Mrs. Nadin, in a hurry, tossed the long pink-white bacon slivers into the big frying-pan. Dot teemed steaming water into a huge brown teapot; when it was full she had to use both hands to carry it. Then the first plates of bacon were ready, and to each were added two segments of new crisped oatcake, and a rich fried egg. A cloth was put over everything, and Flo was told to hurry.
Waiting in the cabin were two men in big boots and tweeds, lounging close to the stove and drinking while Dot stood by. Her hair, which usually she kept in her copper-wire pins till afternoon, was already frizzed out, and her apron was pink with a frilled edge. One of the men was middle-aged, the other under twenty; both were pleasant and at ease. Flo hesitated.
“Don’t stand there,” said Dot sharply. “Don’t you know that the gentlemen want their breakfast hot?”
She flicked the cloth off and nodded to where the plates were to be put.
“Does it look good?” asked the younger man, and whistled and turned eagerly to the table.
Through the window Flo saw a boat with three men glide from behind the sallows into the little bay. Standing balanced in the stern, one of the occupants was winding line in down a long delicate rod, and another rod stuck out over the back-board.
“Breakfast for three more,” ordered Dot briskly. “Don’t stand staring.”
“You sound as though you got out wrong side this morning,” said the younger man rallyingly.
Flo, as she went out, heard only the beginning of the reply: “If someone didn’t keep them in their . . .” It was not hard to guess at the next word. Flo dabbed the tip of her tongue half an inch out through tight lips and as quickly retracted it. She didn’t care, anyway, because it seemed as though it was going to be an interesting day. One of the other men was on the beach steadying the nose of the boat while his companions stepped ashore. All of them had such bulky clothes on it was difficult at the distance to tell whether they were young men or old. But when Flo got back she judged them all to be in the twenties.
“Gee, a new maid; we’re comin’ on. Where are you from, sweetheart?” asked one who had rather a Jewish look.
Flo, taken by surprise, said “Barrow.”
“Oh!” he yelped with a rising inflexion as if he had been bitten. “You don’t say! Do you happen to know Bill Smith there, a fellow with a cork leg and a backbone of bed-spring?”
“No,” said Flo, reddening.
“Don’t know Bill Smith?” he demanded, apparently tremendously surprised. “Oo, you should do. He never sleeps on a bed because his backbone’s so well sprung; and when he wants to pick his teeth he takes a splinter off his thigh.” And suddenly he put his arm round her so that she nearly dropped the tray.
“Stop that,” snapped Dot. “If there’s any carrying on you won’t get fed here.”
“Oh, thank you for those kind words,” said the long-haired young man, bowing. He laughed and his pals laughed, and Flo wondered what they would do next.
The amazing appetites all the men had! Dot stayed and poured tea and talked, but Flo was kept travelling to and fro, fetching more bacon, more bread, more oatcake. Another three men came up, older, more staid. They had done better than the others, and talked fishing and were listened to. Bert strolled in and lounged by the stove. Flo saw that he was popular.
“Have you done milking?” Dot demanded.
“No, cattle’s milking theirsel’s,” he answered easily. Dot could not think of a suitable retort at once and finished with a rather weak, “I bet they are.”
“Surprisin’, isn’t it?” said Bert.
Flo was sent back with dirtied pots. She soon found that there would be no time all day for anything but looking after men who had come to fish. For one o’clock dinner two more were added to the morning eight. Mrs. Nadin carved a great sirloin, the meat glistening with good blood. The potatoes were British Queen, white and mealy. “When you’re wed, allus get British Queen,” she advised Flo. “Men think more of their guts than owt; give ’em a bellyful and you’ll ne’er have any trouble.” Obviously Mrs. Nadin enjoyed catering. When the last plate was filled she bustled to the oven and peered anxiously inside. The Yorkshire pudding, eighteen inches square, had risen higher than the sides of the tin, and made Flo think of bubbles. “Out o’ me way,” snapped Mrs. Nadin, her cloth-muffled hands gripping the tin firmly. She led down the hall almost at a trot. At the cabin door Dot waited, holding it open.
“What-ho!” shouted the exuberant, long-haired young man.
The tin was planted on a waiting mat at the near end of the long table. Without waste of a second Mrs. Nadin began to cut the pudding into squares. The knife bit crisply and released sweet-smelling steam. All the Yorkshire puddings that Flo had seen had been flat and sodden-looking; but this was so light it collapsed like brown merengue, and made her mouth water so unexpectedly and abundantly that she had to swallow five times in quick succession.