The Farm by the Lake

Chapter 16

Captain Webb got over his exhaustion and seemed not to have been affected. But Jenny’s milk was short. Because of her wildness also Mr. Nadin decided to sell her, and he and Clem drove her to auction the following Thursday. Captain Webb bawled disconsolately. He made much more fuss over the loss of his mother than he had done about his great swim. With Flo he became a favourite, and whenever she could get away to his pen she fondled his head or let him suck her fingers.

“You’ll have ’im mardy as a kitten,” said Mr. Nadin in a pleased humour.

Flo didn’t like the name “Captain Webb”. It sounded too old. But all the rest took it up, for Dick had found Bert in the boathouse and had passed the name on to him. Flo, when no one else was about, called the calf “Jerry”, because she thought it suited his inconsequence. Three days after Jenny had gone he seemed to have forgotten that he had ever had a mother, and he accepted everything and everybody with bland, big-eyed innocence. Flo wrote home about his great adventure, describing him fully and telling how greedy he was. Since leaving home she had written to her mother about once a week, and once she had written to Ivy, but she had had no reply from either. As long as she could remember, Flo had only known her mother write two letters, both when relatives had died; and these letters had only been got out with a great deal of worry and labour. So that Flo did not expect much from her mother, but she thought that Ivy might have made an effort to write. It was hard sending letters each week without getting any reply, yet Flo persisted because she got a certain amount of comfort out of steadily thinking of home, as she had to do when she wrote. However, ten days after her letter about Jerry she was thrilled when she got in from washing the churns to see on the mantleshelf, leaning against the tin tea-canister with the picture of Queen Victoria on, a blue envelope marked with her mother’s untidy heavy blotched writing.

“Summat’s goin’ off. It’ll non be a love-letter by looks on it,” said Mrs. Nadin as Flo reached up.

Flo was tempted to tear it open at once; then after a moment’s hesitation, she thrust it in the neck of her blue working frock. It was such an event that she felt she wanted to enjoy it alone.

“Dunna you want ta read it? Happen you’ve had a fortune left,” said Mrs. Nadin; and next with unexpected intuition, “Goo upstairs an’ get it done wi’. You’ll ne’er work till tha’s got the guts out of it.”

“Can I?”

“Can a cat lick its backside? ’Course it can. Off with you, but dunna tek aw day.”

Flo ran up and shut the bedroom door and went to the window and sat on the sill, Her fingers shook and tore the envelope jaggedly. There was a single thick sheet on which the writing wavered at one place under the blue lines, then above, but hardly anywhere exactly on them. It read:

Flo turned it over in the hope that there might be something on the other side but there were only three grease spots. She could imagine it being laboriously written on the table after tea; with Ivy off-handedly tossing over suggestions, but not really helping. Whatever did that part about Ivy mean? Had Mrs. Baybutt had a baby boy; or had Ivy got another young man? Of course, Flo hadn’t written to Mrs. Howell, and she didn’t intend to. Wasn’t it Mrs. Howell’s fault that there was no money? How could she send money when she hardly got any? Flo read the letter through again, and this time the two phrases that stood out as if written in block capitals were: “better be Home,” and “When yu comin home.” How could she go home when she hadn’t even enough for the fare? Suddenly she let the letter waver to the carpet and sobbed. For nearly five minutes she kept her face hidden, thinking of home and her mother and Ivy and the hopelessness of ever being able to go back. Then gradually she felt better, and looked out and saw the lake and the hills and recognized their familiarity. She remembered that she had only come up to read the letter, yet how long had she been? She hurriedly straightened her hair and smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief and started downstairs. On the landing Dot met her.

“What have you been doing?” she demanded in a disagreeable tone.

“Missis sent me,” said Flo shortly, and went on down.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” shouted Dot.

As soon as Flo went in at the kitchen Mrs. Nadin started: “Well, how are they? Sister had any illegitimate kids yet?”

“They want to know when I’m going home,” Flo answered. “And when I’m sending some money.”

“It’s not till six months, first holiday . . . three days . . . accordin’ ta what they said in papers as they sent. I’m payin’ you what they said, an’ t’other goos ta them for togs an’ things. How done they reckon you con send ’em owt?” demanded Mrs. Nadin.

“I don’t know,” said Flo meekly.

“Damn soft arrangement. We could ’a fitted you up wi’ clothes as would ’a done. Dot’s got more stuff than oo knows what ta do wi’.”

“Yes,” said Flo.

