The Farm by the Lake

Chapter 18

The smirry weather continued. Week-end came, and Bert as usual was out all the time with fishermen. Dot and Flo wore coats over their heads as they took the trays of things to the cabin. Mr. Nadin was more bitter than ever against the visitors, calling them “blister-shirkers” and “shinonakin’ wasters”.

“Shut your trap an’ goo an’ tek a dose o’ salts,” ordered Mrs. Nadin tartly. “We’re hay-makin’ as noo weather stops. Shift thisen from under mi feet.”

Each day Flo felt more sorry for the farmer. After the drizzle came a period of showers, with occasional sun breaks, but never enough to dry the fields; not enough even to suggest that the hay might be shaken out. The high cocks lost their scented greeny-blueness and went a dull buff, sinking into sodden lumps without shape or pride. But the rain made the grass grow tall and succulent round them, as if it would hide their dismalness. The farmer with his blunt-toed boot lifted the edge of a lump and Flo saw the grass under it white, lemon and yellow and squiggly, eager to grow straight but unable to.

“We’ll be ruined,” said the farmer, “’bout hay, winter feed’ll cost a fortune.” It would have been better if Lake Meadow had never been cut, he said; all their work had been wasted. In the other fields, Charlie Meadow and Square Piece, twenty-four acres in all, the grass was still untouched. It had lost its seed and gone dark and dishevelled, but it was still cuttable and wasn’t rotting. “If this weather keeps on we’ll be hay-makin’ at Christmas.”

The boys didn’t worry. It was only Mr. Nadin. Bert said: “It’s worse August I remember, an’ that’s saying’ something. If it doesna take up the old mon’ll go hairless.”

Mrs. Nadin wasted no sympathy on the farmer, either. “Tickle thiself, you look worse than th’ weather,” she told him. “Sun winna shine ’cos you goo all broody.”

“Farm con go ta hell for all you care!”

“Are you tekkin’ me ta Bakewell Show?” she demanded back. “If you conna work you con play.”

It seemed as though he would not reply, but after a pause he said, “Ay,” and then went out.

“Biggest show as there is i’ these parts,” Mrs. Nadin explained to Flo.

August holiday week Thursday arrived with the sky still low and blotched black and grey. Mr. Nadin came down in his best whipcord suit.

“What the heck, milkin’ i’ that!” stormed Mrs. Nadin, up a little earlier than usual.

“I thought you wanted ta go ta Bakewell,” said Mr. Nadin mildly.

“Too lazy ta change agen; by Dickie, it’s a wonder you dunna come down in your shirt tails an’ save dressin’ at all.” The farmer went out and the morning work was gone through. At breakfast the farmer was a little more morose even than he had been. Mrs. Nadin chipped him about being as cheerful as a bankrupt undertaker to go with.

“If the weather doesna take up well be bankrupt soon all reet,” said the farmer.

Mrs. Nadin was to be ready at ten, when Clem would be back with the float. Bert was going to the show also, but with some of his pals from Moss, and he went off at once after breakfast. As she washed up Flo thought what a quiet day it was going to be. She had learned that it was the one day when they put on the cabin, “No Meals”, and on the boat-house, “No Boats”, and Flo had heard Dot say that she was going out, too. It seemed quiet already, Flo thought, and she wondered if Mr. Nadin would give her any jobs to do about the farm. Would she be expected to begin evening milking alone?

“What did you do wi’ ’is collar as I told you ta put ta air?” Mrs. Nadin interrupted.

“Put it on the oven top,” said Flo, glancing round.

Mrs. Nadin looked into the oven but it wasn’t there either. She was in carpet slippers and a white silk blouse, with only her cream flannel petticoat on, extremely short when one was used to her in long black overskirts, but she strutted quickly down the path and yelled, “Emmott! Emmott! . . . Wheer are ta?”

There was only the echo from the buildings, and the little woman went energetically across the yard and in through the barn wicket. She reappeared unexpectedly quickly from the shippon and peered into the stable. Walking purposefully back to the barn, she ducked in again and came back this time through the field gate from the midden.

“You havena seen the old fat-yead?” she demanded of Flo as she got back. Scarcely waiting to hear she went on up the passage, up the stairs, to the bedroom, bathroom, lavatory.

“His coat’s gone,” Dot announced, after looking over the hooks.

“And ’is tie an’ studs, the old b———r,” said Mrs. Nadin. “If ’e’s slipped me I’ll slip ’im.”

