“There isna the same promise about it, somehow,” he said looking up with his blue eyes serious. “I reckon it’s th’ same sort o’ difference as between doin’ an’ havin’ done. It’s the doing that’s good. When you’ve done a thing, it’s done with, stale.”
“Oh,” said Flo. “I never thought like that.”
“But we couldna do ’bout hay, of course,” he laughed, his mood changing. “Hope it doesna rain, or there’ll be a tidy bit spoilt.”
“Have you none?” she asked, wishing that she knew more about him; how he really lived. Was it his mother, or who, that had cancer?
“No. I canna afford ta use my land for hay; I havena enough. I crop all I con. I dunna need much hay . . . chiefly for old Mike yonder,” and he glanced towards the lane where the piebald horse stood patiently.
“Crop? D’you mean . . .?”
“Food crops; the quickest I con. Spring cabbage, then spinach. Early peas, sprouts . . . that sort o’ thing. Two crops a year, if I’m lucky.”
“If . . .?”
“If th’ weather’s owt like. It’s non the right country, really, but I’m goin’ ta put some glass up, an’ heat. Then I’ll grow summat.” This not boastfully, but in a soberly enthusiastic way to which Flo reacted with increasing interest. He saw that she wanted to know more. “Most chaps says as tomatoes winna grow here, but I reckon it’s non bin properly tried. I . . .”
“Hey! What about some work?” came an impatient shout.
Jack, with his mouth open, looked round sharply and saw the farmer waving his pikel. Flo shook the reins briskly and Colonel tossed his head in protest. He lurched rightwards and the tedder began to slew round.
“Hay-fever, eh?” said Jack.
“How d’you mean . . . coughing an’ sneezing?”
“No, just hot up an’ bothered ’cos he’s got so much hay out. Worries hisself stiff.”
“Oh,” said Flo, smiling, and slapped the reins again. The paddles began to go round and the hay wave to flow over, and she smelt the warm odour of it again. She thought how nice it must be to be able to try things, to experiment with growing plants, to have a small place of one’s own.
Without turning her head, out of the side of her glance, she watched Jack walking towards Mr. Nadin. They talked, Mr. Nadin all the time shredding out little clots of grass, tossing it here and there. After five minutes Jack walked to where an extra pikel was jabbed in the earth. Plucking it up he went back and began to work alongside the farmer. They talked, and at times the talk became so interesting that they both stopped and seemed to argue. Flo wondered what it was about; and then back into her mind came drifting what Jack had said about tedding and rolling. She remembered the thrush and remembrance of his exultant song brought back some of the April morning’s freshness. She looked about and contrasted it with the grey stillness of the summer day, and found herself agreeing that it was not quite so good, not quite so good as spring, because, as Jack had said, it lacked the eagerness and promise. She was sure that none of the others would have thought of that. She was glad that Jack had told her. She glanced again, and now he was walking back to the gate. Calculating that if Jack was going to Moss she might get to the willows and round and be back at the lane as he passed, she slapped the reins along Colonel’s undulating back. Colonel lurched a little quicker; the paddles hummed, and the drying grass rustled like falling leaves. And as Jack passed she reached the hedge and called out:
“You’re right; I think rolling’s better, too.”
He grinned understanding, but shouted back: “Tedding’s non bad either.” He gave his queer salute. “See you some more.”
“Yes,” said Flo, and after that she kept on till all the swaths were gone and the whole field was spread as with a green-blue web.
At dinner Flo learned what the farmer and Jack had been discussing. The farmer mentioned it as soon as he got in.
“What d’you think Jack’s latest is? Bin tellin’ me how ta mek hay.”
“We’re doin’ it all wrong, I bet,” said Clem.
“Wastin’ our time, he says. ‘You dunna think as we shake it about for fun, done you?’ I axed ’im. ‘Dry it without shakin’ it so much,’ ’e says. ‘How con you?’ I said. ‘If weather’s good, turn it once in th’ swath an’ then get it in,’ says ’e. ‘The quicker the better.’”
Mr. Nadin looked at his sons and then at his wife and daughter and Flo in turn.
“His father were daft an’ ’e teks after ’im,” said Mrs. Nadin promptly, as if there was nothing else to be said.
“What’s his argument? He had one no doubt . . . out of a book.” Bert popped in a chestnut-sized pickled onion, graunched it twice, and went on graunching and talking at the same time, “He’s a beggar for books.”
“Some as ’as no sense tries ta get it that way,” said Mrs. Nadin.
“He says as there’s a sort of varnish on th’ stalks. When they’re shook up it cracks an’ then th’ stuff’s spoiled,” the farmer explained rather laboriously. “Ay, he said as ’e’d read it somewheer.”