“An’ I’m talkin’ an’ meanin’ it,” she retorted. “Come on, or I’ll get it myself. That old devil’s non gettin’ the better o’ me.”
“Bakewell, eh? Good old Emmott!” chuckled the lanky one, lifting the bar flap.
“I’ll good old Emmott you!” threatened Mrs. Nadin, almost treading on his heels.
He called in at the side door which faced the lower buildings, telling some unseen person to shut the front door, and two minutes later out of a barn-like place a big taxi purred. Mrs. Nadin bundled in and Flo after her.
“It’s th’ eleven-thirty, eh?” the driver asked, looking sideways through the slide in the glass partition.
“Ay. Emmott’ll settle with you. ’E’s gooin’ ta run up a few bills taday as ’e’s non expectin’.”
The lanky driver guffawed and drove fast. The train was coming up the platform when they got through the ticket office. There was a score of people and the train was nearly full. Fortunately three railway-men, going off duty, got out, and Mrs. Nadin promptly took the opening. Flo was followed by two young men. There was a general shuffling and room was made for all, though one of the young men had to sit pinched forward directly facing Mrs. Nadin. She studied him, but he looked away through the window. His hands spread on his knees for balance were big and very pink, as if they had recently been boiled.
“Who are you?” demanded Mrs. Nadin loudly all at once, making every head turn.
“M . . . me?” stuttered the young man, forced to look and going red.
“Yes, you! I’m non cross-eyed, am I?” asked the fierce little woman. “You’re Sam Winkle’s lad, arena you?”
“Ay,” he admitted.
“I thought you were. What is it you’re called—Archibald, or summat daft like that, isna it?”
The young man nodded helplessly.
“Huh, I’d never ’a saddled a lad o’ mine wi’ a name like that,” she commented, and went on briskly with a continuous, disparaging catechism.
The young man seemed to sweat. Flo fancied she could smell the grease on his hair. She felt sorry for him, and ashamed of her companion. Others in the carriage, especially the young man’s mate, appeared to be enjoying it. The questions brought out that the young man was seventeen, nearly eighteen, and was working on a farm for his father’s eldest brother, Amos. He got twelve shillings a week and his keep. He was courting, and the girl’s name was Emily Lunt, but “non her as was born in th’ workhouse”. He hadn’t enough money to get married yet, but he hoped to have enough when he was twenty-one.
“Amos. That was him as was fined for pinchin’ a pig, wasna it?” asked Mrs. Nadin.
“Non as I know of,” said the young man desperately.
“You seem a sensible enough young chap,” was Mrs. Nadin’s loud summing up as the train slowed into Miller’s Dale. “Here’s a bit of advice. If you keep it you’ll do more than I’ve known any other young chap do. Keep your mouth shut an’ your bowels open, an’ you con shake your fist at the devil!”
There was a titter and everybody stopped in their places for her to get first to the door. In the Bakewell train, where again they only just got seats, she was unexpectedly quiet. She stared out of the window with her own thoughts. Flo had not spoken all the journey, but she dared to ask how they were going to find Mr. Nadin.
“Find ’im? I’ll find ’im,” said Mrs. Nadin, and shut up again.
Then they were in the crowd going along a level road. Flo looked at the treed hills, which were more rounded and greener than those of Mossdyche. And she looked at the people and felt that she might enjoy herself. Several persons called to Mrs. Nadin, “Good day, Monica,” and asked where Emmott was.
“He’s getten there afore me,” she answered, non-committal, and Flo sensed that even her attitude was changing. She was being affected by the holiday mood all round. Part of her anger had been due to fear of not being able to get to the show; now that she had arrived she was preparing to have a good time. They went in through restless turnstiles, and Flo stared at the expanse and the number of marquees and tents. She had been to a one-day show before, but never to one like this.
“However shall we find him?” she repeated.
“That’ll be noo trouble,” said Mrs. Nadin. “’E’ll non be at th’ boosing tents yet; ’e’ll be among th’ cattle.”
She bought a programme to find where the cattle were, and they walked slowly through the crowd. The ground was soft and seemed likely to be badly churned up before the day’s end, but there was no rain. The band of the Gordon Highlanders playing marches and the good temper of nearly everybody made even the greyness seem cheerful. Mrs. Nadin said it wasn’t likely that “the old devil” would be crushing by the ring; most probably he’d be mooching round the pens arguing with “some of t’other Moss riff-raff”. Here the crowd was not nearly as mixed as at the main ring, or round the flower and poultry marquees which they had passed. There were very few women, and plainly the men were practically all farmers or farm-men. Flo gazed round for Mr. Nadin in his bowler hat above the rest. She wondered whatever would happen when they did find him. Then almost at once her attention was taken by a throaty challenge, not very loud, yet somehow as threatening as a roar. She glanced apprehensively towards where it came from and saw a massive red bull. Its feet were smothered in wheat straw and it seemed all body, its back as level and broad as an old-time mahogany dresser. It stretched its neck, tilting its thick muzzle, and bawled again. Its horns were thicker than Flo’s wrists and looked at strong as iron. She had only a glimpse before two farmers moved together in front of the red and blue cards hanging on the pen front, but she craned back in the hope of getting another look at the beast. Instead she found herself staring straight at Jack Knight, just behind.
“You here!” he exclaimed.
“Seen that tripe-yead o’ mine?” demanded Mrs. Nadin, ignoring his greeting.
“Emmott? Ay, he were with Bill Willox over by th’ best dairy cow,” Jack answered, indicating with a slanting of his head. “Want tekkin’ to ’im?”
“Ay,” said Mrs. Nadin. “He’s best copped while he’s sober.”
Jack grinned but went ahead, with Mrs. Nadin following and Flo last. They pushed through narrow alleys between pens, they went up rows and down rows. To Flo it began to seem hopeless, and then there he was bolt straight with heavily wrinkled brow staring down his nose into a catalogue held nearly on a level with his chin, as if it was the most involved document he had ever studied. Mrs. Nadin made almost a bound. At the last moment, without change of attitude, he swivelled his eyes down on her in a most comical way.
“You!” he ejaculated, but with much less surprise than Flo had expected. “How the heck did you get?”
“Slid on mi backside down th’ telephone wires,” retorted Mrs, Nadin, swiping the catalogue from under his chin with her umbrella. “You old sod, thought you’d get away, didna you? I’m non so green-cheesy as I look. I’m havin’ a day as well as thee, an’ you’re payin’!”
A few curious persons were watching, but Mr. Nadin shrugged and said “Oh.”
“Ay, an’ first thing, claw out five bob for ’er,” nodding at Flo.
His hand went under the point of his jacket into the cross-pocket of his trousers.
“An’ a quid for yoursel’ an’ we’ll part,” he suggested.
“Noa likely,” said Mrs. Nadin. “Naa I’ve got you I stick. If you goo gallivantin’, I goo. Where’ll oo meet us?”
The farmer looked musingly on the two half-crowns on his palm. “How’d you get,” he asked, “by train? Chara I come in were full; there’d be noo room for . . .”
“Then there’ll be noo bother, we’ll all goo back by train,” said Mrs. Nadin promptly. “Five-thirty. Oo con meet us at th’ main gate at five.” She picked the half-crowns up and thrust them at Flo. “You’ll non want ta be cluckin’ round two old fowls like us all day; mek th’ best on it. An’ dunna forget ta be at th’ main gate.”