“I never heard of a married woman as cudn’t maake a sago pudden,” she said to Tom.
“She’d maake it fur her husband quick enough,” said Tom with a grin.
“Well, Steve’s here most Sundays, and she’s never maade him naun but a ginger-cake, and she used to maake that before she wur wed.”
“Wait till she’s got a liddle home of her own ... that’ll be all the difference, woan’t it, Nell?”
Nell smiled faintly.
“Would you believe it, Tom?” said Mrs. Beatup, “but when we want a suet pudden now we’ve got to git it off a meat-card.”
“We’ve heard out there as all you civvies wur on rations—and Mus’ Archie one day he got the platoon for a bit of parlez-voo and toald us as how you wurn’t starved, as so many chaps had letters from their wives, saying as they cud git naun to eat.”
“Not starved! That’s valiant. And wot does Mus’ Archie know about it? Seemingly you doan’t know wot war is out there wud all your tea and your butter and your meat. Reckon there’ll never be peace as long as soldiering’s the only job you can git fed at.”
“Well, you’ve guv me an unaccountable good tea fur a starving family. And now I’ll be off and see Harry about the farm.”
Worge was in the midst of its spring sowings, and Harry spent his long days in the fields whose harvest he would not see. The Volunteer field was in potash now, dug for potatoes, and there were six more acres of potatoes over by the Sunk.