“I expect he’s gone with the lot from the Bull; I heard there was a chara,” said Dot.

“Huh, thinks ’e’s got the better of me! Thinks because ’e’s gone I conna get. By God, I’ll get there if I crawl!”

She bustled out of the kitchen and upstairs again, and they heard her stumping about. Flo would have liked to have made excited comments, but Dot had taken on her most frigid manner and told her to get on with what she was doing. Quick steps came down.

“Here you,” at Flo, “goo an’ get ready. If he con goo off ta enjoy ’isself, we’ll all goo an’ let th’ place goo ta pot.”

“You’re not going there to make a scene with everybody . . .” protested Dot.

“Shut your teeth or you’ll bite yourself!” snapped her mother. “Are you comin’ or not?”

“No,” said Dot coldly. “I’ve promised to go to Jean’s.”

“Go, an’ be damned then; I’ll make ’im pay,” said Mrs. Nadin, taking no further notice of her. “You, get gone, an’ be down in five minutes,” she shot at Flo.

Flo felt trembly. She did not know whether she was doing right or not in getting ready, only there did not seem to be any other way open. She had not washed, but she dare not go down. She did her hair quicker than she had ever done it. When she got back to the kitchen Mrs. Nadin stood ready in her long black silk smock-like coat, her black straw hat with its nodding yellow flower, and her umbrella. Dot stood by disapprovingly.

“You’re not takin’ her to see what scene you make?”

“I’ll mek no scene; it’ll be ’im, if there is a scene,” said her mother quickly and grimly. “Has Bert gone off scrimshankin’ an’ all? Come on, you, we’ll walk ta th’ level.”

“I don’t think . . .” Dot started.

“I know you dunna. You’re yead’s too addled!” retorted Mrs. Nadin, making to the door. Flo, unwilling and unhappy, walked a pace behind, as though she were being dragged. Mrs. Nadin went with short snappy steps, ignoring her. Her speed was considerable, and she kept at it up the hill. On the main road she went left past the toll-house to the Kicking Donkey just below. She paraded up the short sanded passage to the bar, which was dark and low. On crossed legs leaning against one of two red-rimmed barrels on a low bench at the back was a lanky man in shirt sleeves smoking contemplatively.

“Shake thisen an’ get th’ taxi!” ordered Mrs. Nadin without preliminary. “That sneakin’ b———r of mine’s gone off an’ I’m after ’im.”

“Eh, I thought you’d come for a drink, an’ we’re non open. I were just goin’ ta brush out,” drawled the lanky man.

“If you dunna get us ta th’ station i’ five minutes you’ll feel this ’ere,” said Mrs. Nadin, lifting her umbrella.

“Eh, I tell you I’m workin’.”

“An’ I’m talkin’ an’ meanin’ it,” she retorted. “Come on, or I’ll get it myself. That old devil’s non gettin’ the better o’ me.”

“Bakewell, eh? Good old Emmott!” chuckled the lanky one, lifting the bar flap.

“I’ll good old Emmott you!” threatened Mrs. Nadin, almost treading on his heels.

He called in at the side door which faced the lower buildings, telling some unseen person to shut the front door, and two minutes later out of a barn-like place a big taxi purred. Mrs. Nadin bundled in and Flo after her.

“It’s th’ eleven-thirty, eh?” the driver asked, looking sideways through the slide in the glass partition.

“Ay. Emmott’ll settle with you. ’E’s gooin’ ta run up a few bills taday as ’e’s non expectin’.”

The lanky driver guffawed and drove fast. The train was coming up the platform when they got through the ticket office. There was a score of people and the train was nearly full. Fortunately three railway-men, going off duty, got out, and Mrs. Nadin promptly took the opening. Flo was followed by two young men. There was a general shuffling and room was made for all, though one of the young men had to sit pinched forward directly facing Mrs. Nadin. She studied him, but he looked away through the window. His hands spread on his knees for balance were big and very pink, as if they had recently been boiled.

“Who are you?” demanded Mrs. Nadin loudly all at once, making every head turn.

“M . . . me?” stuttered the young man, forced to look and going red.

“Yes, you! I’m non cross-eyed, am I?” asked the fierce little woman. “You’re Sam Winkle’s lad, arena you?”

“Ay,” he admitted.

“I thought you were. What is it you’re called—Archibald, or summat daft like that, isna it?”

