Flo ran out, drying her hands on her brown sacking apron. Behind the barn a kind of rectangular platform had been made of logs and branches which was now being clothed with the first round of hay. Bert was rolling it off the load in great shaggy balls and already there was a mound there below.
“Way up, give ’er a chance,” ordered the farmer morosely, and passed her a pikel to throw the hay where he wanted it. She dug in energetically and was shocked at the weight.
“You’re non Samson; you’ll non lift it all at once,” said Bert. “Tek it in bits . . . off the top.”
That was better, though it was hard work. Too often she dug too deep, or in the wrong place and tugged hay from underneath. And sometimes, just as she got a good forkful, Bert dropped another ball right on top. She looked up, but always he had turned away and was searching with the tines of his fork for the edges of the next lot. And then a forkful came on top of her; she was suddenly smothered in a dry rustling mesh. Her fork was entangled. Her breath caught and she sneezed, and her eyes were filled with bits.
“Eh,” shouted the farmer. “There’s noo time for tricks. September 6 an’ first load!”
Bert grinned; but after that he worked more methodically and Flo found it easier. The farmer went steadily round and round stacking with greatest care. Flo was surprised when she heard Bert’s fork ring on the cart bottom. The load which had seemed so high and so big scarcely looked anything on the stack.
“Another twenty loads an’ you’ll begin to see something,” said Bert, and glancing aside she found Dick Goldbourn at the gate and wondered how long he had been there.
“She’s gettin’ her hand in at everything; she’ll be able to run the farm, if you keep her at it,” said Dick.
“She’s a good lass . . . for a young ’un,” admitted the farmer, and she knew that Dick was looking closely. But suddenly she found that it didn’t matter, and she let her eyes go to him in a friendly smile. His face was clear and looked well, but his body was big, and it seemed strange to her that she had ever thought that she might marry him, even if he had lots of money.
“I haven’t had to call on your help lately. How’s the foot?” he asked, smiling back.
“I’ve forgotten it,” and she ran past him into the lane.
“You’ll be wanted next load,” Mr. Nadin shouted, but she was glad to get away.
Flo had worked hard since she came to Prettyfield, but never as hard as she worked now. The loads came every twenty minutes or so. Mr. Nadin would shout as he went past the gate, and out she would have to run. Struggling with the great hay tangles made her sweat, and by the third load the muscles of her arms and across her shoulders ached so much that she wondered if she would be able to keep on. Only then it was dinner-time and the longer rest let her recover, though she knew that she was going to ache next day. In the afternoon Dot did most of the cabin work, but Flo had to do what she could. Mrs. Nadin seemed to have an uncanny power of knowing just how long it took to unload the hay, and if Flo didn’t hurry as soon as the cart well had been emptied, over the barn roof would come: “Flo, naa! Come on theer.”
Then there would be a tray waiting. There were hundreds of people that afternoon, so it seemed to Flo, because there were always trays waiting, and always there were pots to be carried back and washed. The dry week-end at last had enticed out walkers and picnickers who knew that winter would soon be back, though there were not many fishermen. The dull wet spell hadn’t kept them away; it was the fine weather with its cool wind that they didn’t like.
Flo as she walked to the cabin could see the loads being made up over the lane in Charlie Meadow. Clem was on top with great tousled forkfuls coming up to him from either side where she guessed Mr. Nadin and Bert were. They were working hard, too, so that Flo did all that she could willingly, even putting up with Dot’s crossness. Twelve loads were stacked before dusk, and even then there was still work indoors. Flo brought the last of the pots from the cabin and bent wearily over the tin. All day the treatment she had given to her hands had been of the worst. Taking them with softened skin straight out of water she had had to grasp the pikel. In no time damp and friction had lifted a blister on the inside of the upper joint of her right thumb and another on the top joint of the first finger of her left hand. Then her palms had gone red and sore, but before blisters had come there the thumb and finger blisters had rubbed off. Now in the hot water her hands felt raw; every time she picked up a pot she flinched.
“You’ll know what hay-time’s like in a bit,” said Mrs. Nadin.
“My word, I shall sleep,” said Flo.
But she didn’t. Her shoulders and shoulder-blades were sore so that she could not lie easy. As she turned about she remembered what the fat woman had said in the train so long ago about farming: “All work an’ no play, hand all the mucky work . . . God help you.” Only somehow the memory made Flo smile, and she cuddled her hands in the flannel of her nightdress between her thighs and after that remembered no more till she woke with the first show of dawn light over Moss Edge. She came awake gradually, and only after a long interval realized that for some reason she felt strangely happy. There was a pleasant gurgling tinkle from somewhere. Then all at once she understood; it was rain on the roof, in the gutters just outside the open window, in the down-spouts. And this was the cause of her happiness! It was guilty happiness, but rain meant rest. Her tired body had realized it even before she had come properly awake. She would have time to recover. Her hands were already a bit better. Oh, she was thankful; but she knew that Mr. wouldn’t be!
Chapter 20
And now it was the last day of the hay-making. It was Saturday again. A fortnight of hard but intermittent work had been done. Flo had got used to it. The skin of her hands had adapted itself and her arms and shoulders had grown accustomed to the strains. She was glad to be working this day for all the fishermen, the “regulars”, had turned up, but instead of going out on the lake, they, also, were helping. There was the very tall, round-faced one with the big wart on his nose, and the bald man, and the younger sandy-haired man who was fond of singing to Dot at the piano, and there was the silly young man of whom Flo had once been scared. But to-day she was not scared of any of them. The silly young man was put on the stack to do Flo’s job and she saw him looking at his hands and she knew the reason and smiled to herself. The carts were coming from Square Piece, which was beyond Charlie Meadow, looking into the little valley at the head of the lagoon. It was a longer way, but with the extra help the loads came at about the same intervals.
There were two stacks, both immense, nearly as big as the barn. Mr. Nadin called Flo to him. He looked down and said he had a spare horse coming and that she was to go raking.
“We’ll get in everythin’ while we con an’ leave the field tidy.”
“When will it come? Do I have to fetch it?” asked Flo, thinking it wight be a horse from Willox’s.
“He said ’e’d be here at three; ’e couldna come sooner. It’s Jack Knight . . . he’ll come up on th’ stack an’ help me.”
“Oh,” said Flo with gladness.
“You’ll manage his hoss all right,” said the farmer, as though she had been doubtful.
She ran back to the house to do all that she could, for it was already a quarter to three.
“They want me raking,” she told Mrs. Nadin.
“What, you an’ all! He’d have everybody i’ Mossdyche, ay an’ in Moss, too!” exclaimed Mrs. Nadin; yet she did not object further. “We seem t’ave bin haymekkin’ six months; happen ’e’ll finish sometime.”