“I nearly drowned myself trying to land that one of Bert’s to-day before you came,” confessed Flo. Both of them laughed.
Flo wondered if Dick had seen her; but she did not care either way.
Chapter 18
The smirry weather continued. Week-end came, and Bert as usual was out all the time with fishermen. Dot and Flo wore coats over their heads as they took the trays of things to the cabin. Mr. Nadin was more bitter than ever against the visitors, calling them “blister-shirkers” and “shinonakin’ wasters”.
“Shut your trap an’ goo an’ tek a dose o’ salts,” ordered Mrs. Nadin tartly. “We’re hay-makin’ as noo weather stops. Shift thisen from under mi feet.”
Each day Flo felt more sorry for the farmer. After the drizzle came a period of showers, with occasional sun breaks, but never enough to dry the fields; not enough even to suggest that the hay might be shaken out. The high cocks lost their scented greeny-blueness and went a dull buff, sinking into sodden lumps without shape or pride. But the rain made the grass grow tall and succulent round them, as if it would hide their dismalness. The farmer with his blunt-toed boot lifted the edge of a lump and Flo saw the grass under it white, lemon and yellow and squiggly, eager to grow straight but unable to.
“We’ll be ruined,” said the farmer, “’bout hay, winter feed’ll cost a fortune.” It would have been better if Lake Meadow had never been cut, he said; all their work had been wasted. In the other fields, Charlie Meadow and Square Piece, twenty-four acres in all, the grass was still untouched. It had lost its seed and gone dark and dishevelled, but it was still cuttable and wasn’t rotting. “If this weather keeps on we’ll be hay-makin’ at Christmas.”
The boys didn’t worry. It was only Mr. Nadin. Bert said: “It’s worse August I remember, an’ that’s saying’ something. If it doesna take up the old mon’ll go hairless.”
Mrs. Nadin wasted no sympathy on the farmer, either. “Tickle thiself, you look worse than th’ weather,” she told him. “Sun winna shine ’cos you goo all broody.”
“Farm con go ta hell for all you care!”
“Are you tekkin’ me ta Bakewell Show?” she demanded back. “If you conna work you con play.”
It seemed as though he would not reply, but after a pause he said, “Ay,” and then went out.
“Biggest show as there is i’ these parts,” Mrs. Nadin explained to Flo.
August holiday week Thursday arrived with the sky still low and blotched black and grey. Mr. Nadin came down in his best whipcord suit.
“What the heck, milkin’ i’ that!” stormed Mrs. Nadin, up a little earlier than usual.
“I thought you wanted ta go ta Bakewell,” said Mr. Nadin mildly.
“Too lazy ta change agen; by Dickie, it’s a wonder you dunna come down in your shirt tails an’ save dressin’ at all.” The farmer went out and the morning work was gone through. At breakfast the farmer was a little more morose even than he had been. Mrs. Nadin chipped him about being as cheerful as a bankrupt undertaker to go with.
“If the weather doesna take up well be bankrupt soon all reet,” said the farmer.
Mrs. Nadin was to be ready at ten, when Clem would be back with the float. Bert was going to the show also, but with some of his pals from Moss, and he went off at once after breakfast. As she washed up Flo thought what a quiet day it was going to be. She had learned that it was the one day when they put on the cabin, “No Meals”, and on the boat-house, “No Boats”, and Flo had heard Dot say that she was going out, too. It seemed quiet already, Flo thought, and she wondered if Mr. Nadin would give her any jobs to do about the farm. Would she be expected to begin evening milking alone?
“What did you do wi’ ’is collar as I told you ta put ta air?” Mrs. Nadin interrupted.
“Put it on the oven top,” said Flo, glancing round.
Mrs. Nadin looked into the oven but it wasn’t there either. She was in carpet slippers and a white silk blouse, with only her cream flannel petticoat on, extremely short when one was used to her in long black overskirts, but she strutted quickly down the path and yelled, “Emmott! Emmott! . . . Wheer are ta?”
There was only the echo from the buildings, and the little woman went energetically across the yard and in through the barn wicket. She reappeared unexpectedly quickly from the shippon and peered into the stable. Walking purposefully back to the barn, she ducked in again and came back this time through the field gate from the midden.
“You havena seen the old fat-yead?” she demanded of Flo as she got back. Scarcely waiting to hear she went on up the passage, up the stairs, to the bedroom, bathroom, lavatory.
“His coat’s gone,” Dot announced, after looking over the hooks.
“And ’is tie an’ studs, the old b———r,” said Mrs. Nadin. “If ’e’s slipped me I’ll slip ’im.”
“I expect he’s gone with the lot from the Bull; I heard there was a chara,” said Dot.
“Huh, thinks ’e’s got the better of me! Thinks because ’e’s gone I conna get. By God, I’ll get there if I crawl!”
She bustled out of the kitchen and upstairs again, and they heard her stumping about. Flo would have liked to have made excited comments, but Dot had taken on her most frigid manner and told her to get on with what she was doing. Quick steps came down.
“Here you,” at Flo, “goo an’ get ready. If he con goo off ta enjoy ’isself, we’ll all goo an’ let th’ place goo ta pot.”
“You’re not going there to make a scene with everybody . . .” protested Dot.
“Shut your teeth or you’ll bite yourself!” snapped her mother. “Are you comin’ or not?”
“No,” said Dot coldly. “I’ve promised to go to Jean’s.”
“Go, an’ be damned then; I’ll make ’im pay,” said Mrs. Nadin, taking no further notice of her. “You, get gone, an’ be down in five minutes,” she shot at Flo.
Flo felt trembly. She did not know whether she was doing right or not in getting ready, only there did not seem to be any other way open. She had not washed, but she dare not go down. She did her hair quicker than she had ever done it. When she got back to the kitchen Mrs. Nadin stood ready in her long black silk smock-like coat, her black straw hat with its nodding yellow flower, and her umbrella. Dot stood by disapprovingly.
“You’re not takin’ her to see what scene you make?”
“I’ll mek no scene; it’ll be ’im, if there is a scene,” said her mother quickly and grimly. “Has Bert gone off scrimshankin’ an’ all? Come on, you, we’ll walk ta th’ level.”
“I don’t think . . .” Dot started.
“I know you dunna. You’re yead’s too addled!” retorted Mrs. Nadin, making to the door. Flo, unwilling and unhappy, walked a pace behind, as though she were being dragged. Mrs. Nadin went with short snappy steps, ignoring her. Her speed was considerable, and she kept at it up the hill. On the main road she went left past the toll-house to the Kicking Donkey just below. She paraded up the short sanded passage to the bar, which was dark and low. On crossed legs leaning against one of two red-rimmed barrels on a low bench at the back was a lanky man in shirt sleeves smoking contemplatively.
“Shake thisen an’ get th’ taxi!” ordered Mrs. Nadin without preliminary. “That sneakin’ b———r of mine’s gone off an’ I’m after ’im.”
“Eh, I thought you’d come for a drink, an’ we’re non open. I were just goin’ ta brush out,” drawled the lanky man.
“If you dunna get us ta th’ station i’ five minutes you’ll feel this ’ere,” said Mrs. Nadin, lifting her umbrella.
“Eh, I tell you I’m workin’.”