The young man nodded helplessly.

“Huh, I’d never ’a saddled a lad o’ mine wi’ a name like that,” she commented, and went on briskly with a continuous, disparaging catechism.

The young man seemed to sweat. Flo fancied she could smell the grease on his hair. She felt sorry for him, and ashamed of her companion. Others in the carriage, especially the young man’s mate, appeared to be enjoying it. The questions brought out that the young man was seventeen, nearly eighteen, and was working on a farm for his father’s eldest brother, Amos. He got twelve shillings a week and his keep. He was courting, and the girl’s name was Emily Lunt, but “non her as was born in th’ workhouse”. He hadn’t enough money to get married yet, but he hoped to have enough when he was twenty-one.

“Amos. That was him as was fined for pinchin’ a pig, wasna it?” asked Mrs. Nadin.

“Non as I know of,” said the young man desperately.

“You seem a sensible enough young chap,” was Mrs. Nadin’s loud summing up as the train slowed into Miller’s Dale. “Here’s a bit of advice. If you keep it you’ll do more than I’ve known any other young chap do. Keep your mouth shut an’ your bowels open, an’ you con shake your fist at the devil!”

There was a titter and everybody stopped in their places for her to get first to the door. In the Bakewell train, where again they only just got seats, she was unexpectedly quiet. She stared out of the window with her own thoughts. Flo had not spoken all the journey, but she dared to ask how they were going to find Mr. Nadin.

“Find ’im? I’ll find ’im,” said Mrs. Nadin, and shut up again.

Then they were in the crowd going along a level road. Flo looked at the treed hills, which were more rounded and greener than those of Mossdyche. And she looked at the people and felt that she might enjoy herself. Several persons called to Mrs. Nadin, “Good day, Monica,” and asked where Emmott was.

“He’s getten there afore me,” she answered, non-committal, and Flo sensed that even her attitude was changing. She was being affected by the holiday mood all round. Part of her anger had been due to fear of not being able to get to the show; now that she had arrived she was preparing to have a good time. They went in through restless turnstiles, and Flo stared at the expanse and the number of marquees and tents. She had been to a one-day show before, but never to one like this.

“However shall we find him?” she repeated.

“That’ll be noo trouble,” said Mrs. Nadin. “’E’ll non be at th’ boosing tents yet; ’e’ll be among th’ cattle.”

She bought a programme to find where the cattle were, and they walked slowly through the crowd. The ground was soft and seemed likely to be badly churned up before the day’s end, but there was no rain. The band of the Gordon Highlanders playing marches and the good temper of nearly everybody made even the greyness seem cheerful. Mrs. Nadin said it wasn’t likely that “the old devil” would be crushing by the ring; most probably he’d be mooching round the pens arguing with “some of t’other Moss riff-raff”. Here the crowd was not nearly as mixed as at the main ring, or round the flower and poultry marquees which they had passed. There were very few women, and plainly the men were practically all farmers or farm-men. Flo gazed round for Mr. Nadin in his bowler hat above the rest. She wondered whatever would happen when they did find him. Then almost at once her attention was taken by a throaty challenge, not very loud, yet somehow as threatening as a roar. She glanced apprehensively towards where it came from and saw a massive red bull. Its feet were smothered in wheat straw and it seemed all body, its back as level and broad as an old-time mahogany dresser. It stretched its neck, tilting its thick muzzle, and bawled again. Its horns were thicker than Flo’s wrists and looked at strong as iron. She had only a glimpse before two farmers moved together in front of the red and blue cards hanging on the pen front, but she craned back in the hope of getting another look at the beast. Instead she found herself staring straight at Jack Knight, just behind.

“You here!” he exclaimed.

“Seen that tripe-yead o’ mine?” demanded Mrs. Nadin, ignoring his greeting.

“Emmott? Ay, he were with Bill Willox over by th’ best dairy cow,” Jack answered, indicating with a slanting of his head. “Want tekkin’ to ’im?”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Nadin. “He’s best copped while he’s sober.”

Jack grinned but went ahead, with Mrs. Nadin following and Flo last. They pushed through narrow alleys between pens, they went up rows and down rows. To Flo it began to seem hopeless, and then there he was bolt straight with heavily wrinkled brow staring down his nose into a catalogue held nearly on a level with his chin, as if it was the most involved document he had ever studied. Mrs. Nadin made almost a bound. At the last moment, without change of attitude, he swivelled his eyes down on her in a most comical way.

