The hay meadow was high on the hill behind the farm, overlooking the cornfield. She watched him for a while.
It was the most interesting technique she had ever witnessed. She wouldn’t even have thought that it was technically possible.
Eventually she said: “It’s good. You’ve got the swing and everything.”
THANK YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.
“But why one blade of grass at a time?”
Bill Door regarded the neat row of stalks for some while.
THERE IS ANOTHER WAY?
“You can do lots in one go, you know.”
NO. NO. ONE BLADE AT A TIME. ONE TIME, ONE BLADE.
“You won’t cut many that way,” said Miss Flitworth.
EVERY LAST ONE, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Yes?”
TRUST ME ON THIS.
Miss Flitworth left him to it and went back to the farmhouse. She stood at the kitchen window and watched the distant dark figure for a while, as it moved over the hillside.
I wonder what he did? she thought. He’s got a Past. He’s one of them Men of Mystery, I expect. Perhaps he did a robbery and is Lying Low.
He’s cut a whole row already. One at a time, but somehow faster than a man cutting swathe by swathe…
Miss Flitworth’s only reading matter was the Farmer’s Almanac and Seed Catalogue, which could last a whole year in the privy if no one was ill. In addition to sober information about phases of the moon and seed sowings it took a certain grisly relish in recounting the various mass murders, vicious robberies and natural disasters that befell mankind, on the lines of “June 15, Year of the Impromptu Stoat: On this Day 150 yrs. since, a Man killed by Freak shower of Goulash in Quirm” or “14 die at hands of Chume, the Notorious Herring Thrower.”
The important thing about all these was that they happened a long way away, possibly by some kind of divine intervention. The only things that usually happened locally were the occasional theft of a chicken, and the occasional wandering troll. Of course, there were also robbers and bandits in the hills but they got on well with the actual residents and were essential to the local economy. Even so, she felt she’d certainly feel safer with someone else about the place.
The dark figure on the hillside was well into the second row. Behind it, the cut grass withered in the sun.
I HAVE FINISHED, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Go and feed the pig, then. She’s called Nancy.”
NANCY, said Bill, turning the word around in his mouth as though he was trying to see it from all sides.
“After my mother.”
I WILL GO AND FEED THE PIG NANCY, MISS FLITWORTH.
It seemed to Miss Flitworth that mere seconds went by.
I HAVE FINISHED, MISS FLITWORTH.
She squinted at him. Then, slowly and deliberately, she wiped her hands on a cloth, stepped out into the yard and headed for the pigsty.
Nancy was eyeball-deep in the swill trough.
Miss Flitworth wondered exactly what comment she should make. Finally she said, “Very good. Very good. You, you, you certainly work…fast.”
MISS FLITWORTH, WHY DOES NOT THE COCKEREL CROW PROPERLY?