The same heavy sky and close moich atmosphere. The girls out again and we have to carry dinner to the stack yard. A boy grins in anticipation as he carries a stone bottle of home made beer under each arm. A few sprouting sheaves from a dyke back are thrown aside in a sorrowful heap. It is not much comfort to know that our neighbours have similar objects in their back yard.
The boss rests for a moment on his fork to ruminate aloud. “This stuff isn’t to my satisfaction” but what can we do? If it isn’t drying, at any rate we we’ll not let it get any more rain.
Dish washing all day long. Twice down to the stackyard to see if the plates and mugs have been brought from the field. “Are they coming with this cart, Tommy?”
“Naw! Wid t’ next un.”
“Very well then. There’s no tea till those mugs come back.” (They never seem to think but that we have a pot and tin smith’s shop at hand.)
The brambles are hanging black, mostly out of my reach and dykes and ditches soaking wet. The milking is not heavy but dreich with so many strippers and it is quite dark before we are finished.