“You!” he ejaculated, but with much less surprise than Flo had expected. “How the heck did you get?”

“Slid on mi backside down th’ telephone wires,” retorted Mrs, Nadin, swiping the catalogue from under his chin with her umbrella. “You old sod, thought you’d get away, didna you? I’m non so green-cheesy as I look. I’m havin’ a day as well as thee, an’ you’re payin’!”

A few curious persons were watching, but Mr. Nadin shrugged and said “Oh.”

“Ay, an’ first thing, claw out five bob for ’er,” nodding at Flo.

His hand went under the point of his jacket into the cross-pocket of his trousers.

“An’ a quid for yoursel’ an’ we’ll part,” he suggested.

“Noa likely,” said Mrs. Nadin. “Naa I’ve got you I stick. If you goo gallivantin’, I goo. Where’ll oo meet us?”

The farmer looked musingly on the two half-crowns on his palm. “How’d you get,” he asked, “by train? Chara I come in were full; there’d be noo room for . . .”

“Then there’ll be noo bother, we’ll all goo back by train,” said Mrs. Nadin promptly. “Five-thirty. Oo con meet us at th’ main gate at five.” She picked the half-crowns up and thrust them at Flo. “You’ll non want ta be cluckin’ round two old fowls like us all day; mek th’ best on it. An’ dunna forget ta be at th’ main gate.”

Flo started to thank her, but she turned away without listening, making towards the nearest dinner-tent, and the farmer, after a slow droop of his right eyelid, followed.

“Where you goin’?” Flo heard Jack Knight ask from behind. He had not spoken since their meeting with Mr. Nadin, and she had momentarily forgotten him. “If you dunna know your way about, come wi’ me,” he invited. “Rum cup o’ tea, them two, eh? Shell stick to ’im like a shadow all day. When they’re at home she’s boss all right; but when he’s out of her sight she’s like a cow without its calf.”

“She made me come with her . . . just so he’d have to pay,” said Flo, laughing uneasily. “Won’t I be a nuisance?”

“Come on,” he said abruptly, ignoring her question. “There’s a lot o’ things I want ta see, but you say what you want an’ we’ll work ’em in best as we can.”

He went sturdily just a little ahead of her.

“There’s nothing I know of. It . . . it’s all new to me,” said Flo. “Anything’s all right . . .”

“You’ll want ta see the flowers, anyway. I should think best time’s now, before the afternoon crowd.”

He went on without hesitation as if he knew the showground as well as Moss or Mossdyche valley. As they stood aside a moment at the marquee opening for a convoy of people to pass out he told her that they couldn’t see everything, but he’d show her what was what. He’d been round already, first thing. Flo was content. His quiet, partly husky voice took hold of her. He walked with quick short steps, slipping through the crowd in a curious lithe way, so that she had difficulty in keeping up. Sometimes half a dozen persons separated them, but his light uncovered upstanding hair was a good guide, and whenever he got ahead he waited patiently, Their first stop was at a big stall set out with carnations in tiers. Flo exclaimed at the many different colours, the frilling, the velvety sheen of the darker blooms. Jack pointed to a very dark wine, but she didn’t like that as much as a beautiful salmon pink with an orange glow in its depths. He took a tattered red-backed notebook out of his side pocket and pencilled the name down.

“All right, I’ll try ’em both,” he said.

“Where?” asked Flo.

“In one of the greenhouses,” he answered, matter of fact. “It won’t be tomatoes all the time,” and he smiled, his blue eyes meeting her’s intimately so that for a moment it seemed to her that there was no one else in the marquee. “How about roses next?” he suggested after the shortest pause.

Then he was showing her the table decorations. She chose the table with flesh pink sweet-peas and long emerald ropes of smilax.

“Get away,” he said, “that’s all love and honey. That kind of thing’s bin seen since the year dot,” and he took her to a table done all with catmint, rose-pink, blue and mauve, with a few old-fashioned clove pinks for contrast. “Don’t say you like it if you don’t.”

“It’s . . . it’s very nice.”

“But you’d rather have the other?”

“It . . . it’s cold, somehow.”

“But it’s new,” he laughed. “It got first, anyway.”

Next without saying where they were going he led her into a second large marquee set out with scores of card tables covered with paper cloths designed to imitate Belfast damask.

