“Did you see the old devil?” she demanded.
“No,” said Flo, guessing that he was not the porter.
“By . . . by . . . if he’s slipped me agen, God help him,” said Mrs. Nadin solemnly, and then most unexpectedly she shut up. Her hand gripped and ungripped on her umbrella. She did not speak again till they had left the local train and were making across the broad way between the two Buxton stations, for the train to Moss. Here she broke out: “The sly monkey! I’d smash his grin off if on’y I had ’im. Pub crawlin’ home wi’ the rest, bluein’ his brass in like a big soft baby. Not enough sense ta know how ta button ’isself.”
That was the last. She seemed to become resigned. She walked out of Moss Station in her most business-like way, and Flo kept just behind. The lanky taxi-man was there, and with his tongue bulged out his left cheek secretly at Flo when he saw that they were still without the farmer.
“Didna yo’ find ’im, missis?” he asked jovially.
Mrs. Nadin tucked herself into the car without replying. He spat and shut the door, and when he was in his seat contented himself with questions about the show.
“There were on’y one thing missin’,” said Mrs. Nadin, “a class for donkeys.”
In what state Mr. Nadin got back, whether drunk or sober, Flo never got to know. He came some time after she had gone to sleep. In the morning he was up before them all and worked in brooding silence. Half-way through milking Flo saw him at the yard gate, so that the show had not enabled him to forget the hay. Mrs. Nadin nagged a little more even than usual, but it was plain to Flo that after his escapades the farmer could look after himself. His silence, his lack of retorts to her angry attacks, left his wife without ammunition, as it were. And so the matter passed and life became normal again, except for Flo’s memories of the show. She wrote home a good description, telling of Jack, though she did not mention sitting on his back.
The return to ordinary routine was irksome. Dot, too, was in her worst mood.
“I suppose you’ll have the decency not to sneak about anything you saw yesterday,” she said disagreeably the first time they were left together in the kitchen.
“There was nothing to sneak about,” answered Flo.
“You wouldn’t have gone if I’d had my way.”
“I know,” said Flo.
After breakfast rain fell. Every day, sometimes heavily, sometimes only in occasional showers, some rain came and August wasted away with the hay in Lake Meadow going darker and darker and the new grass growing taller till the once proud cocks were almost lost.
“We’ll cart it off an’ fill Black Pit,” said Mr. Nadin on the first Thursday in September, “it’s only spoilin’ t’other.”
Thus all day they carted, and Flo from her bedroom could see the pale circles where the cocks had stood so long. She asked Bert if there was nothing else that could be done.
“It’s goin’ rotten, but it’ll never rot,” he answered cryptically. “The pit’s best place for it.”
Then, as they finished, the weather relented and let the clouds be driven away by a cool wind from the south-east. After the second day it was considered fit to begin to mow in Charlie Meadow, the eleven acres, and Flo was sent to follow the mower again. The meadow sloped to the left of the lane, where it ran beside the lake. Flo saw Dick Goldbourn by the water, but she was too busy to think much about him. After a while he reeled in and came to the gate and watched the circling machine. He waved and Flo briefly shook her wooden rake in acknowledgement, but somehow she did not feel that she wanted to go near him. He wheeled himself to where Bert was mowing by the hedge and Bert leaned on the curved pole of his scythe and talked for ten minutes. Flo expected Mr. Nadin to shout at him, but the farmer went on shaking out at the south corner where the swaths lay thick on one another. Flo had expected him to be more impatient than he had been the first time in the hay, but he seemed not to bother, to have become resigned. She could not understand and felt that it was rather sad. The urgency, of which she had been so conscious during her first days of hay-making, was now not to be felt at all. Through so long waiting they had become stale; the work had become drudgery to the rest, though to her it was still exciting. She liked following the mower, watching the falling grass. She decided to ask Jack, next time she saw him, if he had ever done that job and whether it had fascinated him. She wondered when he would be coming again; she had not seen him since the show.
Day after day the cool wind kept on, making the men work in their jackets and Dot and Flo in scarves. But the grass dried quickly. It had not the colour of the first grass in Lake Meadow, but was much longer, lots of it over two feet, and heavy. There were few flowers left in and scarcely any pollen dust when the swaths were turned or shaken.
“But it’s hay. It’ll fill their guts . . . an’ there’s plenty of it. It’ll make up for some of what we lost in Lake Meadow,” said Clem while they rested the horses. He brought up his pipe from his side-pocket and filled and lit it and looked at Flo contemplatively. “By gum,” he exclaimed unexpectedly, “done you know, you’ve filled out sin’ you come here? You’re gettin’ a shape like Venus.”
“Hadn’t we better get on?” asked Flo coldly, moving a step farther from him.
“You’re doin’ all right,” he commented, still appraising her as though she were in the ring at auction. “I’ve bin out wi’ lots worse than you.”
“Well, you’re not going out with me,” said Flo flatly. “I’m particular . . . an’ I’ve somebody else,” she added, and then felt surprised at herself.
“Oh, by gad,” said Clem, spitting, “you’ve started, eh? Who is it?”
“Mind your own affairs,” she retorted, though she knew that she had asked for it. “It’s time we got on.”
“The hell it is.” His tobacco had gone out and he jabbed it down safe in the bowl with his little finger and then put the pipe back in his pocket. “Oh, so that’s it, eh? I mun have mi eye on you. If it’s one o’ the lads from town, you’ll ha’ ta keep spry.” He chuckled meaningly and slowly hitched his thigh over the spring seat and shook the rope lines with a loud and threatening, “Get yer!” The machine jerked off with a harsh chatter and Flo was thankful.
Week-end came and the hay was judged to be ready. The first load was brought home just after eleven. Flo had been kept in to help in preparing for the afternoon’s expected guests, but she saw the great untidy load rocking past the gate to go in behind the barn where the stacks were to be made. Mr. Nadin came after the cart, but instead of going past he turned into the yard and tramped up to the house and planted himself in the doorway.
“We conna manage ’bout her; she’s got ta come,” he announced dourly, and with a jerk of his thick thumb he summoned Flo from the sink.
“And how the heck do I manage, you old fool?” demanded Mrs. Nadin; but he was going away and gave no sign of having heard. “If ’e had the sense of a louse an’ could wait, ’e’d have as much help as ’e con use an’ more,” grumbled Mrs. Nadin to Flo; and then unexpectedly, “Well, you heard what he said.”