“Wish I had a gun for the blighter,” said Bert. “Pike an’ them, they’re ruinin’ the place.”
Down the arm there were numbers of wild ducks, also, and six towered at the same moment as the heron, though not as high. They made a quick-winged circuit of the lake, and dropped back into the arm when the boat was past. Flo looked to the rods again, but still no fish was tempted.
“Are there any?” she asked.
“Plenty . . . but non always hungry,” Bert answered.
She watched him. He pulled easily, confidently. The hairy tweed of his jacket had been turned from rust-brown to grey by drizzle specks. Flo was getting damper and damper, but there was a pleasant clean feel with the rain; it seemed to cleanse her cheeks and she imagined herself looking pink and attractive. Bert smiled, but she knew intuitively that it was only because he was content. She wished that Jack Knight or Dick Goldbourn had been in the boat instead.
They had reached the far end and Bert turned and drove parallel with the rough-stone-faced dam which sloped away from them. Its level top of grass cut them off from everything beyond, as though the world in that direction ended there. They were in the widest part of the lake, near where Jenny and Jerry had swum. Midway Bert stopped, oar-blades moveless in the water. The little clap-clap of wavelets beneath the prow ended, silence was complete again. He looked up the water musingly, without speaking. Flo copied him. She had never realized that the lake was so big. It stretched away like a sea, and the dim flat height of Moss Top in the drizzle seemed miles off. The flat shores grown with willows on the north and with alders and bush hawthorns on the south reminded her of a page of a story she had read in a book left in the front room by one of the previous week-end visitors. It was called “Heart of Darkness,” and described a low-lying African coast backed by mysterious bush. “It’s just like that,” Flo thought.
“It’s a good spot,” said Bert, starting pulling again.
The south shore lacked the long arms of the north and was not as interesting, and Flo began to feel the wet going cold down her neck. She tried to mop it with her handkerchief, and Bert grinned and asked what was up. She was about to reply when he abruptly let go of his right oar to grab the rod on that side which she had neglected. He gave a quick wrist snatch, getting up swiftly with expert balance. Flo saw the line cut the water, first away from them, then left, then right. How queer, when she could not see anything; as if it was the line that had suddenly come alive and gone mad. Her pulse speeded up; she gripped the sides of the skiff, till the line all at once went dead again. “Small one,” Bert announced. He began to wind in, holding the rod tip close along the surface. “Get the net.”
She fumbled, the handle seemed too long. She gripped it halfway in her right hand, and stared intently overside. Slowly the vague dark shape of the fish came upward. She leaned over, dipping with a splash. As if electrified the fish leapt, smashing the water, so that momentarily she saw it complete—curved, lean, silvery blue and vicious. She almost sprawled overboard, her heart bolting.
“What the . . . the b’s gone!” exclaimed Bert, and went on more amused than angry, “You dipped as if you was after an alligator.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” murmured Flo, feeling foolish, yet half glad. “I wasn’t expecting it to . . .”
“You damn near jumped in yourself, didn’t you?” Bert grinned. He wound the rest of the line. “I generally go round once a day,” he explained. “Sometimes you con see off the water what you canna see on land.” He rowed on with the one line out. “I’ll be damn glad when th’ hays in. The old man got worked up about what Jack said, eh?”
“Yes,” said Flo, looking across to where a few of the hay cocks could be seen behind the bay in the willows. “Will it spoil badly?”
“I reckon what Jack said was right, you know,” Bert observed slowly. “I’ve read a bit, somewhere. The more you mess it about, th’ more likely you are ta spoil it. Jack’s non as daft as some thinks; he’s got his head fast. He reads. It’s surprisin’ what you con get out o’ books.”
“D’you read?”
“Me? I’ve noo time. By gum, speak of the devil . . .!”
Flo glanced in the way of his nod. Coming down the lane past the farm was Jack in his float. Opposite the boathouse he stopped the nag and strolled down. Bert looked over his right shoulder and with deft short strokes glided faultlessly in beside the stage and dropped the painter over its peg.
“Lucky beggars,” said Jack, standing over them while Bert wound in the remaining line. “What luck?”
“Nowt. She gave the on’y one we saw a clout wi’ th’ net as scared it a mile off.”
“What you doin’ . . . joy-ridin’?” asked Jack, looking at Flo.
“It’s my afternoon off,” said Flo, Bert’s hard palm closing on her hand to pull her up on the stage. “I can’t walk ’cos of my foot, so he said he’d take me.”
“Ever bin up ta Belle View? I’ll give you a ride there, if you like.”
“What you after there?” Bert asked.
“Greenhouse. He’s givin’ up, so I heard at auction. Have you heard owt?”
“Ay, he’s givin’ up all right. What the hell d’you want another house for?”
“Tomatoes. If you’re goin’ for a job, you’ve got to go in prop’ly. If you get customers, you’ve got ta be able ta keep ’em supplied.”
“I’d sooner shoot,” said Bert drily.
“Comin’?” asked Jack of Flo. They had moved into the open and for a moment his pale blue eyes met her’s. “It’s non Pullman-strung, but it’ll save your foot.”
She did not speak, but went with him. The piebald nag turned its head, its baggy blinkers queerly making it seem like an old long-headed man staring interrogatively over old-fashioned spectacles.
“When are you goin’ ta shove it in a museum?” asked Bert.
“What . . . old Mike?” Jack laughed good-temperedly. “You coming, too. He’ll pull three.”
“Nay, it’s nowt in my line . . . chaperonin’.” Bert winked at Flo and took the path past the cabin to the house.
“I like Bert; he’s the best,” Jack commented as they went up the slope. He pulled down a small wooden flap on the right-hand side of the float.
“But it’s the driver’s, isn’t it?” Flo objected. He told her that Mike didn’t need driving; and he sat on the opposite side, balanced partly on the mudguard.
After three encouraging shouts the piebald shook himself into a jog-trot which took them on very little quicker than walking. However, Jack seemed satisfied and began to talk of the folk round about being nearly all like Bert and Clem.
“Decent chaps, but no go in them. As long as they’ve got what they want, they dunna care. Don’t know what ambition is.”
“No,” said Flo, watching the slow revolving of hedges, trees and fields past them on either side. She had become almost unconscious of the rain, which had gone finer still, almost to mist. Moss Edge was smothered by a blur of white cloud and she wondered if they would climb into it.
“I reckon we’re all here ta do something; non just to drift through anyway, enjoyin’ ourselves,” Jack went on.
“Yes,” said Flo, beginning to pay more attention.
“They make fun o’ me, always tryin’ things.”
“D’you think you can grow tomatoes?” Flo asked, looking without his knowing, so far as she could tell. The collar of his old navy blue reefer stood up with the pink rims of his ears just showing, but his head was bare, and the crisp hair glistened silver with drizzle bubbles. His lean nose and lips suggested determination, and she was suddenly struck by the complete difference from the rectangular rather dark features of Dick Goldbourn.