Conference at Cold Comfort Farm Page 3

  A commotion near the guard’s van at once attracted her attention. Someone was supervising the unloading of two huge, oddly-shaped cases with sharp cries and much darting about. It was Mr Mybug; not much fatter, not noticeably otherwise changed, but wearing, instead of the wrinkly pullover and grey bags of yesteryear, an imitation camelhair coat sent from America by Throw-outs for Britain, a wind-breaker jacket sent from Canada by Help Britain Again, British-made sandals smuggled in from Belgium, and corduroy pants lent him by a fellow-traveller.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Mybug; how nice to see you again!’ said Flora.

  Mr Mybug wheeled round, and started back at the sight of her.

  ‘God, this is good,’ he said simply, after a pause, taking both her hands and squeezing them as hard as he could (which was not very hard, because of his sedentary habits) and slightly tilting his chin while gazing into her eyes. ‘After . . . how many years? But time doesn’t matter, does it . . . Flora?’

  ‘You have not changed at all,’ said Flora.

  ‘Neither have you, my god,’ retorted Mr Mybug earnestly, ‘Still the same unawakened, remote, virginal –’

  ‘Someone wishes to speak to you, I think,’ Flora murmured, gently withdrawing her hands.

  ‘My dee-ar fellow, der porters are gettink so tough vid my vork,’ said a tall man dressed in grey, with gooseberry eyes, a bald head and a very, very sad expression, who was standing at Mr Mybug’s elbow. ‘Please ask dem to care-haf. After all, it your business is; you der Organizing Secretary are.’

  ‘Of course! Yes! I say, you might be careful there, George; those cases are valuable!’ cried Mr Mybug to the two porters.

  They took absolutely no notice, but went on manoeuvring the misshapen cases on to a barrow. The man with gooseberry eyes stared sadly at Flora.

  ‘This is Flora Fairford; she’s going to help me run this thing,’ said Mr Mybug carelessly. ‘Flora – Andrassy Hacke. The creator,’ and here Mr Mybug reverently lowered his voice and jerked his head towards the cases, ‘of Woman with Wind and Woman with Child.’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course,’ said Flora, bowing and smiling to Hacke and hoping the cases would not be opened until she was safely in bed or otherwise out of the way.

  ‘Per-haps Missis Flora doess not der sculpture-art like,’ said Hacke in an absolutely furious tone and turning greyish-purple. ‘In Inklandt der is no lovink of der Fineart at all. Der artist iss chust so much dunk.’

  Flora knew that if she did not instantly pour out a Niagara of adulation this scene would occur every time she ran into Hacke during the coming week, so she at once said loudly:

  ‘I hear endless comments on your work, Mr Hacke; everyone, everywhere, speaks of nothing else; I myself – the wife of a Protestant clergyman in a poor parish with five children to look after – have not yet seen any of it. But I expect I shall see it while I am here. I have so often thought about it since I knew that I was coming to the Conference.’

  If a plain woman had said this it might have had no effect, but uttered earnestly by Flora, and conveying as it did both public interest and personal abasement, it succeeded in slightly pacifying Hacke, and fortunately the departure of the train now diverted both gentlemen’s attention. A group of what looked like International Thinkers was left standing on the platform, and Mr Mybug, motioning to Flora to follow him, hastened towards them, and one or two of them glanced at him with recognition.

  ‘My god, Mybug, what a journey! I haven’t eaten since two,’ said a youngish man, good-looking in a blue, battered way, advancing to meet him. ‘How do you do,’ staring at Flora and bowing slightly. ‘Are you Flora Fairford? I thought you must be. Did anyone ever tell you you’re very like that bust called “Clytie” that used to be in the Roman Room at the British Museum? Girl’s head rising out of a stone corolla?’

  Flora looked interested, but made no reply.

  ‘Tom Jones, the poet, Flora,’ Mr Mybug threw over his shoulder as he entered the group and began introducing himself as the Organizing Secretary and informing the delegates that a brake (for Flora had drawn his attention to the latter) waited in the yard to convey them to Cold Comfort Farm. Flora, by no means wishing to be helpful, but feeling it her duty to be so, now approached three people, two men and a girl who stood slightly on the outskirts of the group.

  She was prepared for anything on this trip, and had not been much surprised to observe, during a recent gust of wind, that under a ragged mink coat the girl wore nothing. She was simply dazzlingly beautiful except for a cross expression and spots, and she had British-made sandals – smuggled in from Lisbon, this time.