“If you’d like ta send ’em a few eggs or summat, I’ll see what we con spare.”

This only made Flo feel more homesick. She was relieved when she was told to go and start cleaning the cabin. There instead of working in her usual steady way she went at it fiercely, brushing the matting till the place was misty with dust, then dropping on a chair and staring through the window, all her energy and intention spent. She knew that she was giving way as she ought not to, pitying herself, but she abandoned herself and hoped that Dot would come, then they could have a row. However, Dot did not come, and eventually Flo started dusting, giving everything the merest flick, just to be able to say that she’d done it. When she looked out again she saw Dick Goldbourn come from behind the willows at the left end of the little beach and work himself across and go behind the willows again. Despite her mood she was impressed by his uncomplaining intentness. He had troubles, yet there he was making the best that he could of things. Her thoughts lost centre in herself, and she began to think of his life; her sympathy flowed outward after him. Surely he needed someone to look after him. Wasn’t that a job that she could do instead of carrying on hopelessly at Prettyfield? And then the thought came that the only way really to help him was to marry him. The only person that could really help him would have to be his wife. Suppose . . . suppose that it were possible! She gazed hard through the willows where he had gone, only she could not see him. Nevertheless the more she thought about marrying him the more attractive it seemed. How nice it would be to have a man who had a lot of money. Then she would be able to send home whatever she wanted. Her imagination took charge and she saw herself in furs in a Rolls driving up Balloon Street and all the neighbours watching and envying her. She remembered the woman in the poppy jumper that once she had seen on the yacht. And suddenly she laughed and stood up from the chair quickly.

“If ever it could,” she murmured, half in prayer, but also humorously.

She felt better and walked back to the house with the brush and dusters.

“Bin decoratin’ as well as cleanin’?” asked Mrs. Nadin.

But after tea she brought twelve big brown eggs out of the pantry and six oatcakes baked the previous day and told Flo to wrap them up and get them out of her way. So Flo wrote a short reply to her mother, not saying anything about money, and wrapped each egg separately in old newspaper and tucked them tightly into a tin with the oatcakes on top and addressed the parcel for Clem to take when he went with the morning’s milk. She thought what a surprise it would be for her mother, and this was pleasant. Then when she had put away the string bag and paper she sat by the fire and thought again how she might marry Dick Goldbourn and so be able to send lots of other things home.

“Thinkin’ of deein’?” asked Mrs. Nadin. “You look about as gay as a soused duck.”

“No,” said Flo, caught. “I . . . I was thinking how nice it would be to have lots of money.”

“Hm!” muttered the farmer’s wife. “There’s more things as matters than brass. Keep your mouth shut an’ your bowels open . . . there’s two things as I’ve told you on afore. An’ by God, see as you pick reet kind o’ a man; if you pick one like I’ve getten, you’ll find as no amount o’ brass makes up.”

Mr. Nadin was in his chair at the opposite side of the hearth, but he gave no sign of having heard.

“A bit o’ brass as well met have made it better, but thee an’ no brass nother,” shouted his wife at him. “It’s a wonder it hasn’t driven me daft.”

He puffed smoke towards the grate and watched it draw out in a smooth S-curve up the great square chimney.

“I were thinkin’ o’ tekkin’ you out for th’ day next Bakewell Show,” he announced slowly, “but now I winna.”

“You great clod. Thinkin’!” stormed Mrs. Nadin. “A lot o’ thinkin’ you’ve done, I bet. Moor like thinkin’ how the hell you con pinch away theer thisen.”

The farmer turned his gaze towards the fire again and went on smoking. Flo was thankful for these brisk exchanges; they had enabled her to recover from the temporary confusion that had come over her when Mrs. Nadin had so promptly jumped on to the subject of husbands and brass. She wondered what would have been said had she confessed that she had been thinking of marrying Dick Goldbourn. The clock ticked on with slow grave patience. For half a minute no one spoke; then it was Mrs. Nadin again:

“Never wed a farmer, Flo. It’s all muck an’ sweat, an’ work never done, an’ nowt for it. Ta hell with it.”

“Oh,” said Flo.

“No,” was the determined retort. “I’d sooner ’a wed an undertaker. I should ’a known he’d ’a looked after me when I were dead, chose ’ow, if it were on’y for advertisin’. But ’im,” with the greatest scorn, “I’d as lief think as he’d chuck me out on th’ midden.”

She got up energetically and started to reach the supper things out of the side-cupboard.

