Conference at Cold Comfort Farm Read online

  ‘Done!’ cried Flora, and they set off.

  Guided by peevish cries from the old cowman, Flora avoided the usual path up to Ticklepenny’s, and crossed the meadow which ran transversely across the base of Mockuncle Hill. It was windy here on the rising wolds, and her voluminous skirts billowed as she climbed, while Adam plodded behind at a good pace, and, in spite of her handicap, Mishap managed nicely.

  As they came out on to the uplands leading on to Ticklepenny’s, they heard hoofs thudding up behind them on the turf, and Flora turned. Four riders were approaching. Mishap gave a low moo of welcome, and the lady on the large black stallion who led the party waved her crop in greeting. In another moment she drew rein beside Flora.

  ‘Darling!’ she exclaimed, stooping to press her cool, sweet-smelling cheek to Flora’s own.

  It was Elfine.

  ‘’Heard you were here,’ she said, with the trace of former gruffness which always returned to her voice when she was moved or shy. ‘’Been simply longing to see you. I say, can you come to dinner tonight? Just me and the sons – the husband will be at a J.P. meeting – oh, these are the sons. Hereward – Torquil – Peregrine’ – indicating them with her crop. ‘This is Flora Fairford. You know – my best friend,’ she ended gruffly.

  The three handsome boys on dapple grey cobs said, ‘How do you do, Mrs Fairford,’ and fixed their eyes, keen and sparkling above hard, blooming cheeks, upon Flora’s face. She herself surveyed Elfine with affectionate satisfaction.

  Her complexion had not suffered from the central heating of Washington mansions, her form was still as nymph-like, her eyes still as sapphire, but the springing golden mane that Flora had once taught her to subdue was now coiled into a Diana-knot of faultless structure and gloss, while her habit fitted à merveille, and her gloves, boots, and hat were perfect of their kind.

  However, as she straightened herself after embracing Flora, a slim volume fell from her skirt pocket. Forestalling the boys, who all three leapt from their saddles, Flora returned it to her with a smile: it was John Greenleaf Whittier’s poem Snow-bound. Lady Hawk-Monitor crimsoned.

  ‘The Mother reads poetry,’ said Peregrine defiantly.

  ‘Such frightful poetry, too,’ said Torquil.

  ‘All poetry is frightful,’ drawled Hereward, who wrote it himself and who was his mother’s favourite.

  ‘Can you come, dear Flora? Do,’ said Elfine.

  Flora regretfully explained that her evening duties kept her at Cold Comfort until after dinner, but it was arranged that she should go to drink coffee at Haute-Couture Hall at half-past eight on the following evening, and Elfine then apologized that she must ride home at once to take tea with the daughters, Naomi, Rachel and Esther. (‘Jews never call their young by those adorable soft Bible names, do they?’ she observed, ‘and someone has to.’)

  Flora accompanied the party to the summit of Mockuncle Hill, walking amidst the horses’ damp, glossy flanks and breathing the warm air which they threw off while she talked with her friend.

  ‘How are you liking the Conference, darling? Loving it, I expect; you’re so clever.’ Elfine’s fond eyes dwelt respectfully upon her face.

  Flora replied (with caution, for she did not wish to unsettle Lady Hawk-Monitor’s awe of clever people) that the Conference was much what she had expected. She then added that she was far from satisfied with the state of Cold Comfort Farm.

  ‘But, ducky, why? It’s all so lovely and tidy nowadays. I should have thought you would have madly approved.’

  Flora admitted it. Nevertheless, she shook her head.

  ‘You’ll have to have a word with the husband. He says Cold Comfort is all wrong. Of course it was such a mistake the he-cousins going abroad,’ said Elfine.

  ‘I suppose there is no chance of Aunt Ada coming home?’

  ‘Not one chance, I should say. She adores Hollywood. When she writes to the young every year on their birthdays she always says she’s never coming home.’

  ‘She must be – how old, Elfine?’

  ‘Flora, nobody knows. I daren’t think about it, myself. She always wears white, you know, and whacking great sapphires. And every night she’s at a party!’

  Flora shuddered (at the parties, not at Aunt Ada Doom’s gay old age) and dismissed the idea that she might be induced to return and manage the farm once more. Then, having bidden an affectionate farewell to Elfine and watched the riders and Adam and Mishap vanish over the brow of Teazeaunt Beacon, she walked home at her ease, looking at the view and hoping that she would not encounter Mr Mybug or Mr Jones.