“Half a crown a time,” he explained briefly. “It’s a tiring job, show-lookin’. No sense in doing without. An’ if we leave it later we’ll never get in.”

As it was they had a job to find a table to themselves. There was no choice of food, the same for everybody—sliced ham and tongue and green salad with hot new potatoes and pats of butter. Flo had never had this mixture before, but found it good and filling. After that came Victorian plums and custard, and finally coffee and cheese. Jack talked nearly all the time . . . about carnations, about roses.

“If I grow owt I want ta grow it good,” he said thoughtfully.

Then he switched to noticing the people; trying to guess what they all were.

“It’s just a day out for most of ’em. They don’t know a ewe from a goat, but they enjoy themselves.”

Flo was aware that she was enjoying herself also. Jack’s slow, but nearly continuous, talk left her completely at ease. And yet it was interesting talk. She realized that he was really thinking aloud; she was seeing the show and the people not only herself but through his eyes as well. And he knew so much more about country things and country folk that she was content to listen and learn.

“I’d like ta bet that he’s from Ashbourne way,” nodding to a spare man in stained whipcord breeches and noticeable new black leggings. “Sheep man . . . used ta working with his hands in his cross-pockets an’ a stick under his arm. Dogs do th’ work on a sheep farm.”

Jack was known to many of the people who kept coming in and mooching round for tables. It was always, “Hello, Jack, how’s things?” Never his surname. He answered them all the same with ready ease.

“Won’t they wonder who I am?” Flo asked, self-conscious.

“Oh, I’m usually with someone fresh . . . it won’t worry ’em,” he answered lightly, and she was sorry that she had spoken.

He ate slowly and took ten minutes to sip his coffee. But at last he was ready. “How’d it be,” he said, “if we go where I want, to the greenhouses an’ the pamphlets, an’ then we’ll see what time there is . . .?” She agreed; she was willing to go anywhere. The greenhouses turned out to be empty, just shells for sale, and he poked about to see how everything worked and made notes and asked questions, but in such a companionable way that the salesman answered willingly for twenty minutes, although he must have known for more than half the time that Jack was no purchaser. And next the “pamphlets”, Flo found, were Ministry of Agriculture bulletins and leaflets displayed on a stall which reminded her of a railway inquiry bureau where one went about holidays. There were two young men to answer everything. They wore plus-fours and red-white-and-green college ties. One was superior and the other too affable. Jack opened books and studied pamphlets with the affable one always after him trying to tell him something which apparently he didn’t want to know. Jack simply kept quiet and read what he wanted, till at last he got left in peace. Hardly anybody else came to the stall, and Flo got rather tired of it because there were not many folk in the vicinity either. The day was still grey, but there was no sign of it going any worse, and it was mild, so she listened to the band from the distance and wondered what Mr. and Mrs. Nadin were doing.

“Four and six, please,” she woke up to hear the affable college boy saying. “You’ll grow something if you follow out all that those say.”

Flo was surprised at the bundle. Jack looked pleased and seemed to have no idea that she might have been bored.

“Doesn’t that show,” he said glancing back; “hardly anybody there, an’ yet there it all is, damn near for nothin’.”

“All what?”

“All the latest about everything. The government an’ the universities spend I dunno how much experimentin’ an’ findin’ out. An’ they put it all out cheap so’s anybody can have it, an’ nobody cares. Old man Nadin there muckin’ his hay about; thinks I’m daft tryin’ to tell him. But it’s all there.”

“He wouldn’t like being talked at like that young man talked at you,” said Flo thoughtfully.

“I know he wouldna. They’re th’ wrong type for some folk. I dunna mind; I just let ’em talk. But trouble is some folk winna learn from anybody. I got some fine stuff here on startin’ a hot-house . . . just what I want. If I’d got a book from a shop it ’ud cost quids.”

Enthusiastically he held the bundle of papers and bulletins out in front of her for a moment, and she felt ashamed of having been bored.

“All the knowledge there is, damn near, about farmin’ an’ growing, there for pickin’ up,” he exclaimed. “Is it any wonder th’ Derbyshire farmer’s about th’ back and behindest there is?”

“No,” said Flo willingly; and suddenly he laughed, all his seriousness shaking away.

“That’s my turn, now it’s yours. What’s next?” he asked, stopping, having evidently been walking without thinking where he was going. Flo said again that she didn’t mind. After looking at his big silver watch he decided that they should go to the ring. There were people three and four deep all along the rails, impossible to see past, but Jack went up behind a tall man in a heavy white mackintosh and a tweed cap and asked what was on.