“Tha met do worse than marry a farmer,” announced Mr. Nadin unexpectedly, looking at Flo over the cherry-wood bowl of his pipe out of which a grey whisp of smoke oozed. “There’s summat in it as is in nowt else.”

“Thee shut thi trap . . . tha’ll catch cold,” snapped his wife. His teeth clicked back on his pipe stem. But Flo thought over his words all through supper.

The following morning Jack Knight came and took Captain Webb away. He was bigger and older than the first calf and was not put into a sack, but was shoved into the front of the old float, Jack standing behind, simply barring him in with his legs. Flo was washing the churns and buckets. She could not resist going across to fondle her friend’s head over the float side.

“I didn’t know you were having him,” she said, glancing up. “Take care of him, won’t you?”

“If I didna intend ta do that I wouldna be tekkin’ him, would I, Emmott?” looking at the farmer, then back at Flo. “You mun come an’ see him in a two-three week when I’ve fattened him a bit.”

“Ay, he knows how ta fatten a cawfe,” the farmer confirmed. “I thought o’ keepin’ the little beggar misen . . . that’s why I didna let ’im goo same time as Jenny . . . but there’s haytime, an’ I’ve enought ta do.”

“If Bert an’ Clem gave more time, an’ non so much ta fishin’ an’ such, you’d manage better,” said Jack sympathetically.

“Ay,” Mr. Nadin agreed, “they’re non much o’ farmers. Flo ’ere’s more keen nor them. If on’y oo’d bin born wi’ trousers, oo’d ’a bin reet.”

Flo turned abruptly back to the trough. She heard their talk going on, but she could not make it out because of the continual pouring from the pipe. She dared a glance and found Jack staring her way and she would have given her turban to have-known what was being said. Catching her glance, Jack raised his hand in his usual flip, then clapped the reins on the front-board and began to trundle away. Flo waited to see the last of Jerry, and, when the float had gone, all at once she felt sad, as if Jack had taken something that really was her’s. But, of course, nothing was her’s, she thought bitterly as she swished water round in a churn, her arm thrust in up to the shoulder. No money; no nothing. She envied Jack Knight his apparently carefree life; his own boss, and no one to worry him.

“He’s a rum lad,” commented the farmer as he went past to the house.

Rain came, a pleasant warm drizzle, that soaked the earth steadily for all of one week-end. At once the grass responded, as though joyfully. The breezes off the lake previously had ruffled the meadows; now the grass began to sway gracefully, and in the stronger gusts whole fields would bow one way as though being combed. Mr. Nadin liked to stand at the gates and watch.

“That’s a grand bit o’ grass,” he told Flo, as she stood with him looking into Lake Meadow. She was amused, because she had never thought of grass as being anything but commonplace, more or less the same everywhere. But Mr. Nadin maintained that there “isna a better lookin’ field than that onywheer.”

In ten days even to her inexperience the change in the field was great. She saw the seed-heads coming and noticed for the first time how they began to alter the field’s colour. All simple green before, now it began to darken and to show grey sheen; buffs and browns appeared almost as if some great painter were shading them in during the nights. A few buttercups gleamed—not many, but just enough to contrast with the few scarlet sorrel docks and rufus “berried” burnet. Also a scattering of moon daisies bloomed, and Flo thought how nice their name was. It was the farmer that named all these plants for her, explaining that they were weeds. “But it wouldna be like a meadow ’bout ’em,” smiling a little in excuse of his liking them. “We mun fettle th’ mower, an’ Monday, if it’s owt like, we’ll start.”

Flo was rather excited, because she learned that they would all be needed. It would be a change from the indoors monotony.

“Now she’s here, she can do my share; I don’t want burning like a gypsy,” said Dot.

Mr. Nadin grunted, but in a way that said plainly that he’d see whether she went out or not. Mrs. Nadin said, “You want brunnin’ wi’ summat hotter, mi girl; fine big letters on your back, ‘Too lazy ta spit.’”

Clem laughed. They were having their evening meal. Dot threw the dregs of her tea-cup over him.

“It’s the only sort of vulgar humour you could see,” she said cuttingly.

“Vulgar mi backside!” exclaimed Mrs. Nadin. “Tit-ivatin’, hoity-toity, powder mi nose an’ lick mi bottom. I say what I mean an’ them as dunna like it con lump it. Plain speech an’ no frills wi’ underhand work beneath ’em, that’s my way.”

“If you’d only follow your own motto of keeping your mouth shut, it would be better for all of us,” cried Dot, worked up. “You’ve no idea what folks say . . .”

