«Yes,» said Rosie, after a rather long pause. «And me sleep below.»
Fred was overwhelmed with gratitude and remorse. Rosie couldn't help feeling sorry for him. She even managed to give him a smile before she went down to get what rest she could on the sack of straw.
In the morning, she woke feeling rather dejected. There was a mighty breakfast to be prepared for Mary; afterwards Fred drew her aside.
«Look here,» he said. «This won't do. I can't have you sleeping on the ground, worse than a gippo. I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to get up my acrobat stuff again. I used to make a lot that way, and I like it fine. Hand springs, double somersaults, bit of conjuring: it went down well. Only I didn't have time to keep in practice with Mary to look after. But if you'd do the looking after her, we'd make it a double turn, and soon we'd have a good bit of cash. And then —»
«Yes?» said Rosie.
«Then,» said Fred, «I could buy you a trailer.»
«All right,» said Rosie, and turned away. Suddenly she turned back with her face flaming. «You may know a lot about pigs,» she said bitterly. «And about somersaults, and conjuring, and baskets, and brooms and I don't know what-all. But there's one thing you don't know.» And with that she went off and cried behind a hedge.
After a while she got the upper hand of it, and came back to the caravan. Fred showed her how to give Mary her morning bath, then the depilatory — that was very hard on the hands — then the rubbing with Cleopatra Face Cream — and not on her face merely — then the powdering, then the manicuring and polishing of her trotters.
Rosie, resolved to make the best of it, conquered her repugnance, and soon mastered these handmaidenly duties. She was relieved at first that the spoiled pig accepted her ministrations without protest. Then she noticed the gloating look in its eye.
However, there was no time to brood about that. No sooner was the toilet finished than it was time to prepare the enormous lunch. After lunch Mary had her little walk, except on Saturdays when there was an afternoon show, and after the walk she took her rest. Fred explained that during this period she liked to be talked to, and to have her back scratched a bit. Mary had quite clearly decided that in the future she was going to have it scratched a lot. Then she had her massage. Then tea, then another little walk, or the evening show, according to where they were, and then it was time to prepare dinner. At the end of the day Rosie was thankful to curl up on her poor sack of straw.
When she thought of the bunk above, and Fred, and his simplicity, her heart was fit to break. The only thing was, she loved him dearly, and she felt that if they could soon snatch an hour alone together, they might kiss a little more, and a ray of light might dispel the darkness of excessive innocence.
Each new day she watched for that hour, but it didnt come. Mary saw to that. Once or twice Rosie suggested a little stroll, but at once the hateful pig grumbled some demand or other that kept her hard at work till it was too late. Fred, on his side, was busy enough with his practicing. He meant it so well, and worked so hard — but what did it lead to? A trailer!
As the days went by, she found herself more and more the slave of this arrogant grunter. Her back ached, her hands got chapped and red, she never had a moment to make herself look nice, and never a moment alone with her beloved. Her dress was spotted and spoiled, her smile was gone, her temper was going. Her pretty hair fell in elf locks and tangles, and she had neither time nor heart to comb it.
She tried to come to an explanation with Fred, but it was nothing but cross purposes and then cross words. He tried in a score of little ways to show that he loved her, but these seemed to her a mere mockery, and she gave him short answers. Then he stopped, and she thought he loved her no longer. Even worse, she felt she no longer loved him.
So the whole summer went by, and things got worse and worse, and you would have taken her for a gipsy indeed.
The blackberries were ripe again; she found a whole brake of them. When she tasted one, all sorts of memories flooded into her heart. She went and found Fred. «Fred,» she said, «the blackberries are ripe again. I've brought you one or two.» She held out some in her grubby hand. Fred took them and tasted them; she watched to see what the result would be.
«Yes,» said he, «they're ripe. They won't gripe her. Take her and pick her some this afternoon.»
Rosie turned away without a word, and in the afternoon she took Mary across the stubbles to where the ripe berries grew. Mary, when she saw them, dispensed for once with dainty service, and began to help herself very liberally. Rosie, finding she had nothing more urgent to attend to, sat down on a bank and sobbed bitterly.
In the middle of it all she heard a voice asking what was the matter. She looked up, and there was a fat, shrewd, jolly-looking farmer. «What is it, my girl?» said he. «Are you hungry?»
«No,» said she, «I'm fed up.»
«What with?» said he.
«A pig!» said she, with a gulp.
«You've got no call to bawl and cry,» said he. «There's nothing like a bit of pork. I'd have the indigestion for that, any day.»
«It's not pork,» she said. «It's a pig. A live pig.»
«Have you lost it?» said he.
«I wish I had,» said she. «I'm that miserable. I don't know what to do.»
«Tell me your troubles,» said he. «There's no harm in a bit of sympathy.»
So Rosie told him about Fred, and about Mary, and what hopes she'd had and what they'd all come to, and how she was the slave of this insolent, spoiled, jealous pig, and in fact she told him everything except one little matter which she could hardly bring herself to repeat, even to the most sympathetic of fat farmers.
The farmer, pushing his hat over his eyes, scratched his head very thoughtfully. «Really,» said he. «I can't hardly believe it.»
«It's true,» said Rosie, «every word.»
«I mean,» said the farmer, «a young man — a young gal — the young gal sleeping down on a sack of straw — a pretty young gal like you. Properly married and all. Not to put too fine a point on it, young missus, aren't the bunks wide enough, or what?»
«He doesn't know,» sobbed Rosie. «He just doesn't know no more'n a baby. And she won't let us ever be alone a minute. So he never gets a chance to find out.»
The farmer scratched his head more furiously than ever. Looking at her tear-stained face, he found it hard to doubt her. On the other hand it seemed impossible that a pig should know so much and a young man should know so little. But at that moment Mary came trotting through the bushes, with an egoistical look on her face, which was well besmeared with the juice of the ripe berries.
«Is this your pig?» said the farmer.
«Well,» said Rosie, «I'm just taking her for a walk.»
The shrewd farmer was quick to notice the look that Rosie got from the haughty grunter when it heard the expression «your pig.» This, and Rosie's hurried, nervous disclaimer, convinced the worthy man that the story he had heard was well founded.
«You're taking her for a walk?» said he musingly. «Well! Well! Well! I'll tell you what. If you'd ha' been here this time tomorrow you'd have met me taking a walk, with a number of very dear young friends of mine, all very much like her. She might have come along. Two young sows, beautiful creatures, though maybe not so beautiful as that one. Three young boars, in the prime of their health and handsomeness. Though I say it as shouldn't, him that's unattached — he's a prince. Oh, what a beautiful young boar that young boar really is!»
«You don't say?» said Rosie.
«For looks and pedigree both,» said the farmer, «he's a prince. The fact is, it's their birthday, and I'm taking 'em over to the village for a little bit of a celebration. I suppose this young lady has some other engagement tomorrow.»