“Finishing the judging . . . just about. Then it’s the hunt parade.” He noticed Flo. “Want her to come in?”

“Ay,” said Jack.

“I reckon I can look over you two,” commented the tall man, stepping aside.

Flo stared down a tunnel as it were, the sides of it consisting on the right of the necks, whiskers and billycocks of two men, and on the left of the collars, cheeks and black, rather sporty straw hats of two women. Sometimes the tunnel closed a bit and sometimes it widened, but at best all that she could see was about a yard square, though it extended right across the arena to the grandstand, which was packed from ground to roof with tiers of faces. She heard clapping, which began to the left of the stand and then spread swiftly and equally all round in the manner of ripples spreading from a flung stone. Then past the end of her tunnel trotted a man in a scarlet coat and a black cap with a long neb; seen for a second, then gone. Now the clapping and laughter was loudest along the near side of the ring.

“A grand lot, eh? As snappy as weasels,” came from one set of whiskers.

“Tear it ta bits if they got owt; as keen as . . . knives. They’ve given ’em brandy or summat. Feed ’em on eggs an’ such,” said his back neighbour.

“Aren’t they luvly,” said the woman with the broadest brim, swaying rightward till the tunnel was temporarily blocked.

“Can you see?” asked Jack in Flo’s ear.

“I can’t,” she answered, tantalized.

“Get on my back,” said Jack, turning round. She protested. “Why not? Course you con.” He bent forward and, because she wanted badly to see, she put her hands on his shoulders and vaulted up. He clasped his hands so that she sat on his upturned palms and felt safe, though foolish. Her thighs were splayed on his hips. She felt him small, yet firm, beneath her. The tall man grinned on a level with her. Hastily she looked away, forward over hats and heads, and saw just moving on to the straight at the opposite side the master and huntsman with twenty-three hounds round or behind their black horses, and finally the whipper-in, also on a black horse. Unexpectedly, for the first time, the sun came out almost as if from a touch on an electric switch and everything shone with new brightness: the pink coats, the white breeches, the black boots, and the sleek horses; and the pack became a gay stream of liver, white and black, legs twinkling, tails waving, so unusual and funny to Flo that she tightened her knees and hands and laughed, completely forgetful.

Now the master lifted his horn and blew an unmusical note which nevertheless excited everybody. The horses cantered, the pack stretched out, loping easily. Down the straight on the near side again the canter became a gallop, and Flo seemed actually to feel the heavy thuds of the hooves. But the quicker speed made little difference to the hounds; they kept up with the same beautiful ease. Everybody shouted and waved and laughed, and the whipper-in snapped his long lash after two stragglers who looked bored, apparently having gone through the performance too often before. Eventually one of these slipped across the centre and sat and waited for the rest coming round and the applause he got was loudest of all.

“Oh, you should see!” exclaimed Flo, all at once remembering. “It’s not fair . . .”

“I’ve seen it before,” Jack answered in a low satisfied tone, intimately increasing the pressure of his arms against her. At once the hunt lost all attraction. She looked down on his straight upright hair and was suddenly tempted to feel it. Under her hand the bristleness disappeared; the hair was soft and unexpectedly warm, almost aglow, and her hand was arrested and stayed there momentarily as if from surprise.

“Eh, what you doin’ . . . spoilin’ my partin’?” Jack demanded, tossing his head, as if in anger, but laughing.

“Let me down, let me down,” exclaimed Flo urgently, and at the same moment felt a sharp poke in the back. As she dropped a harsh voice exclaimed: “Na then, what the heckment . . .! You’ll non cop train playin’ pick-a-back.”

Flo turned in a fluster. Mrs. Nadin’s little eyes sparkled. Behind her Mr. Nadin stood straight and meek, but with a touch of pink on each cheek which seemed like proof that he had enjoyed himself despite his wife’s arrival.

“Come on,” said Mrs. Nadin. “If we dunna get gone there’ll be noo gettin’ out ’cos o’ the crush.”

She turned briskly away to the distant exit towards which already a steady flow was going. Mr. Nadin said, “Comin’, Jack?”

“Non yet. I’ll stay through,” he answered.

Flo glanced her thanks, wondering whether he noticed her burning cheeks. Then, too, she turned and hurried after Mrs. Nadin.