The Farm by the Lake

Chapter 7

Flo thought that she would never be able to sleep in the strange bed. She lay for some time with open eyes towards the grey oblong of the window. She was conscious of the silence; next, only a few minutes later, as it seemed, she was wakened by a wild jangling.

Dimly she saw the bell kicking violently. Under the clangs of the clapper there was a tingling hum that seemed to spin in her eardrums. She jerked upright thinking of stopping the din, and then realized that she could not. The bell tossed for an intolerable time. She determined to knot a handkerchief round the clapper before next morning. When the bell nodded into peacefulness her head still buzzed with the spinning undertone. But after a while it cleared and she began to notice the house coming awake. A door banged somewhere, there were steps on the yard stones, a cow lowed knowing that a feed was coming; and a little later she heard the unmistakable rooting of a poker in the grate among the debris of a dead fire. This made her hurry.

A cool draught met her from the back door. Yellow light from the kitchen falling over the passage emphasised the outer darkness. The grandfather clock told her that it was only half-past five. Mrs. Nadin was bending near the fire which was roaring fiercely behind a “blower” made of part of an iron sheet advertisement. The edges where the enamelling survived showed bright yellow, making Flo think of mustard. The handle in the centre was a clumsy piece of hoop iron.

“’Mornin’,” said Mrs. Nadin in the same staccato manner. “Set them basins out.”

With a piece of charred flannelette she grabbed the blower and, carrying it like a shield, walked swiftly to the door. Specks of glowing soot eddied over her and the thing smelt. She dumped it with a clatter against the wall outside. The fire tossing its flames up the great chimney fascinated Flo by its prodigality. At home Mrs. Royer had always been so niggardly with coal. Already the white cloth was newly laid on the big oblong table pushed towards the corner behind the door. Flo set five thick white basins in a row and then was told to add another. Mrs. Nadin spooned dollops of stiff oatmeal stew from a big-bellied brown pot out of the oven into an iron pan and poured milk on it generously from a two-quart blue enamel jug.

“Come an’ wipe; an’ keep an eye on this,” she ordered, “an’ if you let it burn, Dickie help you, ’cos I winna.”

So Flo wiped the supper pots and every now and then vigorously stirred the porridge on the bar. From outside came more lowings, occasional shouts, little explosive clatterings of clogs on cobbles. Then steps passed along the passage and Flo caught sight of Clem going out.

“Allus late; he’ll be late at his own funeral, that man,” said Mrs. Nadin to no one in particular.

After a while the farmer and the two sons came in, all with hair anyhow, and in jackets which at first glance seemed mainly holes and frayed edges. They sat morosely and mechanically spooned up the porridge.

“Going to let us have another milker, Monica?” asked the farmer.

“Am I hellas like,” came the pat retort.

He went on gulping enormous spoonfuls at an unvarying steady rate. After the last spoonful he pushed his basin into the centre and at once got up and went out without speaking again. Bert soon followed, but Clem, after pushing his basin away, rested for nearly five minutes on his elbows, hands loosely linked, arms lying in a “V”.

“Happen you’d like ta stop an’ do the housework an’ let Flo go out,” said Mrs. Nadin tersely.

“No; I’d sooner let Dot go. Where is she?” he asked in his slow manner. “Thinks she’ll retire now, I bet.” But after that he slouched out.

“She’ll not retire on me,” said Mrs. Nadin to his back. She went along the passage and from the stair foot bawled: “Now, our Dot, d’you come down, or mun I come an’ make you?”

Flo heard some sort of reply, though she was unable to catch it clearly. Mrs. Nadin came back apparently satisfied, but after a further ten minutes her impatience boiled up again.

“Go up an’ if she isna out, pull th’ clothes off an’ bring them down here,” she ordered. Thinking that she must be joking, Flo hesitated. “What are you waiting for?” Mrs. Nadin demanded. “Dunna you understand plain English?”

Flo set off, scared by the little woman’s viciousness. She was not sure even which was the right room, but she tapped on the only shut door on the first landing and got in reply an unwelcoming, “Come in.” Dorothy Nadin was still in bed, and stared questioningly. The flame of the candle on the chair near her trembled a little.

“Please, miss, you’re to get up,” Flo murmured. “Missis sent me.”