  At Ticklepenny’s Corner she paused to inspect the well. It was fitted up with a fancy arch, a lid, a stone seat carved with a bit of poetry about wells in Gothic letters, and a Crafty statue of a saint who was evidently O. C. Wells. In fact, there was everything at the well except water, for when Flora dropped a stone into it nothing came up but a dry ‘chink’ and rather a whiff.

  She shook her head as she stepped down from the stone seat. Something would have to be done, and if she were not soon approached by Reuben with a plea for help, she must set about doing something without Reuben’s aid.

  The next evening the plea came.

  But on this fine Monday evening, when the only object marring the smug prettiness of Cold Comfort Farm was Reuben’s tumbledown cottage at the corner of Ticklepenny’s tilted, flinty field, the delegates (some bloated with sandwiches and tea and others prevented by their private woes from relishing either) were strolling along the wolds to gaze at the spacious view across the Downs, and obtain a glittering glimpse of the far-off sea.

  ‘There! Now us canna hev our tea wi’ th’ door open!’ exclaimed Nancy, as Mr Claud Hubris hove in sight, accompanied by a swarm of little Managerial Revolutionaries, for the way to the vantage point ran past the cottage’s rear. ‘Niver mind, liddle souls. Come Sunday they-all ’ull be gone. Rosey Starkadder, did I see ee put out’s tongue at yon? Fur shame! I doan’ wanna tell Feyther o’ ee.’

  ‘Feyther did shake un’s fist at yon.’

  ‘Ay, he’s allus a-doin’ of it,’ put in Charley, Reuben’s eldest.

  ‘’Tes defferent for Feyther. Now eat up tea, an’ let’s hear no more.’

  Unfortunately, the sage and the follower and the helper-out also took their evening meal at this hour, and for some of the delegates their humble arrangements possessed all the charms of novelty, there invariably being a point at which intellectuals weary of their own fleshpots and feast of reason and flow of soul, and come poking desolately amidst the tea and fried herrings prepared for themselves by unintellectuals. Mdlle Avaler, Peccavi, Riska and Mr Mybug now strolled up to Nancy’s back doorstep and stood gazing at the party seated thereon.

  ‘I say, my father, why don’t you put in an appearance at any of the lectures?’ presently said Mr Mybug, to the Sage. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be representing Higher Thought?’

  ‘Peace,’ answered the Sage, after a long pause and without looking up.

  Poor Mr Mybug had not one clue to this, so he made a mental note to complain about the Sage’s extraordinary lack of public-spiritedness to Meutre, the I.T.G.’s President.

  ‘To sit on ve ground! To eat rough food! To be good!’ sighed Mdlle Avaler. ‘How delicious – and how it is impossible!’

  ‘Your painter friend seems at home with them,’ observed Mr Hubris, pausing in his promenade with the Managerial Revolutionaries that one of them might stand on tiptoe before him to light his cigar.

  ‘Of course. He’s the simplest person imaginable – a child, a savage, at heart,’ snapped Mr Mybug.

  Peccavi had finished bolting the helper-out’s kipper, and had begun upon an exiguous cache of winkles collected that morning from the seashore by the follower. The latter could not protect them, as he was fully occupied with Riska, who (clad only in one of the many types of military jacket which Recent Events have left for sale at reduced prices) was tickling his soles with a twig. He, silent with fear, crouched motionlessly
, and fixed upon her his small, glittering eyes. The helper-out was embarrassedly moving kippers, tea and winkle-cache here and there to avoid getting in the ladies’ and gentlemen’s way.

  ‘Why doan’t yon chap wi’t’ beard git oop an’ stop yon guzzlin’ chap?’ muttered Reuben, peering at the scene from behind the kitchen window-curtain, ‘oopsettin’ t’ poor heathen an’ yon meeky chap fra’ Lunnon – ’tes a black shame, an’ if I had not mislaid me goat-pistol –’

  ‘Do ee come an’ hev ee’s tea, lovey,’ pleaded Nancy from the table.

  ‘Leave me a-be, Nancy Dolour. ’Tes dark days at Cold Comfort, look ee, wi’ th’ old place cockered up like a teg on Farish’s Eve an’ th’ Pussy’s Dinner runnin’ hail an’ farewell over all th’ brashy land, an’ me – an’ me, as used t’ own th’ old place, wi’ nought to till but a piece no bigger nor th’ sheets on our bridal bed –’

  ‘Shame on ee, afore th’ liddle souls!’

