it was rather strong.

“Try that, then. Ladies usually prefer that.”

This time it was a sliver, not as crumbly or creamy, but very much milder.

“No, the other’s the cheese,” said Jack. “Put me up a couple of that.”

“Grand stuff for toasting,” Amos commented, cutting the triangular section with his pink slim palm flat against it to stop breakage. “Two pounds and an ounce for luck. When are you gettin’ wed, Jack?”

“When I find a woman as is worth it,” answered Jack soberly. “Most of them think too much about lip-paint and flour-powder for my liking. There’s nothing prettier than things that are natural; flowers don’t titivate up and all that. That’s the sort I want.”

The stall-man winked at Flo. “Save you a lot of cookin’ and house-work, you know.”

“I can do that,” said Jack. “There’s a thing or two I could show one or two of them. Thanks. How much? Right. I’ll be seein’ you.”

“Do you live alone?” asked Flo as they walked between the stalls.

“Not quite,” he answered enigmatically. “But I mostly look after myself.”

“Do . . . do you get lonely?”

“You’re on’y lonely when you think you are. It’s nothing to do with other folk; it’s yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she protested, trying to think it out.

“Everything’s yourself. You can be lonely in a crowd . . . if you want. I know I’ve never felt less lonely than on Moss Edge yonder, or up Adam’s Pike.”

“There’s not many like that,” Flo said slowly.

“If we all thought of things as we ought, perhaps things ’ud be different. On’y most of us just go on and let things happen an’ don’t think. Look at them kids.”

His voice became alert, and Flo saw three boys of not more than four jumping out of the back of the dilapidated float which she recognized. On the cobbles they collapsed and rolled about with laughter, but after a second or so they were up again and scrambling into the float for another jump.

“Hi!” called Jack without anger. “What d’you think you’re doing? If the horse sets off yo’d break your necks.” The youngsters abruptly went quiet and stared with wide sober eyes.

“Why aren’t you at school?” he asked.

“Dunna go,” said one with full cheeks and a black smear like an immense Victorian moustache under his pink snub nose.

“You’re young Tim Backhouse, aren’t you?” The urchin nodded. “Ay, I thought you were. And you’re Sal Morgan’s lad; and you’re Peter Binks.” Neither of them gave the slightest sign. “Wait till I see your mothers.”

“You won’t, will you?” said Flo on their behalf.

Jack winked and set his left foot in the float and pulled himself up. The whole of the front of the float was filled with dirty-looking plant pots of many different sizes. “Can’t invite you for a ride very well. They’re for the greenhouse . . . when it’s ready,” he said, smiling. “Oh well . . .” He sat back comfortably against the float side dangling the reins negligently, and made a clicking in his throat. The piebald, after appearing to consider, started slowly. “I’ll be seein’ you.”

“Yes,” said Flo, with the three children regarding her solemnly. She wondered why she had come with him to the float. And all at once she remembered and started after him. The float was trundling towards the church, the horse stepping consideringly on the rough old setts.

“A minute,” called Flo, hoping that there was nobody listening or watching. The horse stopped. “I meant to tell you.” She was panting a little. “I thought I’d better, in . . . in case it was you.”

He looked down, half-puzzled, half-amused.

She began again: “I hope you won’t mind.” He dropped to the ground and it was easier for her. “But if it was you last night, Bert says next time he’ll shoot an’ not wait.”

“Eh,” exclaimed Jack. “Shoot! What for?”

He sounded so sincere that Flo lost doubt at once. “It wasn’t you, then. But it did look like you.”

Jack grinned and asked how she meant.

“I . . . I don’t know, but it did, somehow,” said Flo, a little confused by his direct stare. “It was across a field and dark; well, it was in moonlight.”

“What time?”

“It must have been half-past nine,” she answered consideringly.

“I was walking from the library to Border Bridge. I bet it was young Buck Willox. He’s a beggar. Went across, ha, ha, Bert would be mad! I’ll chip him next time.”

“I don’t know,” said Flo quickly. “I don’t know whether I should have told. But I didn’t want . . .”

“Don’t worry,” he broke in, patting her hand in a quick, curious way. “He’ll not know it was you. Thanks for telling me. D’you often go round with him?”

“No, it’s the first time.”

“He’s a good chap; better than Clem. But he can’t stick anyone after his ducks. I bet he would shoot. I’ll keep away. Thanks for warnin’ me. I’ll pull his leg.” He laughed. “Oh well . . . ta, ta!”

Again he gave his curious stiff flip to his forehead. Flo walked away without looking back. She was rather sorry that she had said anything. Why had he asked how often she went round with Bert?