“Did she? Didn’t she send a cup of tea?”

“No,” said Flo.

“Well, don’t stop and stare.”

“She said I was to take the clothes down,” Flo explained steadily, moving a step nearer.

“Did she? You dare!”

“I . . . I don’t suppose she meant it, but she . . . she seemed to,” said Flo at a loss. “She’s . . .”

“She meant it all right; but if you try . . .”

The threat was unfinished. The speaker had not moved except to turn her head so that she could look straight at Flo. Flo shifted her weight uneasily and unconsciously ran her tongue along her top lip. “What can I tell her?”

“What you like; only get out,” said Dot; but suddenly she tossed the clothes down and sat up. She was in a pink flannel nightdress with narrow cream lace at the close neck and round the wrists. She was thinner than Flo had thought.

Dot felt her hair, which was very dark. The two legs of one of the big copper-wire pins round which it was wound had come untied and she slowly drew the pin out, leaving the lock dangling, a single absurd spiral down her left cheek. Then she seemed to become aware of Flo still waiting. “Are you stuck there?” she demanded.

“No,” Flo answered. “Shall I tell her you’re getting up?”

“No; if you want the clothes, take them; tell her I’ve done with them,” and she lifted her feet over the edge and got out with unwilling deliberation. Flo turned away and went back to the kitchen.

“Well, where’s th’ clothes?” demanded Mrs. Nadin at once.

“She’s out, so I didn’t think you’d want them,” said Flo. There was no reply.

After that Mrs. Nadin kept herself too busy to nag Flo. They washed the porridge things, and reset for breakfast. Bacon was cut in two-feet rashers which curled right round the great iron frying-pan. This bacon had only three thin lines of lean, but it smelt clean and sweet and appetizing. Two lots had been done and lay crisped on a big oval willow-pattern meat dish in the oven before Dot came down. Her lock was back in its pin, and she looked neat in an ironed overall-apron covered with tiny little marigolds.

“Lady La-di-da now, eh?” said Mrs. Nadin. “I didna take her on ta do thy work. Get toasting fork.”

Dot did not answer, but Flo felt the coolness of her antagonism. Whenever in their work they moved near one another, Dot either passed her over with an uninterested stare or looked past her as if she did not know that she was there.

“Has she bitten thee? What’s up with her as you dunna like?” demanded Mrs. Nadin unexpectedly just as the grandfather clock began to grind inwardly ready to strike seven.

“No,” said Dot, “she doesn’t trouble me. She’ll be useful for serving in the cabin, I should think.”

“Yes, an’ so will you, madam,” said Mrs. Nadin grimly.

The clock finished its chime with a sigh, thankful to get that done with, and up the path came Clem. Bert came five minutes later, but there was no sign of the farmer.

“Fetch him,” ordered Mrs. Nadin, and Flo went out into the grey chill morning. He wasn’t in the shippon, nor where the horses were. She tried to push the big door that reached up to the slates. It had little wheels evidently intended to run on the line on the stones, but it was jammed. Then she noticed a wicket in the big door and stepped through doubtfully into the gloom of lofty space. After a moment or two she saw on the right an untidy hay mound, what was left of a stack; and on the left built up against a whitewashed wall were three tiers of bulgy sacks. There was a peculiar smell which reminded her of sawdust and of Saturday night in town at home. She wondered why; and then it came to her that it was something like the smell that came out of the public-house doors if they happened to open as she passed, only there was no smoke with this smell. But, of course, it couldn’t have anything to do with public-houses; she must be mistaken. She was about to step over the high sill back into the yard when a resonant thump of wood came from somewhere past the far wall of the barn, and then faintly she heard Mr. Nadin talking to “Monica” about something. She ventured across the broken floor into darker shadow and then made out a farther door set back in the thick wall. It gratered to her push and she looked into a square lean-to with a biggish window of dirty glass in a roof of old corrugated iron. The sides seemed to be railway sleepers. A narrow gangway divided the lean-to and there were little square pens, three on either side. Mr. Nadin was in one bending gravely forward.

“Breakfast,” said Flo.

“How done these suit you?” he asked in a quiet tone.

