The Farm by the Lake

Chapter 19

There was a crowd on Bakewell Station. Farmers stood in groups discussing what they had seen, occasionally breaking into gusty laughter. Several times Flo heard behind her, “How go, Emmott!” Mr. Nadin answered, “Non so bad. How’s yourself?” but kept meekly in Mrs. Nadin’s wake. She went up the platform to be in position to get in the front part of the train. Then the train was coming up the long straight line from Derby. A corridor coach drew up in their front, and Mrs. Nadin was in the first surge to the door, using elbows and her umbrella skilfully. Flo got held back and went up the step and through the door the thirteenth person after her. She did not know whether to turn right or left, but chanced left, and on the third seat found Mrs. Nadin with her umbrella guarding a place for her. She wedged in thankfully. Mr. Nadin was a moment or two in arriving, moving slowly up the aisle in the long stream.

“I’ll goo on; maybe there’ll be summat farther up,” he announced.

They had their backs to the engine and could not watch him; Mrs. Nadin tried to, but the table between the pairs of seats prevented her. The whistle blew. The train got going with long powerful chuffs, very slowly at first, suggesting that the load it had just taken on was rather more than it had expected. Flo gazed past Mrs. Nadin through the big observation window. Suddenly her hand gripped on the table in front of her. She glanced at Mrs. Nadin. The little woman was searching in her handbag.

“You haven’t lost anything, have you?” said Flo, unable in so brief a time to think of anything better.

“Non that I know of,” said Mrs. Nadin ungraciously.

Flo dared to glance past her again. The tall unmistakable figure had been left behind and a smile spread from Flo’s eyes downward, widening her full, pleasant lips.

“Enjoyed yourself?” asked Mrs. Nadin, softening. “It’s non bin a bad show, though I’ve seen a lot a damn sight better.”

She started then to talk with a thin woman opposite, and Flo looked out and wondered how Jack would get back, and whether he had travelled in the chara from The Bull. They seemed to get quickly to Miller’s Dale, and there there was a great unloading. After the train had gone on the platform was nearly as full as at Bakewell. Mrs. Nadin stood on her toes and looked everywhere, and Flo pretended to look as well. Almost at once, however, the short local train chuffed in and there was nothing they could do but get in with the rest. Mrs. Nadin, after claiming a window seat with her handbag, stood obstructively in the doorway trying to watch everybody getting in elsewhere. Then without warning a porter slammed the door. She tugged angrily at the window strap so as to get her head out to tell him something, but the train started.

“Did you see the old devil?” she demanded.

“No,” said Flo, guessing that he was not the porter.

“By . . . by . . . if he’s slipped me agen, God help him,” said Mrs. Nadin solemnly, and then most unexpectedly she shut up. Her hand gripped and ungripped on her umbrella. She did not speak again till they had left the local train and were making across the broad way between the two Buxton stations, for the train to Moss. Here she broke out: “The sly monkey! I’d smash his grin off if on’y I had ’im. Pub crawlin’ home wi’ the rest, bluein’ his brass in like a big soft baby. Not enough sense ta know how ta button ’isself.”

That was the last. She seemed to become resigned. She walked out of Moss Station in her most business-like way, and Flo kept just behind. The lanky taxi-man was there, and with his tongue bulged out his left cheek secretly at Flo when he saw that they were still without the farmer.

“Didna yo’ find ’im, missis?” he asked jovially.

Mrs. Nadin tucked herself into the car without replying. He spat and shut the door, and when he was in his seat contented himself with questions about the show.

“There were on’y one thing missin’,” said Mrs. Nadin, “a class for donkeys.”

In what state Mr. Nadin got back, whether drunk or sober, Flo never got to know. He came some time after she had gone to sleep. In the morning he was up before them all and worked in brooding silence. Half-way through milking Flo saw him at the yard gate, so that the show had not enabled him to forget the hay. Mrs. Nadin nagged a little more even than usual, but it was plain to Flo that after his escapades the farmer could look after himself. His silence, his lack of retorts to her angry attacks, left his wife without ammunition, as it were. And so the matter passed and life became normal again, except for Flo’s memories of the show. She wrote home a good description, telling of Jack, though she did not mention sitting on his back.

The return to ordinary routine was irksome. Dot, too, was in her worst mood.

“I suppose you’ll have the decency not to sneak about anything you saw yesterday,” she said disagreeably the first time they were left together in the kitchen.

“There was nothing to sneak about,” answered Flo.

“You wouldn’t have gone if I’d had my way.”

“I know,” said Flo.

