Conference at Cold Comfort Farm Page 8

  ‘What goes on here?’

  Flora turned round. There stood Hacke, Mr Mybug, Peccavi in an immaculate grey suit, Riska in black petticoats and mantilla with two bones in her hair (quite a piece of Old Portugal this afternoon, thought Flora) and Messe laden with a trayful of statuettes made from pastry and sausage-meat and coloured with pea-green and ox-blood dyes.

  ‘Good heavens! Flora, don’t sit on that! It’s my Found Object!’ cried Mr Mybug, pointing dramatically at the lump of oddly-shaped stone. ‘I’d no time to create anything fresh for this show.’

  ‘Vhat means it all?’ screamed Hacke, rushing across to Woman with Wind (or the other one) and snatching down the tea-cloth, ‘Hidink my vork avay! Und der Peccavi-artvorke also! Sabotage!’

  ‘Not at all,’ retorted Flora. ‘Delicate objects must be protected from dust and glare,’ and, wishing to prevent more fuss, she got up (with some relief) from Found Object, which Mr Mybug at once rolled two inches farther away from her, surveying it with his head on one side to see if she had damaged its rude contours.

  Her explanation was only partly accepted.

  ‘In Inklandt no such trouble is done for der art-verks,’ snapped Messe. ‘Der Inklish no artists or art-verks of der own haf, und so dey jealous are off der Masters off der Europe.’

  Here two coughs sounded one after another in the background from two professors of Genetics, Breed and Brood, who were the first visitors to the Exhibition, and Messe hurried off to arrange the first tray-load of statuettes (for Flora observed with dismay that a second and third were being carried in by two Managerial Revolutionaries) upon the shelves. Hacke took the two Professors to see Peccavi’s The Excreta, snatching off tea-cloths in passing as he went, and Riska and Peccavi squatted on the floor and played some Portuguese game with the bones from Riska’s hair. Every now and again they shouted ‘Holá!’ and kicked out at each other’s shins.

  ‘He’s entered upon a new phase,’ muttered Mr Mybug to Flora, jerking his head towards Peccavi. ‘He’s younger, gayer, less remote in his approach.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘It’s her. She’s responsible for his new gaiety.’

  ‘Holá!’ shouted Riska, catching Peccavi a crack on the shin that rang through the Greate Barne.

  ‘He’s begun a new series of works,’ continued Mr Mybug, ‘light, gay, irresistible forms leaping and playing. Oh, superb.’

  ‘They sound charming,’ said Flora, knowing full well that no matter what they sounded like, they would look simply awful.

  ‘Such primitive joy!’

  ‘Is he feeling better? I am glad.’

  Anybody who had seen Peccavi’s last exhibition, she thought, couldn’t help being glad.

  ‘When will they be shown?’ she went on, ‘I must keep a look out for them.’

  ‘Oh, he won’t show them in England. We shan’t see them. (I’m privileged; I’ve been allowed one Glimpse because Tom Jones and I are doing something on them for “Nadir”.) But please don’t suppose, my dear Flora, that we shall have the first sight of these magnificent things. What have we done to deserve them?’

  What, indeed, thought Flora. Besides, we haven’t the money to buy them with.

  ‘Then where will they be shown?’ she asked.

  ‘New York. And that is not only because America is now the richest country. It’s because New York is now what Paris once was: Art Centre of the world. He isn’t like that, you know. He doesn’t care for money. Give him a pool and some paint, and Piccolo Peccavi can breathe.’

  Peccavi and Riska, bored with the bones game, were now engaged in alternately pulling one another’s ears and noses.

  ‘Primitive games. I’ve seen the Portuguese gipsies do that,’ commented Mr Mybug, watching them with some complacence.

  Flora also had cause for complacence, for out of the corner of her eye she detected a procession of female Starkadders, in outdoor attire and carrying prayer-books, wending its way unobtrusively along the far end of the Greate Barne towards the other door.

  Shortly afterwards she made her excuses to Mr Mybug and left him to the pleasures of the Exhibition, which were now in full swing.

