The Farm by the Lake полностью

The bay horse was of the serviceable type, half-legged, and the trap matched; it could obviously have been used just as well for carrying milk churns or sacks of flour as for its present purpose. It was black with a single yellow line round the wheel rims, and it was clean. Only Flo did not notice these things, because as the horse plodded up the last of the slope her attention was all on the driver. When the wheels ground on to the flat he lifted his elbows off his knees and threw a single encouraging click! to the horse. He appeared to be of medium height; perhaps thirty, though Flo was a poor judge of those older than herself. He tipped his cap brim a bit higher and said to the porter:

“By gum, you look busy.”

“You’ve kept this young lady waiting. What the hell d’you mean by it?” retorted the porter.

The driver looked towards her and then unexpectedly winked. His face was rather small with a tendency to loose skin under the eyes; neither particularly attractive nor repulsive. Flo did not feel that he would mean much to her, though her heart quickened at the thought of having to sit beside him. The horse side-stepped and the trap churned round. She expected the driver to get down, but he simply sat and waited.

“It’s a privilege to wait for some folks, sirrie,” he said to the porter. “Shove the goods in the back an’ look as though you know how.”

“Aren’t yo’ gettin’ down to be intraduced . . . or do yo’ know ’er?” the porter asked.

“Apparently you’ve introduced yourself, anyway, you b———r,” replied the driver ungraciously. He seemed now deliberately to be avoiding looking at Flo. “Good job I come along, or there’s no tellin’ what you’d have bin up to.”

“An’ no tellin’ what yo’ll be up to on th’ road, nother.”

“Shove the goods in an’ less cackle,” and with scarcely a change in his tone the driver added, speaking to somewhere between the two of them: “Here, jump up if you’re goin’. Yon man always takes a week to do owt.”

The porter with a single heave let the bass topple over the back-board which was tilted at forty-five degrees held by chains. The bass slid in and jammed part way under the seat. Flo stared at the step wondering how she was to reach in her tight skirt; and then suddenly she found the driver leaning towards her, his face on a level, very close, his eyes a very pale blue and rather small, surrounded by short, very nearly white lashes. His look was intent, insolent, and lasted for several seconds before she became aware that his hand was there waiting, too.

“Catch hold,” he said softly, intimately, and automatically she obeyed and somehow with her right hand burdened with umbrella and bag hitched her skirt above her knee and put her right foot in the iron hoop. His hand was hard and hot and strong, and his pull quick and rough, so that she stumbled rather than stepped up and fell against his knee, which was braced unyieldingly, as if she had fallen against a bent bough. Her hat shifted. She could not recover at once because he kept hold of her hand for an appreciable time longer than was needed; and when he let go she dropped on to the seat with a jerk that caused her arm to loosen over her handbag. It slid on to the seat and then on to the floor near the driver’s foot. He shoved it towards her with the big, muck-spattered toe of his boot and left it. When she sat up again she felt red and foolish and angry and a bit afraid. The driver chirruped to the horse and the wheels went over. There were no mud boards, and for Flo, who had never been in a trap before, it was strange to have the wheel turning so close beside her, the spokes coming up and going down. The iron tyres craunched, and as the horse stepped off the level everything tipped forward, including the seat which was slippy and the back-rest which suddenly seemed about to push her off. Apprehensively she clutched at her companion’s arm, then as quickly jerked her hand away.

“What the hell?” he asked drawlingly. “You’ll be startling the hoss; getting us thrown out.”

“Sorry,” she murmured, staring at the animal’s undulating back. It was slurring its hooves and occasionally slipped, the trap correspondingly making little forward ducks which made Flo clutch the seat edge. “What’s your name?”

“Miss Royer,” she answered, suddenly recalling again Mrs. Mawson’s advice about sticking up for herself.

“Come off it . . . I’m Clem. What is it, Sally, Maggie, Jane . . .?” he demanded, tossing the reins and still looking straight ahead.

“Florence,” she said reluctantly.

“Not many of them round here,” he commented without any particular interest. “Flo for short, I reckon?”