  One of the men was neatly dressed in grey, with a bald head and gooseberry eyes and a very, very sad expression. He appeared, against the laws of probability, to be ecstatically rubbing all the skin off his shin against a piece of iron girder.

  It must be Maser Messe the Transitorist Craftsman, thought Flora. And the other one is surely Peccavi.

  Peccavi was pretty old, and he wore ragged shorts, a sun vest striped in blue and white, and sandals. He was completely bald, and looked like a self-conscious and sadistic owl.

  Flora smilingly made herself known to the group, and Messe (for it was he) stopped martyring his shin and prepared to accompany her to the brake. But Riska and Peccavi only stared. Peccavi suddenly stood on his head, and the shorts slid down almost to his waist and the blood rushed into his pate. Riska as suddenly spat, and turned away.

  ‘Perhaps they do not understand much English?’ Flora said to Messe. ‘Mr Mybug speaks a little Portuguese, I believe. Shall I –’

  ‘Zey unnerstan’ well enough,’ said Messe sadly. ‘You notty, notty girl,’ shaking his head at Riska. ‘It is a challenge among ze Portuguese gipsies,’ he added to Flora; ‘she sink you want take away her mann.’

  ‘I see. Could you explain to her that I have a man already, and five children?’

  ‘She say zat matters not,’ translated Messe, after some jabbering. ‘She say all women want take away each odder’s man. If she see your man, she take him.’

  ‘Then we must take care that she does not see him,’ Flora answered pleasantly, thinking what a trial it all was. She smiled at Riska, however, for she did not want to be on embarrassing terms with anyone during the Conference. Riska twiddled her fingers like horns and stuck her tongue out hideously in response, then raced off down the platform after Peccavi.

  ‘The large utterance of the early Gods. That’s the feeling those two give me,’ said Mr Mybug, joining Flora as the whole party moved off towards the exit. He indicated Peccavi and Riska, who were now splashing each other with water from a tank used for the engines. ‘Have you noticed how the modern world envies the artist his simplicities? Those two live in a childish paradise of their own contriving. Watch people’s faces as they look at them!’

  It was true that some of the delegates did look awed and envious, but Flora suspected them of wondering how, and why, Peccavi managed to get such prices for his pictures.

  When they came out of the station into the yard:

  ‘I say!’ exclaimed Mr Mybug. ‘Look at that! It must be the Sort-of-a-Sage from the East.’

  Up the hilly road a tall Hindu was striding, with a yellowish-pink turban wound about his magnificent head. His silver beard rippled down to a waist-cloth of the same salmon colour. He was gazing at the dusty road as he walked, and behind him scurried a much smaller and blacker person; his follower, carrying the master’s begging bowl and crutch.

  The sage drew level with the group in the yard, which was now regarding him curiously; paused, and lifted his arm in greeting.

  ‘Peace,’ he said. He looked up. His huge eyes shone with calm light. ‘Peace.’

  ‘Peace to you, Teacher,’ answered Flora (as everybody else either gaped or looked embarrassed, and one old lady, identified by Flora as Frau Dichtverworren, a psycho-analyst and an early pupil of Freud’s, stealthily drew out her notebook and prepared to make notes on the Sage’s religious neurosi
s). ‘Welcome to the Conference. You must be tired after your journey. Will you ride with us?’

  ‘No, daughter. This one,’ touching his breast, ‘and that one,’ indicating the follower, ‘will walk to the journey’s end. That,’ glancing at the brake, ‘is a device of Monkey.’

  ‘He means the restless, inventive spirit in Man. They call it Monkey. And a dam’ good name for it too,’ ended Mr Jones moodily, and walked off and stared over a hedge.

  ‘As you will, Teacher,’ said Mr Mybug, taking his cue from Flora. ‘But I say, you don’t know the way, do you?’

  ‘Yes, son. We know the Way. And should we lose our earthly road, I have power to find it again. Farewell.’

  He strode off, and the follower, with one fleeting glance from beady eyes at the brake, skimmed after him. It occurred to Flora that he would have liked to ride.

  ‘Power! He means he has the occult power!’ It was an ecstatic breath from Mdlle Avaler, the Existentialist. ‘Oh, do you think,’ turning to Mr Mybug, ‘vhat he would read – no, tell? – our fortunes?’

