“You seem to like this job,” said Bert, the first genuinely natural remark which had been passed to her all day.
“Yes; I don’t know why, but I do,” she said, glad to talk.
“It’s non much in my line,” he said, hidden by the next cow and going on milking.
“No; I know what you’d sooner do . . . shoot.”
“Or fish.”
“I like the lake,” said Flo, feeling that the remark was a bit artificial.
“I don’t’ see you much round here. You’ve never seen the ducks. They’re worth seein’. Best year I’ve had. Some places you’ve to go careful or you’ll tread on ’em.”
“Will there be little ones soon?”
“There’s plenty out. You’ll see ’em, all right.”
“How many will there be?” she asked, the milk from the red skewed cow she was under slackening off, causing her to begin stripping.
“Depends how many the bloody weasels an’ stoats tek, how many the hawks an’ them damn pyenots pinch, an’ how many the pike pull down.”
“Pyenots? What’s that?”
“Pyenots . . . don’t you know what a pyenot it? It’s a . . . a pyenot, a maggie.”
“Oh,” said Flo, no wiser.
“You can come along after you’ve done, if you like,” he offered as she stood in the gangway a moment before taking her milk out.
“I would like,” she said gratefully.
After that she worked hard, trying to remember everything: feeding the calves, the pigs and the hens, helping to drive the cows into the Lake Pasture.
“They winna eat where we’ve spread their own muck, but there’s plenty of feed round about, I reckon,” said Bert. “It’s a damn good field.”
“Aren’t all fields the same?” Flo asked.
Bert chuckled. “Ask the old man,” he advised. “He’ll tell you as best cawves as there is come off Lake Field.” He imitated: “There’s non another fielt i’ Derbyshire noowheer ta touch it fer that job.”
“What makes it?” asked Flo, really interested.
“Happen Pa’ll tell you; I canna. It’s herby, or something. Here they are.”
Mrs. Nadin’s lily was still nodding. She sat very upright in the chair with her umbrella tightly gripped in the middle by her right hand and lying across her knee. Her handbag, gripped equally tightly by her other hand, lay on top. But Mr. Nadin was not there.
“Hello, where’s Pa?” Bert asked.
“The long lump o’ tripe . . . I’ll tripe ’im ’an stripe ’im when I get ’im,” said Mrs. Nadin, lifting the umbrella as though to clout him if only he had been there. “I can goo ta hell for all he cares; but I bet I’ll meet ’im there. Then I’ll tansel ’im.”
She got out as energetically as she had got in in the morning, and demanded to know what they had been “muckin’ their time away wi’. Same as always, nowt done as should be done, an’ everythin’ done as shouldna.”
“Haven’t you brought Pa?” asked Dot, arriving from the back door.
“Aa’ll Pa ’im,” said Mrs. Nadin direfully. “Drownin’ what bit o’ sheep’s brains ’e’s got, the damned old tarnack. Slipped round the corner an’ off wi’ ’im. Wait till ’e comes!”
Chapter 13
Flo regarded Mr. Nadin’s disappearance seriously, but none of the others seemed to. Mrs. Nadin kept remembering how he had gone, and for a moment or two called him all the names she could; but then she would veer off, describing things seen and persons met. She seemed to have enjoyed herself. Mr. Nadin, so Flo gathered, had disappeared almost as soon as the pair had got off the train.
“I were lookin’ at a cape trimmed wi’ dyed cat as they caws skunk-opossum, or summat, an’ I says: ‘Non so bad . . . for two-an’-six, eh?’ An’ ’e says, ‘Ay.’ Next time I looked ’e’d mizzled ’isself. I’ll mizzle ’im!”
“He’ll non miss th’ last train; I reckon I’d better meet ’im,” said Clem.
“If you do I’ll hamstring you; let the old fool walk. If ’e gets run in, bread an’ water’ll clean ’is gizzard!”
The talk went on then as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Flo wondered if there was another family as queer anywhere. How had they ever come to marry? She couldn’t imagine the tall quiet farmer courting Mrs. Nadin. More likely it was she who had bullied him into it. Flo felt sorry and wondered where he was.
“Coming with me?” asked a voice, and she started because of its closeness, and found Bert standing behind her chair. “I’m just going round . . . if you want a change.”
She got up hurriedly. None of the others seemed to think anything about it. Bert left the door open and she went after him. She was surprised at the whiteness of the side of the barn, and then realized that it was the moon shining full on it from over the house. The cracks between the stones showed as clean black lines more clearly picked out than in sunlight. Going down the path out of the tilted shadow from the roof was like walking through something palpable, say a dark canvas awning. Going on into the field they had the moon very nearly in front, and Flo gazed up and thought how it looked like a bubble filled with white light. Sometimes it was so hard to think of the moon as anything but a flat disc pasted, as it were, on a flat black ceiling; but now, surrounded by miles of faintly luminous air, it was so obviously round and buoyant that she wouldn’t have been surprised to have seen it float along just as a bubble would to the slightest breath.
“Grand night,” said Bert with a gentle sort of purring appreciation which she had never heard from him before.
He had a stick only and no gun, and walked slowly and did not seem to wish her to say anything. The whole valley showed familiarly, yet completely different; all the hills more remote and smaller, dwarfed under the tremendous height where the stars were. Even the moors and cliffs of Moss Edge were smoother, as if they were no longer peat and gritstone, but had been changed into some kind of blue-grey aluminium alloy. Bert took the shortest route towards the willows, reaching them exactly where a narrow path went through. He whispered her to tread carefully. He stopped just in cover, pushing against the branches to make room for her at his side. Some of the lissom twigs touched her hands and cheeks with coolness and gentleness. She could smell the water fresh and slightly weedy. In the water was the moon, now as calm and round as in the sky, the next moment elongating in a ripple, breaking in two, then recovering its perfect shape without effort. As the ripple moved towards them it brought on its crest a stolen gift of moonlight, but lost it just as it touched the beach. Other ripples followed, making sometimes a continuous convoy of moon bits, but they ail went out at the edge of the land. Bert pointed, and she saw to the right about twenty yards out a flotilla of dark dots led by what was unmistakably a duck. She looked closer along the beach, and as far as she could see there were ducks dabbling or preening, or floating headless and motionless.
“Worth seein’, eh?” said Bert, so low that she could scarcely tell.
He turned, pushing past, and led back into the field. They were in shadow again, the broken shadow of the willow rods, which made a queer mottling across their eyes as they walked on. Roughly at fifty-yard intervals there were other narrow paths. Bert knew all, though Flo would have passed most of them, because they started at an angle and curved and were not obvious like the first straight path. Bert led down each one, and every time that they stopped, just in hiding, Flo saw more ducks. At least she thought that they were all ducks till Bert whispered, “Water-hen and coot as well.” And suddenly he jerked up his stick silently, and she saw crossing the moon three flying ducks. They circled and dropped with a simultaneous ploughing splash, surprisingly loud though they were a score of yards out. One of the ducks gave a challenging Quark-quark! which echoed as off a sounding board.