The churns, the sieve and the milking buckets all stood abandoned, as it were, by the trough. Flo was told to pour the boiling water into one of the churns, to wash that thoroughly, then to pour the same water into the second churn.
“There’ll be some fresh for the sieve at the end,” said Dot taking the kettle. “Remember, I can tell if you don’t do the job properly; there’ll be sour milk.”
Flo made a face after her as she went up the path.
“Meow, meow . . . naughty, naughty,” said Clem’s voice from behind. He was leaning in the stable doorway. “You’ve bin promoted,” he said when Flo looked.
She thrust the short brush into the churn. Only by stretching full length could she reach bottom. Confined by bright metal and shut in by her shoulder the steam was scaldingly hot and almost at once she had to snatch her arm out.
“Rat inside?” asked Clem waggishly. “Once you tek that job, you’ll have it for keeps. You should ha’ given it her back.”
Flo reached in again more circumspectly and swished the water round with vigour. She was aware how foolish she must look with her head almost tucked into the churn. She carefully kept her back from Clem because she knew what he was interested in. Then she found that it was easier if she tilted the churn, letting the water swill up the sides as she rolled the thing on its bottom rim.
“You’re learnin’,” said Clem.
When she came to pour the water into the next churn she was surprised by the weight. She had a job, then nearly dropped the churn and lost all the water through it splashing up and washing against her hand. Fortunately, though, it had cooled a bit, and she was able to stand it. After washing everything with the soapy water, she had to swill thoroughly with cold and then wipe everything till the insides at least looked silver bright. It was rather fun scooping water out of the trough and splashing it about. But when she began to wipe the churns her dress got soaked at the knees through leaning against the wet metal, and she felt chilled. Clem stayed against the door-post all the time and at last said: “Non so bad.” He strolled across. “If nobody’s watching” he added as he came closer, “tip ’em up an’ let ’em drain; wiping’s a waste.” He gripped the nearer churn by the top and swung it up, caught the bottom rim with his free hand and upended it at an angle against the wall. “Air gets in that way an’ sweetens it . . . so they say,” he explained. “When’s you’re next night out?”
“I don’t know,” said Flo.
“Don’t know! By gum, you want ta tek it. I’ll tek you into Buxton one night. What’s wrong wi’ tanight?”
“No; I can’t, without permission.”
“Who off . . . our Dot? Leave it ta me.”
There was a sound at the door, and Dot’s shrill shout reached them: “Haven’t you done?”
“No,” Clem answered, “she’s havin’ a talk wi’ me. Best do the rest yourself.”
“You shut up,” snapped Dot, coming down the path. Her quick glance went over the churns and buckets. “Come on,” she ordered, as if Clem had vanished. “Potatoes next, then we can feed the brutes.”
All morning from one job to another Flo was shifted while Dot walked about, or sat in the front rooms, and occasionally looked into the pans or into the oven. Dinner was an uneasy meal with Clem bullyingly ignoring Dot and talking to Flo.
“You’re going out with me tanight, aren’t you, love?” he asked. “We’ll leave Dot to tickle herself.”
“I’m not going,” Flo answered low but distinctly.
“I should think not, with that . . . stallion,” said Dot to wither him.
Bert chuckled, and then thrust into his mouth half of a potato out of the Irish stew.
Clem failed to think of a good retort quickly, and Flo got up to side the plates. The pudding was sago and turned out to be not quite done. “Like cracking bloody nuts,” said Clem.
“If you think you can cook better, you’d best come an’ do it,” said Dot. “All morning I’ve never seen you working.”
“It’s a damn safe bet as you’ve not done so much.”
“I’ve not been propping door-posts.”
“Wearing your backside out more likely. Anyway, it can stand it. I think I’ll take Flo out for the afternoon instead. Any objections?”
“Yes,” Bert put in unexpectedly. “We’ve got to spread that muck in Lake Pasture. Let’s start.”
He got up and put his billycock on. Clem stayed with arms sprawled beside his empty plate, then changed his intention and followed Bert, giving Dot unexpectedly a sharp squeeze with both hands from behind as he passed.
“Ough!” she gasped. “You great daft brute.”
All afternoon till four she kept Flo at work, another job always ready, as if she spent her time planning them. Flo was grateful when Bert came in for her to help with evening milking.
“Can’t you manage?” asked Dot. “We’ve enough to do.”
“Can we heck manage,” said Bert. “Clem’ll be off any time to meet the train. If you’re comin’ yourself, well an’ good; but I’m non doin’ th’ bloomin’ lot myself.”