“I think it will. But if it winna, I’ll get some, or make some as will. I’ll shovel up a few thousand mole-heaps an’ fetch a few hundred sacks o’ leaf-mould from th’ beech woods yonder.” They had come out from beneath the railway bridge again, and he waved to the top of the hill behind them. “It’s grand stuff for potting,” he went on, his pale eyes looking at her gravely. “You know, I’m non so set on tomatoes that I winna try anythin’ else. But I think there’d be a good sale for fresh tomatoes round here, an’ I’d like to sell ’em ta folk so that they’d know what real fresh home-grown ones are like.”
“You’d sooner grow things than be like Mr. Nadin?” said Flo, studying him and wondering what would happen to him eventually.
“I like animals, in a way; but I’d sooner grow things. I dunna know why,” he confessed. “There’s somethin’ in the touch of the soil, somehow, as makes me . . . specially in spring when it comes warm after bein’ clammy . . . Have you ever dug your hands in a mole-heap then?”
“I haven’t.”
“Next spring, just try it. It’s dry an’ warm, it’s like corn meal, it’s . . . well, somehow there’s something wonderful about it. Nobody knows exactly what’s in soil, an’ what it’ll do an’ what it winna do. I . . . I let it run through me fingers, an’ I wonder about it. If anybody saw me doin’ it, they’d think me daft.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Flo gently.
“Trouble is, most folk think they know everything specially ’bout things like soil as there’s plenty of; an’ the rest don’t care, anyway.”
They had reached the straight that ran nearest to the lake. Through blackthorn and hawthorn bushes Flo saw Dick Goldbourn sitting patiently with his rod over the water.
“D’you think Dick Goldbourn cares?” she asked.
Jack looked, too, but did not answer at once. Then he said: “Dick’s had a hard time. He’s a decent chap; I like Dick.”
“But does he care about things as you think he ought to?” Flo persisted, not really knowing why.
“Nay,” Jack laughed, his mood and tone changing, “you’re non goin’ ta catch me that way. Live an’ let live. I dunna think I could fish all day, but I’m no good at fishin’. You should ’a seen me t’other day trying ta help him land a pike; it welly drowned me.”
“I nearly drowned myself trying to land that one of Bert’s to-day before you came,” confessed Flo. Both of them laughed.
Flo wondered if Dick had seen her; but she did not care either way.
The smirry weather continued. Week-end came, and Bert as usual was out all the time with fishermen. Dot and Flo wore coats over their heads as they took the trays of things to the cabin. Mr. Nadin was more bitter than ever against the visitors, calling them “blister-shirkers” and “shinonakin’ wasters”.
“Shut your trap an’ goo an’ tek a dose o’ salts,” ordered Mrs. Nadin tartly. “We’re hay-makin’ as noo weather stops. Shift thisen from under mi feet.”
Each day Flo felt more sorry for the farmer. After the drizzle came a period of showers, with occasional sun breaks, but never enough to dry the fields; not enough even to suggest that the hay might be shaken out. The high cocks lost their scented greeny-blueness and went a dull buff, sinking into sodden lumps without shape or pride. But the rain made the grass grow tall and succulent round them, as if it would hide their dismalness. The farmer with his blunt-toed boot lifted the edge of a lump and Flo saw the grass under it white, lemon and yellow and squiggly, eager to grow straight but unable to.
“We’ll be ruined,” said the farmer, “’bout hay, winter feed’ll cost a fortune.” It would have been better if Lake Meadow had never been cut, he said; all their work had been wasted. In the other fields, Charlie Meadow and Square Piece, twenty-four acres in all, the grass was still untouched. It had lost its seed and gone dark and dishevelled, but it was still cuttable and wasn’t rotting. “If this weather keeps on we’ll be hay-makin’ at Christmas.”
The boys didn’t worry. It was only Mr. Nadin. Bert said: “It’s worse August I remember, an’ that’s saying’ something. If it doesna take up the old mon’ll go hairless.”
Mrs. Nadin wasted no sympathy on the farmer, either. “Tickle thiself, you look worse than th’ weather,” she told him. “Sun winna shine ’cos you goo all broody.”
“Farm con go ta hell for all you care!”
“Are you tekkin’ me ta Bakewell Show?” she demanded back. “If you conna work you con play.”
It seemed as though he would not reply, but after a pause he said, “Ay,” and then went out.
“Biggest show as there is i’ these parts,” Mrs. Nadin explained to Flo.
August holiday week Thursday arrived with the sky still low and blotched black and grey. Mr. Nadin came down in his best whipcord suit.
“What the heck, milkin’ i’ that!” stormed Mrs. Nadin, up a little earlier than usual.
“I thought you wanted ta go ta Bakewell,” said Mr. Nadin mildly.