  ‘’Twill do ’em no harm, eh, bodies all?’ and Reuben glanced at the indifferent and treacle-bedaubed countenances of his offspring. ‘It fair cappurtzes me to see th’ old place overrun wi’ such cattle (nay, ’tes an insult to th’ honest beasts so to call ’em) as they,’ jerking his head towards the delegates.

  ‘Ay, ’tes sad enough. But Reuben, lovey,’ Nancy went on, timidly yet with resolution, ‘will ee not write a letter to all our chaps askin’ ’em to come whoam agen? Nen ee could all work t’ farm agen, like when I were a liddle maid.’

  Reuben’s face purpled and he crashed his fist upon his open palm.

  ‘Niver! niver! niver! I ha’ swore, and I mun keep me oath, ay, though th’ farm be turned into a – a – tea-gardens, or a air-port wi’ wickud gurt airyplanes all over ut. I mun Till th’ land Wi th’ lone hand, for though there be no longer Starkadders at Cold Comfort, there still be one at Ticklepenny’s Field. Now eat up, bodies all’ (an unnecessary instruction, since the children had never once stopped eating), ‘an’ let’s hear no more o’ letters ter foreign parts. What wull be, wull be,’ and he sat down at the table and put half the loaf into his mouth.

  Nancy said no more. She busied herself with waiting upon her family, but when the opportunity occurred she stealthily tied a knot in her apron-string. It would remind her to consult, as soon as she could find her alone, with Mrs Fairford.

  6

  On the next day, which was Tuesday, the one-day Exhibition of Transitorist Art was to be held, and throughout the morning Maser Messe slaved in a fury of creation behind locked doors, staggering out covered with dough, dye and sausage-meat at one o’clock in good time for luncheon. The rest of the delegates attended a lecture, on Angst: Its Causes and Cultivation, given by the Swedish Existentialist Greetë Grümbl (lovely fair hair and dark eyes – all wasted). Flora, glancing in at the audience while passing the Greate Kitchene window, saw them all busily scribbling notes except Mr Claud Hubris, who was scribbling a cheque for a diamond bracelet.

  She was about to re-read letters from home which had arrived that morning and which pressure of work had until now prevented her from fully digesting, and the continuing fine weather tempted her to sit while doing so in one of the many small gardens.

  As she passed the Greate Barne she heard a noise as of dismal weeping.

  Oh blow! thought Flora, and was turning off smartly in the opposite direction when the voice of duty sounded in her ear. Sighing, she turned round, and went towards the Greate Barne.

  The dim light and smell of ancient dirty straw which had formerly impressed the observer as characteristic of the Greate Barne had been banished with the Greate Barne’s cobwebs and dusty walls, and it now glared with a patent white distemper and was illuminated at night by imitation candles in wrought-iron sconces with false wax dribbling down them. Flora was pleased to notice, however, that some swallows were already making their usual mess up in the roof.

  This was the first time that she had entered the Greate Barne, and thus she had not before seen the wooden cubicles constructed by the Trust along its west wall to house the Starkadder maidens. They were alternately painted pink, blue and mauve, and each had a door-knocker made like a Cornish pixie.

  The remainder of the Greate Barne’s wall and floor space was occupied by pictures (at least, by things surrounded with frames) and some very large objects made of stone, wood and wire. A notice above an empty table evidently awaiting Messe’s works read: Exhibition of Transitorist Art. Here to-day, Gone, alas, this evening. Grab ’Em Pronto!

  The sound of weeping came from behind the cubicle doors. Flora approached a mauve one and knocked upon it.

  There was the usual apprehensive Starkadder silence. Then a female voice wailed:

  ‘Poor souls! Poor souls! Leave us weep i’ peace!’

  Flora opened the door and looked in.

  Prone upon the pallet, with her skirt flung over her head, lay a form which Flora recognized, by the structure of its corset-cover, as Letty Starkadder, for she herself had in fact supplied the pattern for this identical garment sixteen years ago from the Jardin des Modes, and Letty had adapted it to her own rather peculiar shape.

  ‘Letty!’ said Flora, kindly but firmly. ‘What is the matter? Has Caraway –?’

  For Letty, known among the Starkadders as Our Caraway’s Bespoke, had been betrothed to him for twenty-two years.

  ‘Nay, Miss Poste. Caraway eats hearty an’ du write me ivvery Lammas-tide,’ answered Letty, in muffled tones from under her skirt.

  ‘What is it, then? You are all crying; I can hear you.’

  Howls and wails were indeed issuing from the other cubicles.

  ‘Do sit up and re-arrange yourself,’ Flora continued more severely. ‘You would not like one of the gentlemen visitors to see you so.’