“Let ’em say till they bust an’ be damned,” snapped Mrs. Nadin. “They’ll non say as our Dot is too proud ta goo hay-makin’, anyway. I’ll see ta that.”

When Flo thought that they should all be pleased with the fine way in which the grass had come on, bad temper seemed only to increase. Lacing his boots at six o’clock in the morning to go with Clem to start mowing in Lake Meadow, Bert said, “The sooner it’s done the better; I hope to God it’s a good time.”

“Ay,” Clem grunted. “Muckin’ the stuff about for months is a ruddy mug’s game.”

They went out and Flo was told, instead of bothering with the few jobs that she usually did beforehand, to go straight away to help with milking. She was astonished half an hour later to hear Dot walk into the thirteen shippon. Flo had not known that Dot could milk. Certainly Dot had not milked since Flo had been taken on.

“You’d best take Yorkie an’ Polly, they’re easiest,” said the farmer, looking round from his stool in the gloom at the shippon end.

That was a triumph for Flo; already she was considered a better milker than Dot. Going with her bucket to the churn unconsciously she adopted almost a swagger. As she stood in the yard pouring bubbly milk into the sieve she heard the queer chattering of the mower, which sounded angry, too, at its job, though it had been idle since the July before. After milking, and before feeding the hens, Flo ran to the gate to see what it was like. The grass lay in heavy rows all brushed, as it were, obliquely; and she was pleased by the colour, sappy pale at the bottom, shading greener with some blue, then buff, brown, and red and yellow at the top, so that the swaths looked rather like long pale rainbows, rainbows plucked from the sky and laid straight and wilting. What a funny idea that was, Flo thought, and she wished that she had someone to pass it on to. Jack Knight might have understood. Then the mower stopped suddenly, and she ran back lest she should be seen. Dot was in the yard and caught her.

“No wonder I have to help, if that’s how you work.”

“I wasn’t away a minute,” said Flo.

“Of course you were. You have too much of your own way.”

“How now?” exclaimed Mr. Nadin, putting his head unexpectedly from the shippon. “You’re allus fallin’ out, you two.”

“Falling out!” exclaimed Dot. “I’m trying to teach her her place as you ought to.”

“Oo’s a good worker about th’ farm,” said the farmer. “Best way ta drive a hoss isna allus ta be whippin’.”

His head went in again, and Dot turned and walked towards the house, stiffly indicating that she had done as much outside as she was going to do. Flo had expected that the hay would keep them terribly busy all day, but after the early morning cut everything went on very much as it did normally. Lake Meadow was simply left with its long swaths, like a triangular cloth with a plain centre and a dozen frilly rows all round. The sun shone and a pleasant breeze came across, bringing to Flo the sappy odour of the hay’s first drying. Then in the evening she heard the mower chattering again, and being free she went out and was put to following with a rake to move the swaths out of the way at the corners, or when the knife got stawed. Clem was driving with Colonel walking by the standing grass and Job pulling by his side. They worked unevenly, and Clem swore often, but Flo was fascinated by the ever-falling grass. It shivered at the touch of the guide arm which divided the grass that was fated from that which would stay for the next round. Then suddenly it lost its upright, debonair stand, sheered off at the ankles without warning by the knife which seemed to Flo to work like a saw. It was sad, she thought, and rather unfair. What a pity to kill all the flowers. They fell with the grass in a greeny-buff wave, and the pollen that shook off made her think of the fine spray that wind sometimes lifted off the waves in Morecambe Bay.

Mr. Nadin was mowing the field edges with a scythe. Bert was near the gate with a cutter-blade fixed on a spindle-legged trestle, touching up with a file the edges of the triangular knife sections. When Flo got near the gate on her sixth round she saw Dick Goldbourn there. He waved, and she remembered how she had thought it would be nice to marry him. Suppose she made up her mind, she thought, what chance had she? What chance had any girl like herself to marry men better off than themselves? She knew it happened in books, but . . .

The mower knife stuttered, jerked ineffectually, stopped. In front of it lay a wad of grass fallen forward instead of back.

“What the hell!” demanded Clem. “That’s what you’re there for.” He yelled to the horses to back. The pole tipped up awkwardly between them. Clem got down and cleared the knife, showing her the chewed grass. “The bloody knife’s as blunt as hell, anyway, but you canna expect it to cut that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Flo.

Instantly his mood changed. He grinned. Unexpectedly with his bent forefinger, he stroked her under the chin. She back-stepped hurriedly, her feet tripping, so that she sat down suddenly, foolishly.