In the pen were two calves, a red-brown and a white, their heads stuck into a bucket which the farmer held tilted at the height of his knee. They sucked and guggled, and shoved and swayed, and looked so young and curly that Flo could not keep her hand off. Where she touched, the skin jerked as if her fingers tickled like a fly, but the youngsters were much too greedily engrossed to bother further.

“Two grand uns,” said the farmer. “Pity as Monica’s white.”

“Why,” Flo asked.

“Not supposed to be as good . . . dunna know why.”

Flo, privately preferred the white because it looked so clean. Now the sucking was more noisy till the red lifted a froth-decorated nose, only the next instant to plunge back and shove blindly all round the bucket bottom. The white gave up and stood splay-legged, staring solemnly with damson eyes.

“Monica?” said Flo.

“Because it’s like the old woman . . . non very big, but plenty of guts on it.” He chuckled; and Flo noticed how the calf’s belly bulged as if it were with what it had drunk.

“Never know when they’ve had as much as is good for ’em,” added the farmer with the same caressing quality that Flo had noticed in the shippon. He latched the gate and looked into the next pen. Here was one calf, somewhat larger. Flo held her hand over and the calf nosed for it eagerly. She flinched, but then held her fingers steady in the warm slaveriness of its lips while it sucked energetically. Her middle finger seemed to fit into a groove. She thought the calf must imagine that it had got its mother’s teat, till all at once it gave up and quested with its nose round about. But what it wanted was not there either, and it mooed childishly.

“Like to feed ’im?”

“Yes, please.”

Mr. Nadin picked up another bucket and the calf nearly butted her over. “You’ll spill, you silly thing,” she ejaculated and laughed without knowing. The calf thrust in so greedily that its nostrils were drowned. Its sneeze and shake spattered her with suds, but she did not mind. “It might never have drunk before,” she exclaimed.

“He hasna . . . often, non that road,” said the farmer appreciatively. “And he’ll non have many more here.”

“Oh?” said Flo.

“Off to-morrow; we conna bother with his sort.”

“Why not?” she asked, feeling the eagerness and warmth of the youngster against her, and loving it.

“Eat too much; an’ you conna milk ’em.”

“Oh,” she repeated doubtfully.

At last there was no more, and the calf blinked ready to fall asleep.

“It’s not going to be killed, is it?” she asked anxiously.

“Nay; Jack’s taking him,” he answered; and she wondered who Jack was, but she judged from the farmer’s tone that he was a person to be trusted.

“Breakfast,” she exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “Missis’ll be cross.”

“Eh, dunna worry about her,” he advised, indifferent. “If it isna one thing, it’s t’other.”

He jangled the buckets together and led into the barn and through a door on the right, where she saw this time a row of the heads of cows. All the great eyes of those nearest seemed to be watching her gravely.

“I mun get you out milking regular,” said Mr. Nadin. “If you dunna get chance you’ll never learn.”

He opened a little gate into the central stall and pushed his way between two cows. When Flo followed they seemed both to lean on her, and for an instant she was afraid. As she escaped a tail slashed her neck. The unexpected touch of the coarse hair made her flinch; then she laughed, relieved.

“Do they sleep here?” she asked, looking at the sodden sawdust.

“Yes.”

“I—I thought they had straw.”

“They do, when we have any; we’ve run out,” and he marched on as if there was nothing in sleeping on a brick floor. Flo wondered if it was something that the cruelty people ought to be told about, only somehow she could not think that the farmer would deliberately wrong the cows.

“You never know,” he said partly to himself. “You conna look at ’em too often.” Flo wondered what he meant, but she did not like to ask. He latched the lower door, but left the tipper part open carefully halfway.

“Bin ta Moss for him?” demanded Mrs. Nadin tartly the moment they got in.

“She mun come out milking wi’ me tomorrow mornin’,” said the farmer slowly, but with a certain finality.

“You’d best stay in an’ help me then,” his wife retorted. “A fine kettle o’ fish you’d make on it.”

He seemed not to hear. Clem had a Farmer and Stockbreeder tilted against a quart jug and did not look up. Bert was chewing steadily, and every few seconds sucked a mouthful out of a white pint pot. Dot was at the corner nearest to the fireplace.

“It’s in th’ oven,” said Mrs. Nadin scarcely interrupting her eating. “If you conna come, you mun look after yoursel’s; it’s non a boarding-house.”

