They were looking at her, every one was looking at her, and her first impulse was to be angry with them for staring so curiously and her second was to conceal her awareness of their gaze. They stared? Let them stare. She had not been at the factory on the previous day, but she had had leave of absence. She had been burying her daughter-in-law, and if they wanted to stare at her for that, they could stare. And then she connected their fixed regard with John’s absence. There was something serious then? Something about John of which they knew and she did not? She dropped abruptly her pretense of unconsciousness.
“For God’s sake tell me what’s to do,” she cried. “If it’s John, I’m his mother and I’ve the right to know.”
Will Aspinall, the overseer, detached himself from his group. “Get at work,” he bawled at large, then with a rare gentleness, led Phoebe aside. “Either tha’s gotten th’ brassiest faice i’ Lankysheer, or else tha’ doan’t kna’,” he said.
“Is it to do with John?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said, “it’s all to do wi’ thy John.”
“I know nothing beyond that he’s not been home all night.”
“A kna’ he’s not bin hoam. He’s done wi’ coming hoam.”
“Why? Why? What has happened?”
“A’m, striving to tell thee that. Th’ job’s not easy, though.” He looked at her. “Wilt have it straight?”
“I’m never afraid of truth.”