“Oh my, I’ve got my pink drawers on!” he jibed, turning aside as though shocked.

She felt like throwing the rake at him. He spoilt the job for her. She wondered if Dick Goldbourn had seen.

They kept on till damp rose in a fine mist all over the field, and Flo felt the coolness soaking her shoes. When she went to the gate Bert had gone in to prepare feed for the horses, but Dick was still there.

“You must be weary, or I’d ask you to help me up the hill,” she was surprised to hear him say.

She exclaimed that she could do that, anyway; would be glad to. It was slightly dusky, but she could see his dark eyes looking steadily. This excited her somewhat; made her feel a little guilty. Supposing that he could guess what she had been thinking!

“No, I can’t let you,” he was saying.

“If you go now it will be all right,” she said hastily. “I can’t when all the others have gone in.”

He turned and she pushed him over the rough gate place. Down the lane he trundled himself easily; all she did was rest her hand on the chair back. For twenty yards he did not speak. She heard over the hedge quite close the farmer, sharpening his scythe.

“How do you get on with them all?” asked Dick, a little husky.

“Get on? . . . All right.”

“With Bert and Clem . . . are they decent?”

“Yes,” she answered, wondering.

“I saw you,” he said, apparently with difficulty. “He did something to you and you jumped and fell.”

“It was the swath.”

He went a little quicker down hill to the bridge. They were between the willows where it was more misty and darker.

“Perhaps you’re wondering why I asked,” Dick began again. “But I don’t trust Clem. I thought he might have been up to tricks. I suppose it’s none of my business, but . . . well, you helped me.”

“I never feel quite safe with him, but he’s never interfered before,” Flo answered. “He’s always out.”

“I’m glad.”

He rolled over the bridge and Flo began to push. Between the high banks at the steepest part it was almost dark; then they came out on the level into clearness and it seemed lighter than in the valley. They stopped by the five-sided toll-house which was now only a dwelling house. Through the small side window the leaping gleam of a good fire beckoned.

“Mustn’t it be nice . . . Like a doll’s house,” said Flo.

“D’you think so? You’re very good. We should see more of each other . . . if you’re not bored by a crock.”

“Oh, no,” said Flo earnestly, looking intently, then quickly staring up the road to Moss. “You’re not an old crock. I . . .” she almost said, “I like you,” but stopped. “I . . . I’ll be in the hay a lot; perhaps I’ll see you there, so close to the lake.”

“They don’t want me, being no good.”

“They don’t think of that,” she emphasized. “They all say you’re good an’ . . . an’ what a pity it is.”

“Would you like me to be there?”

“Yes, of course.” Her colour deepened a bit. She wondered if it were possible that he was hinting at more than he said. “You shouldn’t think you’re no good. I often remember what you said, about making the best . . . and . . . and it’s helped me. I wish I could help you more.”

He laughed, for some reason that she could not guess.

“You’re always helping. Haven’t I brought you all this way now? If everybody did things like you I shouldn’t mind.” He paused, seemed inclined to say more, looked at her in a curious, intimate way that made her glance waver and drop, and eventually laughed again. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but lots of folk do things, but most of them because they’re sorry and feel they ought to help. But it’s mighty few that I feel help because they like me. That’s how I feel with you, anyway. If you were a bit older I . . . well, I guess I shouldn’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“Well, I might ask you to marry me.” He laughed again, unexpectedly patting her hand in a playful way, and added hastily, “Take no notice. I’m an old fool.”

She felt hot and guilty, as if he might have guessed her thoughts. She did not know what to answer, yet knew that she must answer quickly. Almost as if it were someone else she heard herself say, “I must go. They’ll wonder what’s come of me. Misses’ll be on to me.” She stepped out of his reach. “Good bye.”

“I’ll see you again, Flo,” he called in a soft, deep tone.

She ran. She felt that she must; quicker and quicker down the steep lane. The cool air rushed by her ears and suddenly her foot was on a stone, went over, all her weight on her twisted ankle. There was pain. She fell in a sprawling slide a little sideways, the road like a file rasping hands and knees. She lay for a moment, partly winded, then sat up, putting her hands to her right breast. It felt bruised and enlarged, but the greater pain was in her right ankle. She rested for half a minute before trying to get up. Using her hands on the bank, she hauled herself up. She could hardly bear any weight on her right foot. The instant she tried pain shot to her waist and she went faint. Her hands and knees she ignored. She groped in the hedge bottom for a bleached stick, a piece of old barked ash. With this she began hopping towards the farm, wondering what she should say. After fifty yards she was getting more expert, holding the stick stiffly, hardly needing her right foot. She hopped into the yard, but there was no one there. She hesitated at the gate to the house, smelling the hay and thinking how useless she had made herself, though she knew that it was not a break, only a severe sprain. But she had no idea how long it would take to get better. She limped up the path and through the open door.