Flo got out for the pair of them. As after the early morning porridge neither of the sons moved till Mr. Nadin finished, and at once got up and half-filled a bucket with steaming water from the sink.

“Dunna be taking all that,” Mrs. Nadin warned, getting up briskly.

After that Flo was never given a moment’s rest. It was what Mrs. Nadin called “Upstairs morning”. To Flo it seemed like a spring-cleaning, for everything had to be lifted out, the carpets taken up and beaten; and finally all the furniture had to be polished as if it had never been polished before, though it was as bright as glass.

“Wearing ourselves out,” said Dot. “I wish you’d some sense, Ma.”

“Mucky house, mucky mind,” retorted the little woman, working with energy that never flagged. “A fine midden-hole you’ll have if there’s any fool as’ll give you chance.”

Then Flo peeled potatoes. Not till afternoon did she get a minute alone. Just before three Mrs. Nadin unexpectedly explained that she always took a “two-three minutes shut-eye; when you get to be an old hen like me you’ll find as you con do wi’ it”, and off she stumped upstairs as vigorously as she had set off in the morning to the cleaning. Flo was apprehensive of what would happen while Dot had charge, but almost at once Dot went up the passage, too, and then the house went quiet and still, except for the tick-tock of the grandfather in the corner. It was such a lazy tick-tock that Flo wondered whether the clock were forgetfully taking a snooze also and getting terribly slow. Certainly it seemed a long time since she first came downstairs; a long day. She idled a little over the washing-up, stirring the grease slowly round without thinking of it. She tried to imagine what her mother would be doing; the time when they said “Good-bye” seemed a much longer way back than the day before.

The silence made her nervous all at once whether Mrs. Nadin might be listening, so she clashed two plates together and began to wipe. Then a timid mew made her look down. The grey barred cat purred and lifted its tail vertically all except two inches at the tip and rubbed its flank against her leg. She selected three pieces of mutton gristle and the cat’s purr became louder, almost like the sound of sawing. She stooped and played her finger-tips in the fur of the animal’s crown. When she stood to the sink again she was surprised to see a strange float entering the yard. The driver was young with very prominent cheek-bones and very light cream hair very short and upright. He walked briskly up the path, and after the least knock lifted the latch and stood square in the kitchen doorway.

“Clem about?”

“I—I don’t know,” said Flo, staring.

“He’s got a cawfe; said he’d have it ready,” the newcomer explained without any sign of being put out. “You’re new here, aren’t you? Are you from round about?”

“No.”

“I thought not; I reckon to know pretty well everybody hereabouts . . . an’ there’s non many as don’t know Jack Knight.” He smiled, showing big regular teeth. “I wonder if he’s left it somewhere.”

“I can look,” said Flo, hesitant, then going towards the door.

He moved out and waited just outside. She noticed that he had clogged boots. He was no taller than she was, but he walked in almost a military way, with short quick steps.

“What did you say it was?”

“A calf . . . bull; roan, I think.”

“Oh,” muttered Flo. “That wasn’t what you said.”

“Don’t they say ‘cawfe’ where you come from?” He laughed again. “There’s funnier things than that as we say; you’ll learn a few off Monica, I reckon.”

“She does talk,” she agreed, somehow relieved to be able to discuss her with someone.

“Like a rat-trap; makes up for the old man. Says what she wants an’ be damned to you. There’s a few round here don’t like her, ’cos she non feart of telling ’em . . . But she’s straight. I like folk as say what they mean.”

Flo wondered about his age. He sounded older than he looked. The horse, a half-legged piebald, hadn’t been brushed, and the paint of the float had flaked off, grey wood showing in patches and blotches. The traces were chain, badly rusted.

“They keep the calves at the back,” said Flo, pleased to let him know that she knew something. But he seemed to know better than she did, for he crossed to the barn and went confidently through in front of her. He glanced over the pens and said at once, “This is him”, and jerked the bolt out. It was the calf that Flo had fed. It struggled up and capered stiltedly away, as if its legs were clockwork and not its own, but her companion caught it skilfully and hoisted it under his arm, right hand under its belly.

“What are you going to do?” demanded Flo, scared.

“Take him; that’s what I come for.”

