Flo turned abruptly back to the trough. She heard their talk going on, but she could not make it out because of the continual pouring from the pipe. She dared a glance and found Jack staring her way and she would have given her turban to have-known what was being said. Catching her glance, Jack raised his hand in his usual flip, then clapped the reins on the front-board and began to trundle away. Flo waited to see the last of Jerry, and, when the float had gone, all at once she felt sad, as if Jack had taken something that really was her’s. But, of course, nothing was her’s, she thought bitterly as she swished water round in a churn, her arm thrust in up to the shoulder. No money; no nothing. She envied Jack Knight his apparently carefree life; his own boss, and no one to worry him.
“He’s a rum lad,” commented the farmer as he went past to the house.
Rain came, a pleasant warm drizzle, that soaked the earth steadily for all of one week-end. At once the grass responded, as though joyfully. The breezes off the lake previously had ruffled the meadows; now the grass began to sway gracefully, and in the stronger gusts whole fields would bow one way as though being combed. Mr. Nadin liked to stand at the gates and watch.
“That’s a grand bit o’ grass,” he told Flo, as she stood with him looking into Lake Meadow. She was amused, because she had never thought of grass as being anything but commonplace, more or less the same everywhere. But Mr. Nadin maintained that there “isna a better lookin’ field than that onywheer.”
In ten days even to her inexperience the change in the field was great. She saw the seed-heads coming and noticed for the first time how they began to alter the field’s colour. All simple green before, now it began to darken and to show grey sheen; buffs and browns appeared almost as if some great painter were shading them in during the nights. A few buttercups gleamed—not many, but just enough to contrast with the few scarlet sorrel docks and rufus “berried” burnet. Also a scattering of moon daisies bloomed, and Flo thought how nice their name was. It was the farmer that named all these plants for her, explaining that they were weeds. “But it wouldna be like a meadow ’bout ’em,” smiling a little in excuse of his liking them. “We mun fettle th’ mower, an’ Monday, if it’s owt like, we’ll start.”
Flo was rather excited, because she learned that they would all be needed. It would be a change from the indoors monotony.
“Now she’s here, she can do my share; I don’t want burning like a gypsy,” said Dot.
Mr. Nadin grunted, but in a way that said plainly that he’d see whether she went out or not. Mrs. Nadin said, “You want brunnin’ wi’ summat hotter, mi girl; fine big letters on your back, ‘Too lazy ta spit.’”
Clem laughed. They were having their evening meal. Dot threw the dregs of her tea-cup over him.
“It’s the only sort of vulgar humour you could see,” she said cuttingly.
“Vulgar mi backside!” exclaimed Mrs. Nadin. “Tit-ivatin’, hoity-toity, powder mi nose an’ lick mi bottom. I say what I mean an’ them as dunna like it con lump it. Plain speech an’ no frills wi’ underhand work beneath ’em, that’s my way.”
“If you’d only follow your own motto of keeping your mouth shut, it would be better for all of us,” cried Dot, worked up. “You’ve no idea what folks say . . .”
“Let ’em say till they bust an’ be damned,” snapped Mrs. Nadin. “They’ll non say as our Dot is too proud ta goo hay-makin’, anyway. I’ll see ta that.”
When Flo thought that they should all be pleased with the fine way in which the grass had come on, bad temper seemed only to increase. Lacing his boots at six o’clock in the morning to go with Clem to start mowing in Lake Meadow, Bert said, “The sooner it’s done the better; I hope to God it’s a good time.”
“Ay,” Clem grunted. “Muckin’ the stuff about for months is a ruddy mug’s game.”
They went out and Flo was told, instead of bothering with the few jobs that she usually did beforehand, to go straight away to help with milking. She was astonished half an hour later to hear Dot walk into the thirteen shippon. Flo had not known that Dot could milk. Certainly Dot had not milked since Flo had been taken on.
“You’d best take Yorkie an’ Polly, they’re easiest,” said the farmer, looking round from his stool in the gloom at the shippon end.