“Hoppin’ Lucifer, what’s got thee?” demanded Mrs. Nadin.

“I fell,” said Flo. All at once she swayed and dropped on the chair just inside.

“Eh, what’s up?” exclaimed Mrs. Nadin, hurriedly crossing the kitchen. Everybody stared. “What’s up?” Mrs. Nadin looked down, and then stooped and lifted Flo’s boot in a business-like, unsympathetic way.

“Twisted,” said Flo.

“You want a cold-water bandage,” advised Mr. Nadin, who had come from his chair more slowly. “It’s begun ta swell.”

“You dunna say,” exclaimed Mrs. Nadin, plucking at the laces. She knelt with the foot on her knee. “Bring cold water, Dot. Let’s have your stockin’ off.” Flo fumbled, trying to keep her skirt down. “Eh, it winna kill if they see thi breeches,” said Mrs. Nadin impatiently. “Tha’s messed thi knees up, an aw. What the heck wert doin’?”

She bathed the ankle and tightly bound it with a long strip of soaked linen. Hands and knees she bathed with salt water, and when Flo flinched she told her to “hold thisel’ still. This is nowt ta what tha’ll get when tha gooes ta hell.” But Flo felt confidence in her and in the farmer who stood over them till all was done. In the night her ankle throbbed and she could not sleep. Her breast had gone a reddy blue underneath and she would have liked to have bathed that also, but she was too shy to say anything. She cupped her hand under it and the warmth seemed to ease the soreness. In the morning the bell jangled as usual. She sat up, not knowing what to do. Almost at once she heard Mrs. Nadin’s unmistakable quick flat tread and the door snapped open.

“How d’you feel? You’re a bonnie one. Scatterbrained as a pullet, eh? I canna mess naa, but after breakfast we’ll try bathin’ wi’ hot.” She inspected the foot with her candle. “Eh, that’s non so bad; you’ll be able to milk any’ow. I’ve brought thee a carpet slipper.”

Flo hobbled, therefore, as best she could, though milking was easier than she had expected because she could hold her foot straight out under the cows’ bellies. Bert and Clem were out mowing again, so that Dot had to milk more. She never asked Flo about her foot, but ignored her, as if her injury were bogus. Mr. Nadin told Flo to manage what she could. “Let missis fettle it; oo’s a good ’un.”

After breakfast the foot was bathed with hot water and then with cold, and it began to feel easier. Flo was left to clean the brass candlesticks and the knives, forks and spoons. Then on a chair at the sink she peeled potatoes and after that Mrs. Nadin left her on the settee with a great pile of stockings.

“It’s well to be some folks; I think I’ll strain my ankle,” said Dot.

Only the sun was shining, and Mr. Nadin said that next day the first hay would be ready for turning and Flo felt that she had made a fool of herself. Why, after leaving Dick, had she run down hill like that? She had told Mrs. Nadin that it was because she was late and knew that they would be wondering what had become of her. She wondered if Dick would hear; and whether he would come and see her. But of course not.

And next day, Wednesday, he came.

“You don’t mind, Mrs. Nadin? But I feel it was my fault for letting her help me.”

“If she conna stick on her feet, it’s a beggar,” commented Mrs. Nadin pertly. “What’ll she do when oo gets ta my age?”

Flo was still darning.

“Whatever did you do?” asked Dick, strutting in on his sticks. He dropped on the other end of the settee, a yard away, partly facing her. Flo went rosy.

“It wasn’t your fault. It’s like missis says: if I can’t stick on my own feet . . .” She laughed and jabbed the big needle too far. She winced. “See, I can’t even darn without hurting myself.”

They both laughed.

“She would go an’ do it just when hay’s down,” said Mrs. Nadin, bustling from the pantry. “There’s two crocks together of you naa.” There was no unkindness; it was simply a brisk comment. And she went on to ask about Dick’s people. While he answered Flo recovered. She glanced sideways and noticed anew the dark smoothness of his skin. If only he had not been paralysed, how young and handsome he would have looked!