  ‘I know he will. He shall – he must!’ cried Mr Mybug, overbalancing into the depths of Mdlle Avaler’s eyes, which were the colour of the sea in changeable weather. He continued to gaze at her after she had taken her seat beside the prosperous man in the colossal car, with whom she had apparently made acquaintance, and when it drove off (the chauffeur, decided Flora, must have found somebody to tell him the way to the Farm) Mr Mybug was still gazing.

  ‘C’est la proie à Vénus tout entière attachée,’ misquoted Mr Jones, who had observed what was going on, to Flora. ‘Well, are we going to Cold Comfort Farm or are we not, Mrs Fairford? I’m hungry.’

  The delegates were now climbing into the brake; and Flora interrupted Mr Mybug’s reverie to tell him that she would not accompany them, as she was driving to the Farm with her cousin Reuben.

  ‘Is he still around?’ said Mr Mybug. ‘All right, Flora; but don’t let me down at the other end, will you? These are all V.I.P.s, and we’ve got to see that they’re properly looked after, you know.’

  Flora was now pleased that the disgusting subject of money had not been raised between Mr Mybug and herself. She had gathered that he was not gainfully occupied in organizing the Conference, but was doing it from sheer love of Europe’s intellectual heritage. Well, she, as unpaid Assistant Organizing Secretary, need not take her duties too seriously. She lightly told him that she would see him some time later, and went off to find Reuben.

  3

  They drove away through lanes which did not appear to have changed at all in sixteen years, and, save for an occasional poster bearing a portentous green face announcing the Conference on the wall of some shed or barn, the Downs, the fields, and the light in the sky all looked just the same to Flora.

  At first Reuben was a little gruff and shy, but they exchanged their news so quickly and with such mutual interest that he was soon at ease, though Flora thought that in repose his face looked even more Starkadderish than formerly.

  ‘And Cousin Amos? Is he still in America?’ she asked. ‘There is no fear of his coming back and claiming the Farm?’

  ‘Nay, Cousin Flora. No fear o’ that. Un’s built a gurt church out there, wi’ some silly old fule’s money. ’Tes called Th’ Church o’ Th’s Quivering Brethren, and un preaches there ivery Sabbath. Us did hear un on th’ wireless machine. ’Twas main terrible. Our liddle Nan did weep fer fear.’

  ‘Is Nan a new one? I haven’t heard of her.’

  ‘Ay. Now me and Nancy’s got our Charley an’ our Johnny an’ our Ruthie an’ liddle Katie an’ Rosey an’ Nan. ’Tes a many mouths to feed, surelie,’ and Reuben sighed.

  ‘But how is that, Reuben? The last time you wrote the farm was doing well?’

  ‘An’ – an’ Mrs Beetle, Cousin Flora – do ee mind Aggie Beetle? She do live over at Hangingmere now, along o’ Agony Beetle an’ Meriam’s four byblows – ye mind ’em?’ went on Reuben rather hastily.

  ‘Er – yes. Yes, of course. Wasn’t she going to have them trained as a dance-band?’

  ‘Ay, but th’ Band o’ Hope got hold of ’em, and they be all terrible religious. ’Tes a trial to th’ poor soul in her old age.’

  ‘It must be. And now, tell me, Reuben – where are all the other Starkadders? You wrote me a line five years ago that they had emigrated to South Africa, and I have heard nothing since.’

  Flora paused.

  Reuben was silent. What might be described as earth tremors passed over his countenance, but that was all.

  ‘I am sure that something is wrong at the farm, Reuben. Not only do I read it in your face, but I feel it in my bones. And I think you had better tell me what it is,’ concluded Flora gravely.

  Still he was silent. There was a longish pause.

  ‘At once, Reuben,’ said Flora, severely.

  Reuben, who had been earth-tremoring like mad, now gave a loud groan.

  ‘’Tes soon told. There’s no longer Starkadders at Cold Comfort,’ he said.

  ‘What! But, Reuben, there have Always Been Starkadders at Cold Comfort! What can you mean? Is it because they have all emigrated?’

  ‘All but Urk, an’ he’s nought but a black stain on us all, wi’ his nasty love-drinks an’ his meddlin’ wi’ th’ Powers o’ Darkness –’

  ‘Never mind Urk now. Tell me about the others.’

  ‘’Twere nigh on six years ago, Cousin Flora. Ee knows as how we Starkadders be main violent folk. Some on us pushes others down wells. Some on us bursts our blisters wi’ our man’s rage. Some on us –’

  ‘I know all that. Seth told me, years ago – as if I couldn’t see for myself. I saw his latest picture last week, by the way. He’s going bald. But never mind Seth – go on.’

