“Shut your trap, you young liar,” snapped Mrs. Nadin. “I’ll Willox’s son you. Where’s Bert? He’s going to put some shot inta you where you won’t want it. Come here, you little devil, let me get . . .” She strode out, but he turned and ran. Instead of making for the lane he went towards the field gate, vaulted it and disappeared behind the buildings. “Where are you?” screeched Mrs. Nadin, but no one answered. A minute passed before Mr. Nadin stepped out of the barn-door wicket and asked mildly what was up. “You, you wooden yead,” his wife screeched. He blinked and so obviously hadn’t the least idea of what it was all about that Flo nearly laughed out, and had to tip-toe hurriedly from the landing window to which she had run. Whatever the lad had come for she could not imagine, but she did not think that he looked the sort to be seated even by the threat of a charge of buck shot. She wondered whether she would have been able to stop him when they were after him had he bolted over the field instead of escaping across the water.
After that life went on uneventfully, while the grass in all three meadows lengthened and thickened slowly. Mr. Nadin, helped spasmodically by Bert and Clem, set half an acre of King Edwards, and in a special corner at the point of Lake Field put in beans and peas, cauliflowers and cabbages, carrots and sprouts, beetroots and lettuces enough for the household and their visitors. Here in the extending evenings he dug and hoed; he was very seldom in the house except for meals and sleep. Sometimes Flo, after finishing up from tea, would go to the point and, hoe or weed. There, as he never did indoors, Mr. Nadin would talk, mainly about the things that they were doing.
“Lots o’ chaps says as you should shove broad beans in as early as you can ’cos it’ll keep fly off. I dunna believe it. I know a chap as puts ’em in in November, an’ what happens? Mice eats ’em, or it’s a wet time an’ they go rotten.”
“What’s fly?” asked Flo innocently.
“You’ll see, then you’ll know.”
She liked these quiet conversations; she must have been born with an interest in growing things which she had not found out before. But also she liked being in the little triangular garden plot because of where it was, between the willows. Sometimes the water beyond was so still it was only a silver background for the bushes; but sometimes it talked with the breeze, and Flo could hear the jabble of this talk continually even above the streaming of the willow leaves, which were grey-green and slim. They whispered rather than talked. It was some time before Flo realized that the farmer, while he was working and talking, was also watching all that part of the farm that could be seen from where they were, But one June evening he interrupted the sticking in of the willow rods which they had cut to hold up the Sherwood peas, and said he thought they’d “best go an’ see how Jenny is. Oo went into the willers three-quarters of an hour sin’ an’ oo’s near ’er time.”
Jenny was an excitable red, rather small, which Flo had only gone near once. The moment her stool had been put down out had shot the cow’s near rear leg and away the stool had bounced scaringly.
“Keep away or oo’ll punce you over the boskin,” Mr. Nadin had warned, Flo remembered as they went slowly along behind the western sallows. She was surprised that he knew exactly at which path to turn in, for there were several other cattle among the bushes at different places. But there Jenny lay in a kind of nest among lengthy drawn grass.
“Some folks allus takes ’em in. I reckon as it’s best, if weather is owt like, ta let ’em get through as is natural to ’em,” said the farmer slowly, stopping ten yards from the cow, partly hidden. “Oo’ll be a bit yet,” was his judgment. “We’ll non disturb ’er.”
Flo stared, a strange inquisitiveness setting up a quivering inside her. She wanted eagerly to go nearer, to watch everything, but the farmer turned back with such calm acceptance that she would follow that she could not stay.
“However did you know?” she asked, unwittingly by her tone betraying herself. “
“Half of farming’s watchin’,” said the old man cryptically, dragging a dead alder bough across the path. Then his placid glance passed slowly over the cattle scattered about the field.
“Are you sure she’ll be all right?”
“Why not? She seems to be doing nicely. You wouldna like ta be bothered at that business; less disturbance the better.”
Flo did not know where to look. The thoughts started by his plain statement made her feel ashamed, and more excited, yet awed. She was silent, wondering what it would be like to have another life inside herself, and whether it really hurt. Would it hurt Jenny? Why had she gone in there?
“Do they always go away like that?”
“Ay; I reckon it’s instinct . . . t’others ’ud be that inquisitive, oo’d have no chance.”