“You, Mr. Goldbourn! Whatever are you doing?” and from that moment she monopolized him. He got up and stood leaning on his sticks with his back to Flo, and she couldn’t help noticing how big and heavy his body was compared with his legs. She was glad when he said he would be going down to the lake.
“And let’s hope I shan’t get stuck, ’cos to-day Flo can’t help me,” he said with a quick smile to her.
“Bert and Clem will be in the field if you shout,” said Dot coldly.
They watched him get heavily into his chair. Flo felt sad about him, yet when he had stood so close in front of her, heavy and stunted, he had been a bit repulsive. She felt mean about it, but the feeling was there. She brooded on it while she went on darning.
The following day Mr. Nadin announced that the hay was ready for turning; everybody was needed. “Everybody” evidently did not include Mrs. Nadin, for she went on with the housework. The farmer looked at Flo, but Mrs. Nadin promptly intervened: “Oo’s non fit yet for muckin’ about aw day,” and he went out.
“There’s some o’ the lads’ breeches an’ jackets ta patch; happen you’ll be fit for drivin’ th’ rake or summat to-morrow,” she said to Flo. The foot, though still swelled, was much less tender.
From eleven till seven except for two brief meal-times, Dot and the three men worked in the hay. Dot came in bad-tempered and weary, but Mrs. Nadin told her to shut her trap. “We’ve heard it every hay-time sin’ you were pupped.”
Clem got the cows up early and then went back to the field, and Flo managed to milk twelve, more than she had ever done before at one meal-time. The farmer and the boys said it was jolly good. Only Dot showed no appreciation. On the back of Dot’s neck a hot patch showed redly where the sun had burned despite the big floppy-brimmed straw with which she had hoped to save herself.
The next day seemed settled, but was grey, unhelpful, and the farmer said the swaths were too heavy to dry without sun.
“There’s tomorrer,” said Clem. “Sun’ll be out agen,” and Bert nodded. But the farmer could not leave the hay. “Day after to-morrer’ll be weekend, dang it. You’ll ha’ noo time for farmin’; it’ll be all agait runnin’ after the lake lazies, an’ the hay con goo ta pot.”
“Nay, we’ll get some o’ them ta help,” said Bert; but the farmer was dour and said they would shake the hay out and give it the best chance they could. Again he looked at Flo.
“I reckon oo con manage th’ kicker, eh?”
So after that Flo found herself mounted on the tedding machine with Colonel lurching in front. From a distance the machine looked something like an old-fashioned triangular-bodied water-cart. This was because of the galvanized casing which enclosed the front, top and sides. The cupped iron seat was above this, and Flo felt as though she were sitting on top of the world. Inside the cover fitted with spikes were two paddles which when the machine was travelling spun backward, throwing up the grass in a most industrious and energetic way. Looking back over the bin-like cover, Flo could see below her the grass pouring over and down like a blue-green wave. Colonel strode indifferently over the patterning swaths; behind they left no pattern, only an even web of loose-lying grasses, weeds and now faded flowers. Flo liked it. She felt gay, riding to and fro looking down on the others who were shaking out with pikels. She and Colonel were doing more than all the rest together; and she seemed to smell the grass turning into hay even as it was whirled up. This was real work; she was accomplishing something. Happening to glance over the willows to the lake she saw Dick Goldbourn sitting patiently with his rod, and all at once she knew why the farmer was so scornful over fishers and boaters and walkers whose only thought was to enjoy themselves although there was so much work to be done. Not that it was really fair to class Dick with the rest, but . . . well Flo felt glad anyway, that she was able to help. She forgot to be too considerate about Colonel and kept him going by a useful slap with the rein ends whenever he began to dawdle. The machine was light and he could manage it, but sweat began to darken the hair under his collar, and he was glad to notice as they were going towards the gate a familiar figure coming in. It was Jack Knight. He called “How do?” and Flo stopped because they were at the hedge, anyway. Jack looked up with his cheery grin.
“You look pleased. Boss of all you survey, eh?”
“I feel I’m doing something,” said Flo.
“You’ve picked the easy job; it’s a wonder Clem didna want it.”
“It’s my foot,” said Flo. She didn’t mention Dick; only that she had been running because she was late.
“You might have broken your neck,” said Jack. Her foot was on the shaft and unexpectedly he put his hand on her ankle. He had a firm, confident grasp, and after the first impulse to flinch she held still. “Swollen a bit, but non so bad,” he commented, matter-of-fact.
She looked on his upstanding hair bleached almost to whiteness. He was not handsome, she decided; but there was a genuineness; nothing that she could explain, simply a feeling that she experienced from him. He still had his hand round her ankle, but then he let go naturally, and asked which she liked best, riding the tedder or driving the roller in spring.
“This,” said Flo, quite sure.
“You’re wrong,” he laughed. “I like rolling; the young grass, it’s striving. It’s full of vim; it wants to get up. It . . . it’s sort of thrillin’. This is dead, finished. It doesna give me the same feelin’.”
“But it’s food,” protested Flo. “It’s good. I like it because I feel I’m doing a lot.”
“There isna the same promise about it, somehow,” he said looking up with his blue eyes serious. “I reckon it’s th’ same sort o’ difference as between doin’ an’ havin’ done. It’s the doing that’s good. When you’ve done a thing, it’s done with, stale.”
“Oh,” said Flo. “I never thought like that.”
“But we couldna do ’bout hay, of course,” he laughed, his mood changing. “Hope it doesna rain, or there’ll be a tidy bit spoilt.”
“Have you none?” she asked, wishing that she knew more about him; how he really lived. Was it his mother, or who, that had cancer?
“No. I canna afford ta use my land for hay; I havena enough. I crop all I con. I dunna need much hay . . . chiefly for old Mike yonder,” and he glanced towards the lane where the piebald horse stood patiently.
“Crop? D’you mean . . .?”
“Food crops; the quickest I con. Spring cabbage, then spinach. Early peas, sprouts . . . that sort o’ thing. Two crops a year, if I’m lucky.”
“If . . .?”
“If th’ weather’s owt like. It’s non the right country, really, but I’m goin’ ta put some glass up, an’ heat. Then I’ll grow summat.” This not boastfully, but in a soberly enthusiastic way to which Flo reacted with increasing interest. He saw that she wanted to know more. “Most chaps says as tomatoes winna grow here, but I reckon it’s non bin properly tried. I . . .”
“Hey! What about some work?” came an impatient shout.
Jack, with his mouth open, looked round sharply and saw the farmer waving his pikel. Flo shook the reins briskly and Colonel tossed his head in protest. He lurched rightwards and the tedder began to slew round.
“Hay-fever, eh?” said Jack.
“How d’you mean . . . coughing an’ sneezing?”
“No, just hot up an’ bothered ’cos he’s got so much hay out. Worries hisself stiff.”
“Oh,” said Flo, smiling, and slapped the reins again. The paddles began to go round and the hay wave to flow over, and she smelt the warm odour of it again. She thought how nice it must be to be able to try things, to experiment with growing plants, to have a small place of one’s own.