Mrs. Nadin bustled out again and he asked Flo how many stitches she put each way. As many as were needed, she told him.

“Isn’t it monotonous?”

“I’d sooner be out in the field,” said Flo.

“I bet you would; so should I.”

“Then go; don’t let me keep you,” said Flo suddenly, teasing.

“Gee, I didn’t mean that,” he protested. “I meant, if I was you.”

“I don’t know; I only know what you said,” returned Flo. Dick laughed, and then Dot came down the passage.

“You, Mr. Goldbourn! Whatever are you doing?” and from that moment she monopolized him. He got up and stood leaning on his sticks with his back to Flo, and she couldn’t help noticing how big and heavy his body was compared with his legs. She was glad when he said he would be going down to the lake.

“And let’s hope I shan’t get stuck, ’cos to-day Flo can’t help me,” he said with a quick smile to her.

“Bert and Clem will be in the field if you shout,” said Dot coldly.

They watched him get heavily into his chair. Flo felt sad about him, yet when he had stood so close in front of her, heavy and stunted, he had been a bit repulsive. She felt mean about it, but the feeling was there. She brooded on it while she went on darning.

The following day Mr. Nadin announced that the hay was ready for turning; everybody was needed. “Everybody” evidently did not include Mrs. Nadin, for she went on with the housework. The farmer looked at Flo, but Mrs. Nadin promptly intervened: “Oo’s non fit yet for muckin’ about aw day,” and he went out.

“There’s some o’ the lads’ breeches an’ jackets ta patch; happen you’ll be fit for drivin’ th’ rake or summat to-morrow,” she said to Flo. The foot, though still swelled, was much less tender.

From eleven till seven except for two brief meal-times, Dot and the three men worked in the hay. Dot came in bad-tempered and weary, but Mrs. Nadin told her to shut her trap. “We’ve heard it every hay-time sin’ you were pupped.”

Clem got the cows up early and then went back to the field, and Flo managed to milk twelve, more than she had ever done before at one meal-time. The farmer and the boys said it was jolly good. Only Dot showed no appreciation. On the back of Dot’s neck a hot patch showed redly where the sun had burned despite the big floppy-brimmed straw with which she had hoped to save herself.

The next day seemed settled, but was grey, unhelpful, and the farmer said the swaths were too heavy to dry without sun.

“There’s tomorrer,” said Clem. “Sun’ll be out agen,” and Bert nodded. But the farmer could not leave the hay. “Day after to-morrer’ll be weekend, dang it. You’ll ha’ noo time for farmin’; it’ll be all agait runnin’ after the lake lazies, an’ the hay con goo ta pot.”

“Nay, we’ll get some o’ them ta help,” said Bert; but the farmer was dour and said they would shake the hay out and give it the best chance they could. Again he looked at Flo.

“I reckon oo con manage th’ kicker, eh?”

So after that Flo found herself mounted on the tedding machine with Colonel lurching in front. From a distance the machine looked something like an old-fashioned triangular-bodied water-cart. This was because of the galvanized casing which enclosed the front, top and sides. The cupped iron seat was above this, and Flo felt as though she were sitting on top of the world. Inside the cover fitted with spikes were two paddles which when the machine was travelling spun backward, throwing up the grass in a most industrious and energetic way. Looking back over the bin-like cover, Flo could see below her the grass pouring over and down like a blue-green wave. Colonel strode indifferently over the patterning swaths; behind they left no pattern, only an even web of loose-lying grasses, weeds and now faded flowers. Flo liked it. She felt gay, riding to and fro looking down on the others who were shaking out with pikels. She and Colonel were doing more than all the rest together; and she seemed to smell the grass turning into hay even as it was whirled up. This was real work; she was accomplishing something. Happening to glance over the willows to the lake she saw Dick Goldbourn sitting patiently with his rod, and all at once she knew why the farmer was so scornful over fishers and boaters and walkers whose only thought was to enjoy themselves although there was so much work to be done. Not that it was really fair to class Dick with the rest, but . . . well Flo felt glad anyway, that she was able to help. She forgot to be too considerate about Colonel and kept him going by a useful slap with the rein ends whenever he began to dawdle. The machine was light and he could manage it, but sweat began to darken the hair under his collar, and he was glad to notice as they were going towards the gate a familiar figure coming in. It was Jack Knight. He called “How do?” and Flo stopped because they were at the hedge, anyway. Jack looked up with his cheery grin.

“You look pleased. Boss of all you survey, eh?”

“I feel I’m doing something,” said Flo.

