“Oh, I see,” he assented, with an amused smile.
“Though for that matter,” and she nodded at Tom, “I’m going to have a daughter-in-law one of these days.”
Tom buried his face in a mug and spluttered.
“Ay, it’s Dilly Topham, and a main pretty girl too; but Tom will mind her.”
“Miss Parrett is terrible strict,” said Tom, recovering his self-possession, “and this do be a model village”; and he winked at Wynyard.
“I’m none so sure!” objected his mother; “there’s a good lot of beer and quarrelling at the Drum, especially of a Saturday night; and there was Katie Punnett—well—well—I say no more.”
“Oh, the girls are all right, mother.”
“Some on ’em; of course that’s Missie’s doing—she’s so friendly with ’em, so nice and so gay; but a good few of the Ottinge girls is of no account. There’s Mrs. Watkins with three big young women on her hands; they won’t stay in service at no price, and they won’t do a turn at home. Their mother holds the house together, and has them, as well as her man, to work for, poor soul!”
“Oh, Watkins, he does ’is share as carrier,” protested Tom.
“I don’t know what you call a share, Tom,” said his mother sharply. “I know of a cold winter’s morning she gets up and milks the cows, and takes the milk round herself, and comes back, and there’s not a fire lit, and them four lazy sacks are all still abed—ay, and asleep. I’ve gone in of an afternoon, too, and seen Maudie and Brenda stretched on their backs a-reading penny novels—it’s all they care for, that and dress, and young men; if I was their mother I’d let out at them!” and she paused for breath. “I never had no schoolin’, and I’m not sorry; laziness and light readin’ is the plague.”