“If only it wasn’t so far from you, it would be alright. I don’t like Dot. She’s stuck up and no mistake, but I wish Ivy could see some of the things she has. Not that they’re any better than mine, really, tell Mrs. Howell. The only thing is I don’t get much time to wear them. Saturday and Sunday we feed men who come to catch fishes in the lake, though they don’t much. Monday is wash-day, and the ironing we have in the afternoon! You’d go dotty, but we get through. Tuesday . . . well, I’m not going to go over everything. But I should get some time off, shouldn’t I?. . I don’t like asking, because Mrs. isn’t the sort you can ask much, though she’s not too bad when you get used. Talks and talks
Next morning Flo asked Dot where she could post the letter.
“What tales have you been telling?”
“Nothing,” said Flo.
“Bert’ll post it . . . if he can remember,” said Dot. She stood a moment hesitating, then walked to the fireplace.
Bert said, “Ay, I’ll non forget,” and slipped the envelope into his right-hand pocket. This was Flo’s second letter. She thought of Mrs. Mawson telling her to stick up for herself, and wondered whether asking about a half-day off would come under what her friend had meant. Only there was always so much to do that Flo did not like asking. But Mrs. Nadin might have been able to pick up her thoughts for on the second Thursday morning, while Flo was peeling potatoes, Mrs. Nadin said: “I reckon you’re like all the rest an’ want ta goo sky-larkin’ a bit?”
“How d’you mean?”
“Bit o’ time off a’ter the lads. There’ll be noo folk if there’s noo courtin’. When you’ve washed up, happen we’ll manage ’bout you after dinner.”
But it was three before Flo got upstairs to change. Only now that she was free she had no idea where to go. Her brief ride from the station through Moss had not left a very attractive memory. It seemed a long walk there if there was nothing more than she had already seen. She leaned on the window sill and looked across the valley to where on the hill were other farms, small and grey, each with its sheltering group of sycamores or ash trees. She got her father’s glasses, and these seemed to bring the farms closer, but that was all. In any of these farmhouses there might be a girl of her own age free for the afternoon, not knowing what to do. But how could they get to know each other? Was there no market where they could meet? Flo wondered. Why hadn’t she asked?