“You damn near jumped in yourself, didn’t you?” Bert grinned. He wound the rest of the line. “I generally go round once a day,” he explained. “Sometimes you con see off the water what you canna see on land.” He rowed on with the one line out. “I’ll be damn glad when th’ hays in. The old man got worked up about what Jack said, eh?”
“Yes,” said Flo, looking across to where a few of the hay cocks could be seen behind the bay in the willows. “Will it spoil badly?”
“I reckon what Jack said was right, you know,” Bert observed slowly. “I’ve read a bit, somewhere. The more you mess it about, th’ more likely you are ta spoil it. Jack’s non as daft as some thinks; he’s got his head fast. He reads. It’s surprisin’ what you con get out o’ books.”
“D’you read?”
“Me? I’ve noo time. By gum, speak of the devil . . .!”
Flo glanced in the way of his nod. Coming down the lane past the farm was Jack in his float. Opposite the boathouse he stopped the nag and strolled down. Bert looked over his right shoulder and with deft short strokes glided faultlessly in beside the stage and dropped the painter over its peg.
“Lucky beggars,” said Jack, standing over them while Bert wound in the remaining line. “What luck?”
“Nowt. She gave the on’y one we saw a clout wi’ th’ net as scared it a mile off.”
“What you doin’ . . . joy-ridin’?” asked Jack, looking at Flo.
“It’s my afternoon off,” said Flo, Bert’s hard palm closing on her hand to pull her up on the stage. “I can’t walk ’cos of my foot, so he said he’d take me.”
“Ever bin up ta Belle View? I’ll give you a ride there, if you like.”
“What you after there?” Bert asked.
“Greenhouse. He’s givin’ up, so I heard at auction. Have you heard owt?”
“Ay, he’s givin’ up all right. What the hell d’you want another house for?”
“Tomatoes. If you’re goin’ for a job, you’ve got to go in prop’ly. If you get customers, you’ve got ta be able ta keep ’em supplied.”
“I’d sooner shoot,” said Bert drily.
“Comin’?” asked Jack of Flo. They had moved into the open and for a moment his pale blue eyes met her’s. “It’s non Pullman-strung, but it’ll save your foot.”
She did not speak, but went with him. The piebald nag turned its head, its baggy blinkers queerly making it seem like an old long-headed man staring interrogatively over old-fashioned spectacles.
“When are you goin’ ta shove it in a museum?” asked Bert.
“What . . . old Mike?” Jack laughed good-temperedly. “You coming, too. He’ll pull three.”
“Nay, it’s nowt in my line . . . chaperonin’.” Bert winked at Flo and took the path past the cabin to the house.
“I like Bert; he’s the best,” Jack commented as they went up the slope. He pulled down a small wooden flap on the right-hand side of the float.
“But it’s the driver’s, isn’t it?” Flo objected. He told her that Mike didn’t need driving; and he sat on the opposite side, balanced partly on the mudguard.
After three encouraging shouts the piebald shook himself into a jog-trot which took them on very little quicker than walking. However, Jack seemed satisfied and began to talk of the folk round about being nearly all like Bert and Clem.
“Decent chaps, but no go in them. As long as they’ve got what they want, they dunna care. Don’t know what ambition is.”
“No,” said Flo, watching the slow
“I reckon we’re all here ta do something; non just to drift through anyway, enjoyin’ ourselves,” Jack went on.
“Yes,” said Flo, beginning to pay more attention.
“They make fun o’ me, always tryin’ things.”
“D’you think you can grow tomatoes?” Flo asked, looking without his knowing, so far as she could tell. The collar of his old navy blue reefer stood up with the pink rims of his ears just showing, but his head was bare, and the crisp hair glistened silver with drizzle bubbles. His lean nose and lips suggested determination, and she was suddenly struck by the complete difference from the rectangular rather dark features of Dick Goldbourn.
“I reckon I can,” said Jack. “You dunna know what you con do ’bout tryin’.”
They passed under a high-arched bridge which Flo guessed she must have travelled over when she came from Barrow. The road swung a little rightward and went down an avenue of larches ending in a triangular space on which looked dourly more in the manner of a police station a solid stone-built pub with the curious name of Ants’ Nest. A few other houses were scattered about, but almost as though hiding.