  ‘An’ after a while us couldn’t niver get on together, wi’ the workin’ o’ the farm.’

  ‘You amaze me,’ muttered Flora.

  ‘Time o’ th’ mustard an’ cress harvest theer were a terrible outhees, an’ all th’ chaps – Micah an’ Caraway an’ Harkaway an’ Ezra an’ Luke an’ Mark, ay, an’ Mark Dolour too – upped an’ sailed for South Afriky.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a bit rash? I mean, with no prospects or anything?’

  ‘Ee mistakes, Cousin Flora. They did buy a farm out theer. They sees a piece about it bein’ up fur sale in a African newspaper what did come round some oranges.’

  ‘I wonder they didn’t buy it through a letter from a Gold Coast native. And then what happened?’

  ‘They did lust arter it, Cousin Flora. They could not sleep nor rest. They burns wi’ fever an’ rages like King David an’ Behemoth an’ –’

  ‘I can just picture it. Well?’

  ‘So after a main gurt talkin’ an’ plannin’ an’ writin’ fur advice to Feyther an’ Grummer in Ameriky (an’ neether o’ them e’er sets pen to paper in answer, curses be on ’em both), th’ chaps takes all their savin’s out o’ holes in th’ pig-stye wall an’ fro’ under their beds an’ out o’ theer Sunday collar boxes, an’ they writes off to th’ chaps in South Afriky an’ they buys Grootebeeste. (That be name o’ th’ farm in South Afriky, Cousin Flora – Grootebeeste.) An’ off they goes, wild an’ bedrunk wi’ lustful joy.’

  ‘I see. But you stayed behind to look after Cold Comfort.’

  ‘Ay. I do love it dearly here, as ee knows, an’ I were as happy as all th’ birds o’ the’ air wi’ my Nancy (though un niver will learn ter bake a slaphammock fit ter eat) an’ th’ liddle bodies-all.’

  ‘Then what went wrong, Reuben?’

  ‘I did sow more n’ I could reap, Cousin Flora. There were no labour t’ work th’ farm wi’. An’ then th’ weere th’ lasses, too.’

  ‘Good heavens! – Prue and Susan and Letty and Phoebe! Are they still here? I imagined them in homes of their own years ago.’

  ‘Ay, an’ so uns should be, if th’ chaps had not had hearts o’ th’ Sussex flint and been mad wi’ lust for Grootebeeste. As ’twas, there were a turri
ble outhees.’

  Here Reuben paused in his narrative to draw in to the hedge while a large vehicle, half private car and half bus, passed them. It was filled with neat men in grey suits, wearing spectacles, carrying brief-cases, and Biro-penned. They looked all silent and all damned dull. A notice on the car’s bonnet read: ‘Managerial Revolutionary Party: Delegation to the International Thinkers’ Group Conference.’

  The car passed on. None of the Managerial Revolutionary Party’s delegates had looked round, and Flora and Reuben were too much absorbed by Reuben’s story even to notice them.

  ‘Th’ lasses wept an’ skreeked like they were beset,’ Reuben continued, touching the horse with the whip, ‘implorin’ th’ chaps to take ’em wi’ them. But they niver would.’

  Flora made no comment. It was difficult to blame the male Starkadders for refusing to take them when one knew the female Starkadders, and difficult to understand the female Starkadders wanting to go when one knew the male Starkadders. The wisest course was silence.

  ‘At last, after hours o’ agony, they peerswades th’ chaps t’ promise to send for ’em all so soon as Grootebeeste be payin’ an’ prosperin’.’

  A fat long time that will be, thought Flora.

  ‘An’ off they goes. An’ then, an’ then – I sweers an oath.’

  ‘Oh dear, Reuben. Now what for?’

  ‘I were driven to it, Cousin Flora. Th’ sperrit o’ Th’ Family did seem to drive me on to do ut. Th’ mortsome twilight were fallin’, an’ far off I hears th’ lasses still wailin’ on top o’ Mockuncle Hill, wheer they’d gathered ter see th’ last o’ the railway train bearin’ th’ chaps away to South Afriky. So I sweers that th’ lasses should niver know want nor change while I could

  Till th’ land

  Wi’ th’ lone hand.’

  ‘On Aunt Ada’s bound copy of the Milk Producers’ Weekly Bulletin and Cowkeepers’ Guide.’

  ‘Ay. How did ee know, Cousin Flora?’