  Letty howled so loudly at the words ‘gentlemen visitors’ that Flora’s apprehensions became grave indeed, but she sat up and adjusted her skirt, though sobbing all the time.

  ‘Now, what is it all about?’ asked Flora, advancing into the tiny cell crowded with texts and quaking-grass and a huge coloured photograph of Caraway in the costume of a voortrekker.

  ‘’Tes they things out there!’ exclaimed Letty fearfully, pointing through the open door. ‘Two gurt men did bring ’em in while us was eatin’ our nuncheon, a fat chap i’ velvet trowses an’ a grey chap like a corpse from’ Lunnon.’

  Mr Mybug and Hacke, thought Flora.

  ‘And the – er – pictures and statues frightened all of you? I can quite understand that. But they are only paint and wood and wire, you know; they cannot hurt you unless they actually fall on the top of you,’ she said.

  ‘Us knows that, Miss Poste. ’Tesn’t that, Miss Poste. ’Tes th’ poor souls as made ’em as we be weepin’ for, not for fear o’ they things. Fancy wantin’ to make sich things, Miss Poste! Poor souls, poor souls!’ and off she went again.

  ‘An’ ’tes puttin’ us off of our arter-dinner cuppa,’ observed a sombre voice at the door, where Jane Starkadder now appeared; ‘for us ha’unt th’ heart to drink, for pity, an’ what’s more, t’ milk ha’ turned mooky.’

  The pale, timid faces of the other Starkadder maidens, swollen with weeping, now appeared one by one behind Jane’s large, pasty countenance as they crept forth from their cells, and they all gazed lugubriously at Flora, giving her a sensation as if she were surrounded by a flock of sheep.

  ‘Now stop crying, all of you,’ she commanded briskly, ‘and I will tell you what to do.’

  But they only continued to stare dolefully, and Phoebe suddenly burst into fresh sobs:

  ‘Yon things must ha’ taken weeks to fashion! Th’ poor souls as made ’em must ha’ had to look at ’em all that long time! Fair breaks me heart to think o’t!’

  ‘Then do not think of it, please. Now have you any large, clean tea-cloths?’ asked Flora.

  They all nodded.

  ‘Plenty o’ they, gurt strong uns, us has got.’

  ‘Us don’t go fer to use un fer wipin’ our plat
ters much, Miss Poste.’

  ‘Nay, for ’tes little us eats since th’ chaps went to South Afriky.’

  ‘Then go and fetch the largest tea-cloths you have, and hang them over the – er – those things out there. Then you won’t see them, will you?’

  A murmur of relief arose:

  ‘Ay, ’tes true, surelie.’

  ‘’Tes a likely notion, Miss Poste.’

  ‘Good. Then, after you have drunk a strong cup of tea (I have a tin of milk, which Prue may fetch from my bedroom), you can go down to the church and say a prayer for the gentlemen who made those – er – the things. That will make a peaceful little excursion for you,’ concluded Flora.

  The countenances of the maidens brightened, and they nodded almost eagerly, while they began to straighten their bodices and bootlaces and to tweak and pat their hair.

  ‘Ay, that wull be th’ thing tu du,’ murmured Susan, ‘for th’ poor souls as made them monster things must be in hell-fire, surelie.’

  Flora thought that it would use up valuable energy and be boring to herself if she attempted to explain to Susan that, far from being generally regarded as dwellers in hell-fire, Hacke, Messe and Peccavi were revered by their contemporaries as New Masters and great artists; gifted spirits who, unlike some of the Old Masters, made large sums from selling their works to the thirsting herd.

  Smilingly declining the slab of grey cake proffered her by Hetty, she strolled out into the Greate Barne, seated herself upon a lump of oddly-shaped stone at the foot of Woman with Wind (or it may have been Woman with Child; she had difficulty in remembering which was which) and began to peruse her letters. She thought it as well to remain near at hand, in case the female Starkadders should again need her help, for no one else ever helped them, so far as she could make out, and they seemed to her to have a pretty thin time.

  Having finished reading her letters and reflected with satisfaction that all went well at the Vicarage, she put them away in her pocket and surveyed the now animated scene in the Greate Barne, which already suggested, rather than an exhibition of modern art, airing day at the Snow-White Laundry. She had completely forgotten that the Exhibition of Transitorist Art was to open at half-past two; and while she was interestedly watching the attempts of Prue and Jane to stretch an extra large tea-cloth across the front of Woman with Child (or it may have been Woman with Wind), and reflecting that their task was made no easier by the fact that both kept their eyes modestly averted, a voice cried angrily: