‘It was a happy guess. Well, go on. What happened then?’
‘Theer’s more an’ worse to come, Cousin Flora.’
‘I wish to hear everything, Reuben, please.’
‘Ay. An’ ee shall. ’Tes comfort to tell ee, somehow. Well, thin I gets in ill-favour wi’ Th’ Ministry. Th’ farm sends up lesser an’ lesser haysel, fewer and fewer eggs. Th’ milk begins ter dry and th’ root crops ter come shrunken –’
‘Just as it was when I first came here.’
‘Ay. But then us could decay away quiet-like, bemongst ourselves. Nowadays, no one maun be let decay, not even if they wants to, seemin’ly. So Th’ Ministry begins a-complainin’ and a-questionin’, and at last they sends down a gennelman from Lunnon.’
‘An agricultural expert?’
‘Nay, I niver heerd. He were a Mr Parker-Poke. He sets up his bed down at “Th’ Condemned Man” (Mrs Murther, honest soul, nigh kills him wi’ her cookin’ for th’ farm’s sake, but o’ course she dare not finish un off quite), an’ ivery day un comes up to th’ farm an’ de-dottles me wi’ advice. There were no peace, an’ things did go from bad t’ worse. He – he did say as I were niver agricultoorally eddicated.’
‘I am very sorry, Reuben.’ Flora laid her hand upon her cousin’s for a moment. ‘No, you are not agriculturally educated; you only know how to make things grow. But go on.’
‘At last he did tell me he had written to Th’ Ministry. He had told un the old place were no more pratikkle use. He did say as I would niver make a ’fishent farmer. He did tell ’em up theer as I had had ivery chanst. An’ so – an’ so, Cousin Flora, he did recommend as I should be gi’en a middock o’ land to dwell on wi’ me an’ mine, an’ – an’ th’ farm itself, th’ old place, be – be ploughed under.’
‘Reuben! My poor cousin!’
‘Ee may well say so. An’ all th’ lads abroad in South Afriky takin’ up wi’ Grootebeeste (sore evil fell on ’em from th’ first day, at that theer Grootebeeste), an’ th’ lasses half-bedottled wi’ pinin’ an’ grief.’
‘But why on earth didn’t you write to them and ask them to come home? They could at least have helped you produce enough swedes and things to satisfy Mr Parker-Poke.’
‘’Twas me oath, Cousin Flora. Ee knows well that us Starkadders niver breaks an oath. I’d swore to
Till th’ land
Wi’ th’ lone hand
an’ by that I mun bide. But I were nigh bedott –’
‘I feel for you deeply, Reuben, and it has been a great shock to me. I thought everything was going so well. But go on. What happened? Surely the farm has not actually been –?’
‘Nay. Un still stands. ’Deed, if un did not know, un would say th’ old place looked sonsier an’ purtier than her had iver seemed. Look.’ And he pointed with his whip downwards along the slope of Mockuncle Hill. At the same time, for they had almost arrived at the farm without noticing, so absorbed were they in their talk, he reined in the horse.
A long, low, irregularly shaped, dazzlingly white building lay embowered in young trees. Small emerald lawns filled its courtyards. Glowing clusters and bands of flowers stood against its walls. A green banner drooped from the roof on which Flora could just distinguish the words ‘– Group Conference’.
She stared: she turned to Reuben: she stared again.
‘Is that –? But it looks – But it can’t be, Reuben! It’s impossible! It’s a cross between a cricket pavilion and a country club!’
‘Ay, Cousin Flora. But yon’s Cold Comfort Farm, niverth’less,’ grimly answered Reuben.
‘But who did it? The Ministry?’
‘Nay. Didn’t I tell ee there was worse t’ come? If so be as th’ farm had been – been ploughed under, ’twould ha’ broke me heart, but at least ’twould ha’ been honest grazin’ land wheer th’ beasts might forage. But as ’tes – well, I’ll tell ee. On very day as th’ Ministry were a-makin’ up its mind over Parker-Poke’s letter, a chap did come to see me from Ditchling. He were powerful rich, he says, an’ he says he were a Trust.’
‘I begin to understand. Was he representing the National Trust?’
‘That weren’t th’ name. ’Twere something about Th’ Weavers’ Whim. But I mis-remembers. At th’ time I were half bedott –’
‘Did he offer to buy the farm?’
‘That were about it. He says a powerful mort o’ money had been left by some wold dead man in charge o’ a set o’ bodies to buy up wold ancient places what was goin’ to be pulled down. They sets ’em to rights, see. Then they hires ’em out for sassieties ter meet in, an’ such-like. An’ th’ money what th’ Trust gets for hirin’ out the place, they uses to keep th’ place all befancied up wi’ flowers an’ liddle grassy bits an’ such.’
‘And so you sold it to the Weavers’ Whim Trust?’
‘I did, Cousin Flora. An’ wi’ th’ money they gi’es me I buys our Ticklepenny’s Field an’ –’
‘Ticklepenny’s! I am so glad. Is that where you live?’
‘Ay, in th’ liddle hut what used to be on th’ corner o’ Nettle Flitch Field (do ee mind? Meriam th’ hired wench did – did often go ter be there). I did move un over to our Ticklepenny’s.’