“You’ve picked the easy job; it’s a wonder Clem didna want it.”

“It’s my foot,” said Flo. She didn’t mention Dick; only that she had been running because she was late.

“You might have broken your neck,” said Jack. Her foot was on the shaft and unexpectedly he put his hand on her ankle. He had a firm, confident grasp, and after the first impulse to flinch she held still. “Swollen a bit, but non so bad,” he commented, matter-of-fact.

She looked on his upstanding hair bleached almost to whiteness. He was not handsome, she decided; but there was a genuineness; nothing that she could explain, simply a feeling that she experienced from him. He still had his hand round her ankle, but then he let go naturally, and asked which she liked best, riding the tedder or driving the roller in spring.

“This,” said Flo, quite sure.

“You’re wrong,” he laughed. “I like rolling; the young grass, it’s striving. It’s full of vim; it wants to get up. It . . . it’s sort of thrillin’. This is dead, finished. It doesna give me the same feelin’.”

“But it’s food,” protested Flo. “It’s good. I like it because I feel I’m doing a lot.”

“There isna the same promise about it, somehow,” he said looking up with his blue eyes serious. “I reckon it’s th’ same sort o’ difference as between doin’ an’ havin’ done. It’s the doing that’s good. When you’ve done a thing, it’s done with, stale.”

“Oh,” said Flo. “I never thought like that.”

“But we couldna do ’bout hay, of course,” he laughed, his mood changing. “Hope it doesna rain, or there’ll be a tidy bit spoilt.”

“Have you none?” she asked, wishing that she knew more about him; how he really lived. Was it his mother, or who, that had cancer?

“No. I canna afford ta use my land for hay; I havena enough. I crop all I con. I dunna need much hay . . . chiefly for old Mike yonder,” and he glanced towards the lane where the piebald horse stood patiently.

“Crop? D’you mean . . .?”

“Food crops; the quickest I con. Spring cabbage, then spinach. Early peas, sprouts . . . that sort o’ thing. Two crops a year, if I’m lucky.”

“If . . .?”

“If th’ weather’s owt like. It’s non the right country, really, but I’m goin’ ta put some glass up, an’ heat. Then I’ll grow summat.” This not boastfully, but in a soberly enthusiastic way to which Flo reacted with increasing interest. He saw that she wanted to know more. “Most chaps says as tomatoes winna grow here, but I reckon it’s non bin properly tried. I . . .”

“Hey! What about some work?” came an impatient shout.

Jack, with his mouth open, looked round sharply and saw the farmer waving his pikel. Flo shook the reins briskly and Colonel tossed his head in protest. He lurched rightwards and the tedder began to slew round.

“Hay-fever, eh?” said Jack.

“How d’you mean . . . coughing an’ sneezing?”

“No, just hot up an’ bothered ’cos he’s got so much hay out. Worries hisself stiff.”

“Oh,” said Flo, smiling, and slapped the reins again. The paddles began to go round and the hay wave to flow over, and she smelt the warm odour of it again. She thought how nice it must be to be able to try things, to experiment with growing plants, to have a small place of one’s own.

Without turning her head, out of the side of her glance, she watched Jack walking towards Mr. Nadin. They talked, Mr. Nadin all the time shredding out little clots of grass, tossing it here and there. After five minutes Jack walked to where an extra pikel was jabbed in the earth. Plucking it up he went back and began to work alongside the farmer. They talked, and at times the talk became so interesting that they both stopped and seemed to argue. Flo wondered what it was about; and then back into her mind came drifting what Jack had said about tedding and rolling. She remembered the thrush and remembrance of his exultant song brought back some of the April morning’s freshness. She looked about and contrasted it with the grey stillness of the summer day, and found herself agreeing that it was not quite so good, not quite so good as spring, because, as Jack had said, it lacked the eagerness and promise. She was sure that none of the others would have thought of that. She was glad that Jack had told her. She glanced again, and now he was walking back to the gate. Calculating that if Jack was going to Moss she might get to the willows and round and be back at the lane as he passed, she slapped the reins along Colonel’s undulating back. Colonel lurched a little quicker; the paddles hummed, and the drying grass rustled like falling leaves. And as Jack passed she reached the hedge and called out:

“You’re right; I think rolling’s better, too.”

He grinned understanding, but shouted back: “Tedding’s non bad either.” He gave his queer salute. “See you some more.”

“Yes,” said Flo, and after that she kept on till all the swaths were gone and the whole field was spread as with a green-blue web.