  That evening, after supervising the delegates’ after-dinner coffee-swigging (a harsh word, but Mr Jones and Professor Farine were never content with less than six cups apiece and most of the delegates took three), Flora wrapped herself in her old cloak of viridian-green velvet and walked across the uplands to Haute-Couture Hall, where she found that all the sons and daughters had been allowed to stay up to meet her. In reminiscences and laughter, in mutual discoveries and in the relating of family news and the laying of plans for future meetings, two hours passed in one delightful flash, and it was after eleven o’clock when, having said good-night to Hereward, who had accompanied her with a posse of dogs as far as the summit of Teazeaunt Beacon, Flora began the walk down to Cold Comfort Farm.

  It was a clear, moonlit night, but she had just entered the dense shade cast by the thicket of flowering elder-trees growing beside the stile, when a figure with a scarf tied about its head stepped forward in the scented gloom and a female voice said timidly:

  ‘Be ut Mis’ Fairford? Could I have a word wi’ ee?’

  Flora was naturally startled, for her thoughts at that moment had been busy with Judith Starkadder, who, Elfine had informed her, had entered a rather peculiar Sisterhood, spiritually guided by one Père Hyacinthe, in a fashionable Riviera town. However, she answered, ‘Certainly, Nancy,’ in a cheerful enough tone, though with sinking heart.

  Fortunately Nancy had not completely imbibed the Starkadder technique of prolonging any agony that might be on tap, and she got off the mark pretty fast.

  ‘Oh, Mis’ Fairford!’ she sighed, clasping her hands as they walked on together, ‘’tes Reuben, my man! Un’s heart is fair breakin’ to see th’ farm in thiccy state, but un will not write to all th’ chaps asking ’em to come whoam agen.’

  ‘What good could they do if they did come, Nancy? It would probably only make things worse.’

  ‘Nay, they could work th’ farm agen, Mis’ Fairford. Lookee, th’ gennelman as did come fro’ Lunnon did say as if our Reuben could find seven good men an’ true, th’ old place could earn its keep agen. (Ay, he were a nice-spoken gennelman. He did gie our Nan a lot o’ they paper-forms for to make dollses bedden-cloes, but our Reuben he couldn’t abide he.)’

  ‘It is that tiresome Oath, I suppose, that is keeping Reuben from writing to them?’ said Flora thoughtfully.

  ‘Ay, Mis’ Fairford.’

  ‘Do you happen to know who he swore it to?’

  ‘Nay, niver ask me that, Mis’ Fairford,’ answered Nancy fearfully, with a touch of Starkadder.

  ‘Why on earth shouldn’t I ask you, Nancy? I am as anxious as you are to see the Farm at work again. Do be sensible.’

  They had paused near the garden of Reuben’s cottage, and by the light of the moon they could clearly see the farm in the hollow. All was peaceful and silent except for a slight commotion taking place on the cottage back-doorstep, where the Sage had detected the follower in laying a pinch of tea-leaves before a small idol which he had concealed in his loin cloth. It had six arms and an elephant’s head, and the Sage was gently rebuking him. The follower was bawling softly and beating his breast, and the helper-out, much disturbed, was shaking his head, sucking his pipe and making up the fire, all as quietly as possible, for fear of awakening the household within doors.

  ‘’Tes because I doan’t know to who Reuben did be-swear th’ Oath that I says “Doan’t ask me,” Mis’ Fairford,’ Nancy said mildly at length.

  ‘Then why couldn’t you simply say “I don’t know”, Nancy? You really must try not to get into Starkadder ways, you know, especially now you have all those children to bring up. Whatever would happen if you tried mending their clothes and cooking their food Starkadder-fashion?’

  ‘But I be a Starkadder, Mis’ Fairford – by wedlock, leastways. Reuben do say so. An’ come to that
, us Dolours bean’t much,’ ended Nancy on a resigned note.

  ‘Nonsense. I remember your father, Mark Dolour, as – er – a fine, upstanding man; not very cheerful, perhaps, but who would be after working for years for the Starkadders? However, never mind him now. Have you any idea at all who Reuben might have sworn the Oath to?’

  ‘Nay, Mis’ Fairford. Our Reuben be a close ’un when he du like.’

  ‘You have never asked him?’

  ‘Niver, Mis’ Fairford; no, niver. I du fear to speak o’ it.’

