“Gone straight across. Swum in the middle; couldn’t ha’ got without,” commented Bert, staring. They were on another long arm of the water that went in rightward to a point completely shut in by willows. “Cheekiest little bugger of a poacher in the valley. If I lay hands on him I’ll wring his bloody neck.”
Flo didn’t like to ask again if it were Jack. She thought it couldn’t be; but she was not sure.
“Come on, I shouldn’t wonder he’s lookin’ at us. The tale’ll go all over,” said Bert disgusted, starting round.
He led back into the bushes with long strides. Flo felt that in part he really blamed her, though she couldn’t think that the intruder had seen her. In the field again Bert turned right and they went on to the point where Flo was surprised to see the outline of a hut about twenty feet long set well in among the bushes, as if in hiding. Coarse tussocks grew to the step. It was as plain as could be with a door in the middle and one window at either side. Bert looked in first through one window, then through the other, and seemed satisfied.
“Let it out to parties in summer,” Bert answered her unspoken question. “Sometimes Dick Goldbourn stays.”
“However does he get?” she asked, remembering her wetting and instantly feeling her feet starved again.
“Oh, there’s a way off the main road,” Bert explained. “But it’s surprisin’ what he can do.”
They turned back down the side up which Bert had stalked. An owl went over, about fifteen feet up, unseen by Flo till unexpectedly its broad body and wide wings momentarily cut out the moon. “Oo, I wondered whatever it was,” she exclaimed, wondering why she hadn’t heard its flight as she had heard the peewit’s. Bert did not answer, going on with long paces which made her hurry. His mood had completely changed; as if now she was a nuisance and he regretted having brought her. When she judged that they had reached the end of the arm of the water he swung leftward, and she saw a travelling light and heard a rumble and knew that they were nearing the main road. They came to a wall which he vaulted, leaving her to get over as best she could. Then they were going leftward faster than ever, and soon he got back over the wall and they were behind more willows with the moonlight towards them broken between the rods.
“You never know; he’s such a blighter he may be helpin’ himself this side,” said Bert.
“Wet through!” exclaimed Flo. “He’d catch his death.” She shivered from her feet upward.
“Not if there was chance of eggs . . .” said Bert. “He’s tough; he wouldn’t burn in hell. But I’ll not wait next time; I’ll put some shot in his buttocks. Happen he’ll be glad to cool hisself in the water then. Cuss ’im!”
But whoever the intruder was, he had gone. They went back by the road. Clem was alone in the kitchen and the clock showed ten to twelve.
“This is a gay time,” said Clem with mock disapproval, appraising her downward to muddied boots and ankles.
“What about lettin’ me take you next night?”
She bent to untie her laces and did not speak.
The strangeness of Flo’s new life was wearing off. Living all together in the big kitchen it was impossible for any dividing line to last long. Indeed, Flo had already realized that Mrs. Nadin treated everybody alike, and that her tongue was always fiercer than herself. It said harsh things just for the joy of saying them; it announced threats when there was no intention that the threats should be carried out. Thus when Flo went down she knew by the vacant nail at the mantlepiece end and the absence of the stiff crusted boots from the hearth by the hot-water tank that the farmer must be back and out at his usual first morning jobs. Mrs. Nadin did not speak. She bustled about seeing to the porridge as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. When the farmer came in he seemed unchanged.
“Sit thee down an’ get that in thi belly,” said Mrs. Nadin, planting a plate before him.
He scooped it up without comment.
Flo wondered what time he had got back, and was puzzled that she had not heard any row. She had expected the whole household to be wakened. She went out about her own usual jobs, and then found the one difference that his escapade had left on the farmer: he was quieter than ever. During the whole of the milking he never spoke. He was shut in within himself. Bert and Clem talked occasionally to each other and to her, but they did not address their father, and Flo felt constrained and afraid of him; his silence was a kind of evil temper, much worse than Mrs. Nadin’s aggressive but open attack, and Flo wondered whether that explained why nothing had been heard in the night. Perhaps when he was in this mood even Mrs. Nadin was afraid. How strange to be married to a man like that. She hoped that she didn’t get anyone with moods; anyway she’d do her best to see that she didn’t. Did Mrs. Nadin know when she got married; or had she only learned since?