THIS BOOK IS PRODUCED IN COMPLETE CONFORMITY WITH THE AUTHORISED ECONOMY STANDARDS
Lucky ones strolling Morecambe front often pointed north over the silver-blue water to the smudge fifteen miles away and described it pityingly as Barrow.
“Fancy living all your life under that . . .!”
Fortunately, those who had to live beneath the cloud were not aware of their awful fate. To them the soiled air was natural; and when any had the good chance to get away to Grange over Sands, or even five miles down coast to Aldingham, or a little farther to Baytree, they never thought that daytime at Barrow should be just as bright; they accepted the sparkle and beautiful white light as somehow due to the sea’s magic.
Flo, now that the date of her leaving Barrow was nearly come, wondered how she would live away from the town that had always been her home. Had she done right? What would it be like at . . .? Oh, such a queer name: M-O-S-S-D-Y-C-H-E she spelt slowly, half aloud; but how did you say it? she wondered. Ditch, or should it be like dike?
Along narrow Dalton Road she wandered among the slow-moving shoppers. Probably ever since she had been able to walk alone she had gone down Dalton Road on Saturday morning, and then across to the Market behind the red Town Hall. Why she had always gone in there she could not have told. All she knew was that she liked it. On cold, wet days, it was sheltered there under the ridged glass roof; and even on such a good March day as this it seemed nicer than in Dalton Road, perhaps because of a greater feeling of friendliness and intimateness that there was among the stalls. How much better it was, for instance, to see all the things piled up without a glass front to keep you away. And how much nicer stall-keepers were than shop people who, as soon as you went in at the door, swooped down just as if you were an interloper, or a thief even. The stall-keepers let you look as long as you liked; they simply went on chatting with friends at the next stall, or shouting across the passage-way to friends there. Flo always stopped longest at the flower stalls, though she liked the piled vegetables, also. But to-day the market only increased her sadness. Although indubitably she was there, she had a queer feeling that she was not really there; not a real part of it as she had always felt before; as if she were half a stranger already. She was glad to reach Mrs. Mawson’s which was against the wall. These side-stalls were considered the best, by florists anyway, because staging could be built up and backward in long steps, the top step perhaps ten feet from the ground. As she got near, Flo was aware of a yellowness, and then she saw that the stall was smothered with daffodils, hundreds, perhaps thousands, brief-stalked, small and delicate.
“Oo, how lovely!” she couldn’t help exclaiming; and Mrs. Mawson looked round from serving and smiled and said naturally, “Aren’t they?” and then went on counting and dropping coppers into a woman customer’s long pale hand.
Flo stood under the stall front and looked up and seemed to feel cleanness coming from the daffodils, as if they had brought some of the wood’s freshness with them.
“I got ’em from the Keg . . . you know the Keg, the planting up by Albertside?” said Mrs. Mawson.
“No,” said Flo, still looking at the daffodils.
“Eh, I’ll have to take you,” said her friend.
“I’m goin’ away,” said Flo. “On Monday.”
“For a holiday?” asked Mrs. Mawson with sympathetic gladness.
“No; to work,” said Flo. “To a farm.”
“Eh, now. Fancy that. . . . You on a farm! It’s hard work, though. Who’s are you going to?”
“It’s at a place called Mossd-y-c-h-e,” said Flo, spelling the end, “in Derbyshire.”