  ‘But you must, Nancy, if you want the Starkadders to come home and the farm to get to work again. Now you must ask him who he swore it to tomorrow, at dinner-time, and come in the evening to tell me what he says. Will you do that?’

  ‘Ay, I wull try, Mis’ Fairford,’ Nancy answered, with reviving cheerfulness, ‘an’ I du take it most kind o’ ee to bear such pains fer me an’ mine.’

  Flora replied kindly that the welfare of Cold Comfort Farm and the Starkadders had always been of interest to her, surprise at Nancy’s pretty manners adding warmth to her tones, and so they bade one another good night. Flora went upstairs to her attic bedchamber well pleased with the evening’s events, for a workable plan had now taken shape in her head, and she soon fell asleep, but in more than one room at the farm wakeful souls were wrestling in unnecessary anguish or sitting up frightening themselves with a large and boring book.

  7

  Wednesday was to be occupied by a Reading Party. The delegates were to drive through a stretch of breezy, open country to a wooded valley, where they would partake of luncheon, and afterwards each one would read aloud from some vital volume dealing with an important coeval activity. Flora was to accompany the party to supervise the serving of luncheon. (No one had suggested that she should read anything aloud; she owed this escape to Mr Mybug’s low opinion of her taste in books, for although he had muttered something about ‘getting Flora Fairford to read something – why shouldn’t she – do her good, she’s always Dodging Reality’, he had immediately afterwards shaken his head and decided that it would only be a waste of precious time to listen to the sort of twaddle Flora would be likely to choose. Besides, he wanted to secure as much time as possible for his own reading from The Dromedary, the beastly little work before referred to.)

  At the appointed time the delegates assembled in the Greate Yarde, where a brake drawn by two horses waited to convey them to the chosen valley. Everyone seemed satisfied with the method of conveyance except Frau Dichtverworren, who admitted with a bass laugh that she had a fixation on fast cars, adoring to rush through the burning summer air until all sense of time, place, personality and public safety had vanished; and Peccavi. He of course, had discovered an old bicycle among some junk in a shed. It had a trailer, and he and Riska proposed riding it in turns, and Riska wore shorts with a hole in and a very tight jumper in anticipation of this feat. Mr Mybug pointed out to Flora how enviously the other delegates watched their gay, childish absorption in their new toy. Flora herself was to ride in a converted jeep with the luncheon baskets, a portable steel bar, and the drink.

  Mr Jones was grumbling that there would be flies in the woods and no champagne.

  ‘Yes, there will, a magnum of it. The President of the French Republic sent it over this morning. That was the aeroplane we heard about six o’clock,’ said Flora to him, as she and the helper-out staggered across the yard with a hamper of delicacies.

  ‘Ah! La belle France! Magnifique!’ cried Mr Jones, and kissed his fingers to Mdlle Avaler, who now sauntered up smiling, with Ruggieiro on Existentialism under one arm and the new number of Chiffons under the other.

  Flora and the helper-out were half-way across the yard with the second hamper when the helper-out, moistening his lips, said hoarsely:

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, mum. The gentleman.’

  ‘I know whom you mean. What about him?’ said Flora encouragingly. There could be only one person at the Conference thus identified in the minds of both the helper-out and herself, and that was the Sage, though he did have no clothes and apparently no bank balance.

  ‘’E was a-wishin’ ’e could go on the picnic, mum. I ’ears ’im. Then ’is friend tells me as ’ow ’e wouldn’t ask to come, cos with ’im, if you take my meanin’, mum, it’s always Self-Denial Week. But ’e would like to go, mum. I do know that.’

  ‘I will see what can be done,’ replied Flora, glancing at the watch upon her bosom and feeling that the Sage’s patriarchal beauty and serenity might cheer up the proceedings a bit, especially if there were to be a long reading from The Dromedary.

  She found the Sage meditating by the fire. The follower, looking subdued and mournful, was washing his master’s robe in Nancy’s tub.

  ‘Peace,’ said the Sage as she approached.

  ‘And to you also, Teacher. I say, I’ve been thinking – it’s a fine day, and it would make a change for you –’

  ‘All change is evil, daughter, even as are all aimless hurryings from babob tree to cabob tree, and all cranings over railings to gape at monkeys or parrots.’

