“You never know; he’s such a blighter he may be helpin’ himself this side,” said Bert.
“Wet through!” exclaimed Flo. “He’d catch his death.” She shivered from her feet upward.
“Not if there was chance of eggs . . .” said Bert. “He’s tough; he wouldn’t burn in hell. But I’ll not wait next time; I’ll put some shot in his buttocks. Happen he’ll be glad to cool hisself in the water then. Cuss ’im!”
But whoever the intruder was, he had gone. They went back by the road. Clem was alone in the kitchen and the clock showed ten to twelve.
“This is a gay time,” said Clem with mock disapproval, appraising her downward to muddied boots and ankles.
“What about lettin’ me take you next night?”
She bent to untie her laces and did not speak.
Chapter 14
The strangeness of Flo’s new life was wearing off. Living all together in the big kitchen it was impossible for any dividing line to last long. Indeed, Flo had already realized that Mrs. Nadin treated everybody alike, and that her tongue was always fiercer than herself. It said harsh things just for the joy of saying them; it announced threats when there was no intention that the threats should be carried out. Thus when Flo went down she knew by the vacant nail at the mantlepiece end and the absence of the stiff crusted boots from the hearth by the hot-water tank that the farmer must be back and out at his usual first morning jobs. Mrs. Nadin did not speak. She bustled about seeing to the porridge as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. When the farmer came in he seemed unchanged.
“Sit thee down an’ get that in thi belly,” said Mrs. Nadin, planting a plate before him.
He scooped it up without comment.
Flo wondered what time he had got back, and was puzzled that she had not heard any row. She had expected the whole household to be wakened. She went out about her own usual jobs, and then found the one difference that his escapade had left on the farmer: he was quieter than ever. During the whole of the milking he never spoke. He was shut in within himself. Bert and Clem talked occasionally to each other and to her, but they did not address their father, and Flo felt constrained and afraid of him; his silence was a kind of evil temper, much worse than Mrs. Nadin’s aggressive but open attack, and Flo wondered whether that explained why nothing had been heard in the night. Perhaps when he was in this mood even Mrs. Nadin was afraid. How strange to be married to a man like that. She hoped that she didn’t get anyone with moods; anyway she’d do her best to see that she didn’t. Did Mrs. Nadin know when she got married; or had she only learned since?
While these thoughts were passing Flo went on milking steadily. She was getting used to this job, too; her wrists were getting used to it, so that she could work mechanically. The rhythmical churring sound seemed to encourage easy drifting thought. Resting on the stool, her shoulders and head slightly supported against the cow’s warm side, she could relax in real comfort. On one of her early days, when Bert had told her how he sometimes fell asleep and had been awakened more than once by the bucket slipping, pouring milk into his boots, Flo hadn’t believed him. Now after her late night she knew that to fall asleep would be easy. She looked up at the wall-lamp, which threw its best light in a slightly tremulous circle on the whitewashed baulks immediately over the glass. Lower on the wall the light looked dirty, a yellow stain; this because of the contrast of the true white light coming in through the doorplace. And with the dawn light in came bird songs with a distant clean sweetness. But she was aware of this only as a pleasant background as her thoughts reviewed easily without special purpose the men she had met or seen who might, well . . . who might be possible husbands. There was the boy she had seen on the submarine; where was he? There was Jack Oates, probably off again round the world. Others there were whom she had seen and liked and remembered, though she had never known their names. And so . . . then she noticed that the cow was nearly done and stripping occupied her, for she was determined never to have it put against her that she had spoiled any cattle through not doing that job well.
She went into the four-shippon and began on Polly, the black “hornie”. Now her thoughts went back to the evening, and she wondered again if the man after the eggs were Jack Knight or not; and whether he got home all right. Suppose she married a poacher without knowing that he was a poacher till he came home one night dripping and slimy. Hurriedly she switched off Jack Knight and considered Dick Goldbourn. He at least couldn’t turn out poacher; he had no need to poach. Although she had never thought of them before, she remembered now his clothes: loose-woven greeny tweed, thick and expensive. How nice it would be to marry a man who could dress in good things, and, of course, who would buy whatever you wanted! She thought of her costume hanging behind the curtain under the triangular bedroom shelf, and of how long she had to work yet to pay for it. How exciting and fine when there was someone to buy anything; not just clothes alone, but a home and . . . and everything!
If only Dick had not been crippled, she decided, he would have been just right. He was quiet. He was of the kind she felt that she could trust; not a chancy sort like Clem.
Clem happened to be mooching up the shippon. He dropped his left eyelid and arched his right eyebrow. If there were no other men in the world than Clems she would never marry, she thought. But his passing reminded her of his advice, about asking for time off. It was Thursday, just a fortnight since she had gone round the lake and rescued Dick Goldbourn. Why shouldn’t she ask? It wasn’t right that she should work Saturdays, Sundays and all days. When she went with milk to the churn again she was determined that she would ask; but she would be careful—she would wait until Mrs. Nadin seemed to be in a good mood. Despite her apparent usualness at porridge time, Flo suspected that Mrs. Nadin was still bitter about her husband’s desertion. So Flo watched and waited all morning. But, whatever Mrs. Nadin’s mood, there was scarcely an opportunity when Flo could have asked her. Flo was told to clean all the windows, and a long, difficult and quite dangerous job it was. The windows were of the sash type, but never till she came to clean them had Flo realized how big they were. Seated out on the sill with the upper half of a window down on her thighs it was all that she could do to clean the top corners. When she got to the attic at first she was too afraid to get on the sill, and tried to reach from the bottom and then over the top without sitting out. Only it was no good. The parts that she cleaned showed up the parts that she had not cleaned, and she was ashamed. She looked round her room for something with which she could tie herself to the bed, but there was nothing; a sheet would not have been long enough. So that all that she could do was put the lucky heart-stone and the green pig in her apron pocket and pray to be kept safe. She put her head out hesitantly, gripping hard on the bottom frame. And then, except for the awful thought of how far off the ground was, it was no different from doing the lower windows. She had been foolish to let the height scare her, and when the panes shone iridescently, as well done as she could do them, she dared to look about. The two views were quite different from those she normally got through the window. Rightward she looked over the lake, but across the eastern end. She was surprised to be able to see right over the willows the pear-shaped lagoon in full. There on the very tip of the point where she had walked she saw Dick Goldbourn in his wheeled chair. Out of bravado she waved, not expecting any return. Nevertheless, she was disappointed that none came. She faced petulantly the other way and saw over the ridge end of the barn the top of Adam’s Pike, like an immense grey-green pyramid. As she stared a swallow shot up from behind the barn in a smooth swift glide and came flickering towards her at express rate. It came so close that she saw its chestnut throat and purple-blue, and as it fled its confidential twitter, heard for a moment only, seemed to be meant to tell her that summer was coming and that life was good and all would be well. It was the first swallow of the year. She turned her head swiftly to watch, and the bird swooped on towards the lagoon and the distant fisherman, and then became invisible against the meshed background of the willows.