After breakfast rain fell. Every day, sometimes heavily, sometimes only in occasional showers, some rain came and August wasted away with the hay in Lake Meadow going darker and darker and the new grass growing taller till the once proud cocks were almost lost.

“We’ll cart it off an’ fill Black Pit,” said Mr. Nadin on the first Thursday in September, “it’s only spoilin’ t’other.”

Thus all day they carted, and Flo from her bedroom could see the pale circles where the cocks had stood so long. She asked Bert if there was nothing else that could be done.

“It’s goin’ rotten, but it’ll never rot,” he answered cryptically. “The pit’s best place for it.”

Then, as they finished, the weather relented and let the clouds be driven away by a cool wind from the south-east. After the second day it was considered fit to begin to mow in Charlie Meadow, the eleven acres, and Flo was sent to follow the mower again. The meadow sloped to the left of the lane, where it ran beside the lake. Flo saw Dick Goldbourn by the water, but she was too busy to think much about him. After a while he reeled in and came to the gate and watched the circling machine. He waved and Flo briefly shook her wooden rake in acknowledgement, but somehow she did not feel that she wanted to go near him. He wheeled himself to where Bert was mowing by the hedge and Bert leaned on the curved pole of his scythe and talked for ten minutes. Flo expected Mr. Nadin to shout at him, but the farmer went on shaking out at the south corner where the swaths lay thick on one another. Flo had expected him to be more impatient than he had been the first time in the hay, but he seemed not to bother, to have become resigned. She could not understand and felt that it was rather sad. The urgency, of which she had been so conscious during her first days of hay-making, was now not to be felt at all. Through so long waiting they had become stale; the work had become drudgery to the rest, though to her it was still exciting. She liked following the mower, watching the falling grass. She decided to ask Jack, next time she saw him, if he had ever done that job and whether it had fascinated him. She wondered when he would be coming again; she had not seen him since the show.

Day after day the cool wind kept on, making the men work in their jackets and Dot and Flo in scarves. But the grass dried quickly. It had not the colour of the first grass in Lake Meadow, but was much longer, lots of it over two feet, and heavy. There were few flowers left in and scarcely any pollen dust when the swaths were turned or shaken.

“But it’s hay. It’ll fill their guts . . . an’ there’s plenty of it. It’ll make up for some of what we lost in Lake Meadow,” said Clem while they rested the horses. He brought up his pipe from his side-pocket and filled and lit it and looked at Flo contemplatively. “By gum,” he exclaimed unexpectedly, “done you know, you’ve filled out sin’ you come here? You’re gettin’ a shape like Venus.”

“Hadn’t we better get on?” asked Flo coldly, moving a step farther from him.

“You’re doin’ all right,” he commented, still appraising her as though she were in the ring at auction. “I’ve bin out wi’ lots worse than you.”

“Well, you’re not going out with me,” said Flo flatly. “I’m particular . . . an’ I’ve somebody else,” she added, and then felt surprised at herself.

“Oh, by gad,” said Clem, spitting, “you’ve started, eh? Who is it?”

“Mind your own affairs,” she retorted, though she knew that she had asked for it. “It’s time we got on.”

“The hell it is.” His tobacco had gone out and he jabbed it down safe in the bowl with his little finger and then put the pipe back in his pocket. “Oh, so that’s it, eh? I mun have mi eye on you. If it’s one o’ the lads from town, you’ll ha’ ta keep spry.” He chuckled meaningly and slowly hitched his thigh over the spring seat and shook the rope lines with a loud and threatening, “Get yer!” The machine jerked off with a harsh chatter and Flo was thankful.

Week-end came and the hay was judged to be ready. The first load was brought home just after eleven. Flo had been kept in to help in preparing for the afternoon’s expected guests, but she saw the great untidy load rocking past the gate to go in behind the barn where the stacks were to be made. Mr. Nadin came after the cart, but instead of going past he turned into the yard and tramped up to the house and planted himself in the doorway.

“We conna manage ’bout her; she’s got ta come,” he announced dourly, and with a jerk of his thick thumb he summoned Flo from the sink.

“And how the heck do I manage, you old fool?” demanded Mrs. Nadin; but he was going away and gave no sign of having heard. “If ’e had the sense of a louse an’ could wait, ’e’d have as much help as ’e con use an’ more,” grumbled Mrs. Nadin to Flo; and then unexpectedly, “Well, you heard what he said.”

Flo ran out, drying her hands on her brown sacking apron. Behind the barn a kind of rectangular platform had been made of logs and branches which was now being clothed with the first round of hay. Bert was rolling it off the load in great shaggy balls and already there was a mound there below.

“Way up, give ’er a chance,” ordered the farmer morosely, and passed her a pikel to throw the hay where he wanted it. She dug in energetically and was shocked at the weight.