  ‘How exhausting you make it sound!’ smiled Flora. ‘But you will not have to hurry or crane over railings, because there is a carriage to take you to the picnic –’

  ‘The very name is full of distractions. In this one’s own land it is called “fool’s food”.’

  ‘No doubt, but I do wish you would go, Teacher. Will you not tell your ignorant daughter of the west,’ coaxed Flora, kneeling beside him, ‘why you will not go?’

  ‘I desire to go, daughter. I desire to see again the Black Water and the unfamiliar trees, for in youth, this one was a painter of such illusory things upon wood and silk. All desire leads to attachment, and all attachment is evil. Therefore, I must let my desire die, and I must not go.’

  Flora gazed at him in perplexity. His superb mild eyes were cast downwards in thought, and only the gasps of the follower slowly forcing folds of wet cotton through Nancy’s wringer broke the morning stillness. Then Flora smiled.

  ‘If you were carried to the carriage by force, Teacher, would you attempt to resist?’ she asked.

  ‘No, daughter. All resistance to force is evil.’

  ‘Good!’ said Flora, and hastened away to find two strong men.

  Of course no one wanted the task, and indeed most of the delegates were in such a state from non-stop drinking, chain smoking, sleepless nights, strong coffee and complexes that they would not have been able even had they been willing; but Flora persuaded Mr Jones and one of the Managerial Revolutionaries who had specialized in the Theory and Practice of Weight-Lifting to carry the Sage to the brake.

  I can understand people being afraid of these Revolutionaries, thought Flora, sailing triumphantly in the wake of the Sage borne in a bandy chair between Mr Jones and the weight-lifting expert, but they are useful. One of them stuck new rubbers on my shoes last night, and this morning another got the screw-top off that bottle in no time. Of course, the first one can only stick rubbers on shoes, and the other hasn’t a clue to anything except getting screw-tops off bottles, and it does give them a fearful power over people who aren’t specialists, but say what you like, they are useful.

  ‘Bear witness, daughter, that I was borne here by force and did not resist,’ said the Sage, as his bearers bumped him down in the seat next to the driver of the brake.

  ‘Of course, Teacher. Oh’ – suddenly recollecting – ‘how about your follower? Can he come, too?’

  ‘He has sinned, daughter,’ said the Sage mildly.

  ‘I know. Last night; I saw him. But it’s such a nice day and –’

  ‘His spiritual eyes are darkened and he lusteth after images of the unimaginable.’

  ‘He will learn better, surely, Teacher?’

  ‘In time, daughter, and if not there, in Eternity. But his feet are hardly yet set upon the Path.’

  ‘I’m sure he wants to go to the picnic, Teacher.’

  ‘Doubtless, daughter. He
lusteth also after distractions. Even now, doubtless, he weeps.’

  ‘I’ll go and get him,’ said Flora decidedly, and hastened away, for the delegates were beginning to climb into the brake and squabble over who should sit where and with whom.

  She found the follower weeping hopelessly into the washtub, while the Sage’s clean yellowish-pink robe flapped on the line above his head.

  ‘Cheer up!’ said Flora, feeling she ought to step out of a pumpkin and wave a wand. ‘You’re going to the picnic. Yes, he says you can. Hurry up and put on a clean wreath or something’ (for the follower usually wore a lopsided circle of the commonest weeds on his head), ‘you haven’t too much time.’

  The follower rushed into a bush, reappearing almost immediately with his cooking-pot in one hand, while with the other he tried to adjust a rough-dried loincloth round his waist and a ceremonial wreath of sukebind upon his head. Flora raised her eyebrows at the sukebind, which presumably he had chosen for its showy pink flowers, but there was no time to explain why she was rebuking him about it, even if she did; also, in her opinion he had been rebuked enough.

  He gave one glance at the roof of a shed too high for him to reach, where presumably the Sage had bestowed his forbidden idol, then salaamed to Flora, and scurried away with an expression almost of eagerness upon his dim black face.

  ‘No room for a little one,’ observed a depressed voice behind her, and she turned and saw the helper-out. ‘I’m not complainin’,’ he instantly added.

  Flora having told him that he might accompany her in the converted jeep, they hurried off to take their places, and found the follower already coiled amidst the hampers.