Flo turned it over in the hope that there might be something on the other side but there were only three grease spots. She could imagine it being laboriously written on the table after tea; with Ivy off-handedly tossing over suggestions, but not really helping. Whatever did that part about Ivy mean? Had Mrs. Baybutt had a baby boy; or had Ivy got another young man? Of course, Flo hadn’t written to Mrs. Howell, and she didn’t intend to. Wasn’t it Mrs. Howell’s fault that there was no money? How could she send money when she hardly got any? Flo read the letter through again, and this time the two phrases that stood out as if written in block capitals were: “better be Home,” and “When yu comin home.” How could she go home when she hadn’t even enough for the fare? Suddenly she let the letter waver to the carpet and sobbed. For nearly five minutes she kept her face hidden, thinking of home and her mother and Ivy and the hopelessness of ever being able to go back. Then gradually she felt better, and looked out and saw the lake and the hills and recognized their familiarity. She remembered that she had only come up to read the letter, yet how long had she been? She hurriedly straightened her hair and smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief and started downstairs. On the landing Dot met her.
“What have you been doing?” she demanded in a disagreeable tone.
“Missis sent me,” said Flo shortly, and went on down.
“Don’t speak to me like that,” shouted Dot.
As soon as Flo went in at the kitchen Mrs. Nadin started: “Well, how are they? Sister had any illegitimate kids yet?”
“They want to know when I’m going home,” Flo answered. “And when I’m sending some money.”
“It’s not till six months, first holiday . . . three days . . . accordin’ ta what they said in papers as they sent. I’m payin’ you what they said, an’ t’other goos ta them for togs an’ things. How done they reckon you con send ’em owt?” demanded Mrs. Nadin.
“I don’t know,” said Flo meekly.
“Damn soft arrangement. We could ’a fitted you up wi’ clothes as would ’a done. Dot’s got more stuff than oo knows what ta do wi’.”
“Yes,” said Flo.
“If you’d like ta send ’em a few eggs or summat, I’ll see what we con spare.”
This only made Flo feel more homesick. She was relieved when she was told to go and start cleaning the cabin. There instead of working in her usual steady way she went at it fiercely, brushing the matting till the place was misty with dust, then dropping on a chair and staring through the window, all her energy and intention spent. She knew that she was giving way as she ought not to, pitying herself, but she abandoned herself and hoped that Dot would come, then they could have a row. However, Dot did not come, and eventually Flo started dusting, giving everything the merest flick, just to be able to say that she’d done it. When she looked out again she saw Dick Goldbourn come from behind the willows at the left end of the little beach and work himself across and go behind the willows again. Despite her mood she was impressed by his uncomplaining intentness. He had troubles, yet there he was making the best that he could of things. Her thoughts lost centre in herself, and she began to think of his life; her sympathy flowed outward after him. Surely he needed someone to look after him. Wasn’t that a job that she could do instead of carrying on hopelessly at Prettyfield? And then the thought came that the only way really to help him was to marry him. The only person that could really help him would have to be his wife. Suppose . . . suppose that it were possible! She gazed hard through the willows where he had gone, only she could not see him. Nevertheless the more she thought about marrying him the more attractive it seemed. How nice it would be to have a man who had a lot of money. Then she would be able to send home whatever she wanted. Her imagination took charge and she saw herself in furs in a Rolls driving up Balloon Street and all the neighbours watching and envying her. She remembered the woman in the poppy jumper that once she had seen on the yacht. And suddenly she laughed and stood up from the chair quickly.
“If ever it could,” she murmured, half in prayer, but also humorously.
She felt better and walked back to the house with the brush and dusters.
“Bin decoratin’ as well as cleanin’?” asked Mrs. Nadin.