“You’re non Samson; you’ll non lift it all at once,” said Bert. “Tek it in bits . . . off the top.”

That was better, though it was hard work. Too often she dug too deep, or in the wrong place and tugged hay from underneath. And sometimes, just as she got a good forkful, Bert dropped another ball right on top. She looked up, but always he had turned away and was searching with the tines of his fork for the edges of the next lot. And then a forkful came on top of her; she was suddenly smothered in a dry rustling mesh. Her fork was entangled. Her breath caught and she sneezed, and her eyes were filled with bits.

“Eh,” shouted the farmer. “There’s noo time for tricks. September 6 an’ first load!”

Bert grinned; but after that he worked more methodically and Flo found it easier. The farmer went steadily round and round stacking with greatest care. Flo was surprised when she heard Bert’s fork ring on the cart bottom. The load which had seemed so high and so big scarcely looked anything on the stack.

“Another twenty loads an’ you’ll begin to see something,” said Bert, and glancing aside she found Dick Goldbourn at the gate and wondered how long he had been there.

“She’s gettin’ her hand in at everything; she’ll be able to run the farm, if you keep her at it,” said Dick.

“She’s a good lass . . . for a young ’un,” admitted the farmer, and she knew that Dick was looking closely. But suddenly she found that it didn’t matter, and she let her eyes go to him in a friendly smile. His face was clear and looked well, but his body was big, and it seemed strange to her that she had ever thought that she might marry him, even if he had lots of money.

“I haven’t had to call on your help lately. How’s the foot?” he asked, smiling back.

“I’ve forgotten it,” and she ran past him into the lane.

“You’ll be wanted next load,” Mr. Nadin shouted, but she was glad to get away.

Flo had worked hard since she came to Prettyfield, but never as hard as she worked now. The loads came every twenty minutes or so. Mr. Nadin would shout as he went past the gate, and out she would have to run. Struggling with the great hay tangles made her sweat, and by the third load the muscles of her arms and across her shoulders ached so much that she wondered if she would be able to keep on. Only then it was dinner-time and the longer rest let her recover, though she knew that she was going to ache next day. In the afternoon Dot did most of the cabin work, but Flo had to do what she could. Mrs. Nadin seemed to have an uncanny power of knowing just how long it took to unload the hay, and if Flo didn’t hurry as soon as the cart well had been emptied, over the barn roof would come: “Flo, naa! Come on theer.”

Then there would be a tray waiting. There were hundreds of people that afternoon, so it seemed to Flo, because there were always trays waiting, and always there were pots to be carried back and washed. The dry week-end at last had enticed out walkers and picnickers who knew that winter would soon be back, though there were not many fishermen. The dull wet spell hadn’t kept them away; it was the fine weather with its cool wind that they didn’t like.

Flo as she walked to the cabin could see the loads being made up over the lane in Charlie Meadow. Clem was on top with great tousled forkfuls coming up to him from either side where she guessed Mr. Nadin and Bert were. They were working hard, too, so that Flo did all that she could willingly, even putting up with Dot’s crossness. Twelve loads were stacked before dusk, and even then there was still work indoors. Flo brought the last of the pots from the cabin and bent wearily over the tin. All day the treatment she had given to her hands had been of the worst. Taking them with softened skin straight out of water she had had to grasp the pikel. In no time damp and friction had lifted a blister on the inside of the upper joint of her right thumb and another on the top joint of the first finger of her left hand. Then her palms had gone red and sore, but before blisters had come there the thumb and finger blisters had rubbed off. Now in the hot water her hands felt raw; every time she picked up a pot she flinched.

“You’ll know what hay-time’s like in a bit,” said Mrs. Nadin.

“My word, I shall sleep,” said Flo.

But she didn’t. Her shoulders and shoulder-blades were sore so that she could not lie easy. As she turned about she remembered what the fat woman had said in the train so long ago about farming: “All work an’ no play, hand all the mucky work . . . God help you.” Only somehow the memory made Flo smile, and she cuddled her hands in the flannel of her nightdress between her thighs and after that remembered no more till she woke with the first show of dawn light over Moss Edge. She came awake gradually, and only after a long interval realized that for some reason she felt strangely happy. There was a pleasant gurgling tinkle from somewhere. Then all at once she understood; it was rain on the roof, in the gutters just outside the open window, in the down-spouts. And this was the cause of her happiness! It was guilty happiness, but rain meant rest. Her tired body had realized it even before she had come properly awake. She would have time to recover. Her hands were already a bit better. Oh, she was thankful; but she knew that Mr. wouldn’t be!