“But how do I know . . .?”

“Oh, tell ’em it’s Jack; it’ll be all right,” he said easily, manœuvring carefully through the doorway. “We’ll ha’ to find a sack . . . any old thing.”

The calf began a spasmodic struggle and seemed about to slip out of his grip backward, but he abruptly shifted his arm from under its belly and held it in both arms, fore and aft, so that its legs were bunched and it was helpless. This amused Flo so much that she laughed out and Jack looked at her appreciatively.

“You know how to laugh, anyway,” he said. “Look in yon corn bin; there’s gen’ly some old sacks . . .”

She lifted the flat wooden lid. There were several sacks, strong heavy ones, but those, he said, would not do. “There’s money on them; we want one as is no good.”

“What’s it . . . for?”asked Flo.

“To put him in, of course.”

“You’ll smother him.”

“Non th’ way as I do it,” and he grinned at her ignorance. “Here, the beggar’s gettin’ heavy. We’ll let ’im walk.”

Set down the calf stood stiff and trembling. Jack shoved on its haunches from behind and it leaned back, and when the pressure was too strong, it let its rear stagger sideways, but kept its forefeet planted. Then Jack shoved at its shoulder and got it straightened towards the door once more, but it would not go reasonably.

“The stupid little brute,” exclaimed Jack, and lifted it bodily over the barn sill.

“Let me try,” said Flo. Possibly it was because it felt safer in the light, but now the calf paced gently on and all she had to do was steer by patting its neck when it veered too much to one side, as it tried to do nearly all the way. Jack led to the stable, where behind the door he found a sack with three ragged holes in, but with bottom more or less intact.

“You hold it,” he ordered, stretching the sack mouth. Adroitly he captured the calf, tipped it upright, doubling its legs, and began to try to get it rear first into the sack. But now it fought with all its strength, and got a leg free, and hit Flo on the knuckle, so that she let go. “Hold still, you little cracker,” panted Jack, hugging it in a kind of rugby tackle.

“Isn’t it cruel?” asked Flo, wondering whether she was doing right.

“If he’d keep still an’ sensible, he’d go in like your foot an’ know nowt about it.”

They tried again. All at once the calf weakened, and Jack shook him down as if he were potatoes. Only his head stuck out. The sack was gathered in round his neck and Jack tied it with binder twine from his pocket. Never had Flo seen anything look more pathetic than the calf did then lying on its side gazing out on the world with great bewildered eyes. Once or twice it fumbled its legs. It mooed in its helplessness. Flo heard an answering bawl from the shippon.

“Mother,” said Jack. “Surprisin’ how some of ’em remember. They make a fuss, some o’ them. Hark ’er.” There was the rattling of a chain. “It’s just hearin’ him. Probably never thought owt about him for a week,” said Jack; but to Flo this careless view seemed callous. She thought of the calf now as a human baby. Jack bundled it up and dropped it in the float bottom, shoving it to one side with his boot.

“Where are you taking it? You shouldn’t do that,” said Flo, growing hot. “I don’t think I should have helped. I’m sure Mr. Nadin wouldn’t . . .”

He looked up and his eyes were very blue and held a quizzing look, so that her anger flagged again.

“Don’t worry; he’s a grand ’un,” he said. “I’m goin’ to look after ’im. Tell the old man I’ll see him right sometime. Come up, mi old cabhorse!” This to the piebald gelding, and the float began to turn and rocked and slipped over the rough yard. Flo saw the calf nodding as if he had no strength left except barely to keep his head up. She didn’t know even yet whether to let him go. But at the gate Jack gave a queer stiff flip with his left hand and then was hidden by the building. It was too late. A little pucker of worry came between her eyes, and as she went back to the house she considered whether to go upstairs at once and tell Mrs. Nadin.

Only when she got in Mrs. Nadin was down and snapped out before Flo could say anything, “Where’ve you bin?”

“A . . .a man came for a calf; I don’t know . . .”

“Where was Emmott? It’s none o’ your job.”

“I don’t know, but he said . . .”

“Who were it?” Mrs. Nadin interrupted.

“Knight . . . Ja . . .”

“Good cess you got rid of ’im!” she exclaimed. “Talk the hind leg off a dead donkey. Knows everything there is ta know an’ a dang seet more—ta hear him talk. Got it off his father. He talked till he even got tired o’ listenin’ to ’isself, so he went deaf. Deaf as dead mutton; and Jack’ll goo deaf an’ all. What was he after?”

“Calf . . . the one by its . . .”

“Did he pay?” demanded the little woman abruptly.

“No,” said Flo.

“Huh!” was the satisfied comment. “Into ’is pocket it would ’a gone and I’d ’a seen nowt. But we’ll see about this.”

She rolled back the wristbands of her tight black moire frock and went off into the pantry. Flo, relieved, walked back to the sink. Apparently there was nothing wrong about Jack Knight taking the calf, except as it affected Mr. Nadin. Dot was by the sink.

“Time you’d done,” she said coldly. “If you dawdle you’ll be no good here.”

Flo kept silent.

“Don’t you answer when you’re spoken to? Didn’t they teach you that in the paupers’ place?”

Flo nearly asked, “What paupers’ place?” but stopped just in time. “I didn’t know what there was to say,” she answered.

“Sulking won’t do you any good.”

“No,” said Flo.

“And don’t answer me back like that.”

“No,” said Flo again, flustered.

“No, what?”

“No . . . no . . .?”

“Don’t you know to say ‘miss’?”

“Eh! What’s that?” demanded Mrs. Nadin coming unexpectedly. “Lesson in manners? Lesson in daftness, more like. If you want ta start miss-ing an’ madaming, goo on th’midden; that’s best place for that muckment.”

Dot retorted: “You’ve no right to have a girl. You spoil them all. Of course she ought to say ‘miss’. Any maid should.”

“You shut you’re trap,” said Mrs. Nadin briskly, but without anger. “You’ve too much ta say, all of a piece. If she suits me she’ll suit you, or you lump it, as the Irishman said to the donkey when he shoved it to the mule.”

Dot did not reply, but stepped closer to the sink and when Flo stood aside pushed the kettle stiffly under the tap straight in front of her. Momentarily the water hit on the outside and splattered them, but it wet Flo more than Dot. As the fire was being poked to seat the kettle, Bert came in.

“What’s Jack payin’ for yon cawfe?” asked Mrs. Nadin at once.

“Didna know as he were takin’ one,” said Bert without interest.

“Nao, I thought not. Bit o’ ’bacca money as we’re non supposed ta know about. Your dad thinks he’s smart, but he’s non th’ony smart one.”

“It’ll be bull-calf,” said Bert. “Pass us the paper, Dot.”

“Get it yourself; you’re as well able to.”

Flo wondered what would happen when the farmer came. She felt guilty, as if she had made a trap for him. All at once she thought of taking the greasy water out to the grid on the excuse that it might choke the sink pipe. Then, possibly, she could warn him.

“Eh, where you goin’?” asked Mrs. Nadin. “Boilin’ water and soda’ll soon start th’pipe agen; dunna bother that road.”

Flo turned back, and a short time after heard the farmer coming. Before he was properly inside Mrs. Nadin was at him: “What about that bull-cawfe, you tight-fisted sinner?”

“Bull-cawfe?” he repeated, appearing to blink.

“Non of your soft,” snapped his wife belligerently. “That as Jack Knight took.”

“Didna know as he’d took it,” said the farmer with the same lack of hurry.

“Nao; but you know how much he’s payin’, an’ that’s what. Where do I get mi extras, eh? Odd shillings here, odd shillings there, all into thy long pocket and away ta keep th’ Kicking Donkey kicking.”

Mr. Nadin sat in the high-backed chair by the fire and asked Dot for his cup as if the tirade had nothing to do with him.

“Run this place on nowt, like Patsy’s donkey, for all you care. A belly on you like a tank when it comes ta beer; why the damn it doesn’t drown you beats me.”

No one appeared to be attending; only Flo felt that she was responsible. At first chance she’d tell the farmer she was sorry, but that it had all come about unexpectedly. After a brief space of silence she was astonished to hear the farmer quietly declare:

“I’ll take Flo out ta milking; she’s the making of a good ’un,” and then he took a long audible suck from the edge of his cup.

“Take ’er, will you? Then you’ll pay her wages,” retorted Mrs. Nadin.

The farmer did not trouble to reply.