‘But what did Mr Parker-Poke and the Ministry say?’
‘Un didn’t care. Th’ Ministry did take tu-third parts o’ th’ money th’ Trust did pay me. They did say as it were compensation. An’ I pays them th’ other third for our Ticklepenny’s.’
‘I see. It seems simple enough.’
‘Ay, ’twere. It did shut un up, tu. Our Ticklepenny’s, look ee, be so goathling an’ crow-picken, even th’ Ministry won’t trouble wi’ un. An’ Parker-Poke he did go back to Lunnon, brast un fer a bowler-hatten scowkerd!’
‘Then where do Phoebe and the others live?’
‘In th’ Great Barn, Cousin Flora. Th’ Trust hev built un liddle bee-cells, like, where un do sleep an’ dwell, and uns do eat their meat in th’ Great Barn herseln.’
‘Don’t they do anything to help you at all, Reuben?’
‘Nay, Cousin Flora. Uns was always poor moithered bodies, as ee may mind.’
Flora did mind. The female Starkadders, as recalled by herself, had always been in some crisis of jam-boiling or jealousy.
‘But uns keep th’ old place fitty an’ scoured for th’ Trust, Cousin Flora, an’ uns do tend th’ liddle flowerets in th’ liddle gardens. All they liddle gardens,’ pointing with his whip again and then urging the horse forward, ‘is wheer th’ middens an’ th’ pigstyes an’ th’ stables once did be.’
‘Are there no animals on the farm now?’
‘Nary a horn nor yet an udder, Cousin Flora. Our Big Business were th’ last to go. (Ee mind he?) Ah, un had sunk low indeed durin’ uns last year here. But ’tes not befittin’ that I should tell ee o’ that. Ee must find out, or not, as ee pleases, for eeself.’
I jolly well do please, thought Flora.
‘I suppose the chaps took him with them to Grootebeeste?’ she said.
‘Ay. But not before he had shamed us all. Now here we be, Cousin Flora,’ as the buggy left the chalk road and the wheels jarred on the flint cobbles of the farmyard. ‘Welcome to Cold Comfort agen, mie de-urr. ’Tes sadly changed, to my eyen. But may be ee likes it better so, all clettered an’ gaysome as it be?’ he ended wistfully.
Flora gazed round: at the artistically lettered sign saying ‘The Greate Yarde’ swung from a wrought-iron stand; at the green rustic benches outside the windows; at a lot of overfed pigeons rather spoiling the chastity of the general tone; at another notice visible through a door proclaiming ‘The Greate Scullerie’; at beds of lavender and plots of borage; at a stone urn –
‘Reuben!’ Flora stiffened and pointed an accusing finger. ‘Can I believe my eyes? There! In that urn!’
Reuben glanced indifferently to where she was pointing.
‘Ay, Cousin Flora. ’Tes true. Ee sees what ee sees. It did gi’e me the allovers at first, but now I
be used to un.’
‘But really, Reuben! Sukebind! Who on earth planted it there?’
‘Th’ ladies an’ gentlemen o’ th’ Trust. There be a lot more o’ un growin’ around. They says as these be th’ only parts wheer it do grow, and it be a rarity, they says.’
Flora was about to remark, the rarer the better, when Reuben gave a roar of fury. This is more like old times, she thought, but before there was time to question him he darted down some steps leading into a former cellar (now labelled ‘The Lytel Store Roome’), and after some scuffling reappeared, hauling with him a small man in a dark suit with a black beard who was clutching a closed woven basket. Pounding after them came an opulent female form tightly covered in red velvet trousers, tweed jacket, flowered turban, and gipsy earings. She was belabouring Reuben’s back.
‘I say, steady on!’ said Flora. ‘Need we have this sort of thing?’
Reuben flung the little man on to the turf.
‘Lie there, keynard!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll teach ee to swipe th’ sely herbs for thy nasty messes!’
The little man gazed up at him silently, with bared teeth.
‘Haven’t we met before?’ Flora was saying to the female form, which was now dusting itself and hauling up its trousers. ‘I am Mrs Fairford; I feel sure you must be Mrs Urk Starkadder.’
The hired girl Meriam, for it was she, stared sullenly at Flora, with her mouth open. Flora waited without impatience, for she did not expect that the intervening years had brightened Meriam’s wits.
‘Ee’s face be known ter me an’ mine,’ said Meriam doubtfully at last. ‘’Twas in the cards.’
‘Was it? How nice! How are you these days? and your mother? and the children – four boys, wasn’t it?’
‘The cards said as I should meet with a fair woman who would bring trouble.’
‘They were mistaken about that, I feel sure; perhaps they had an off-day or something.’
‘Ay, they often does. Shockin’ chancey, the cards are. Be you innerested in the cards, missus?’ and Meriam, with some brightening of expression, unzipped her blouse and spilled a pack of gaudy, greasy cards into her cupped palm. ‘Ye’ve got a lucky face. I’ll give yer a two-and-six reading for two-and-tuppence.’
The cessation of a steady grinding sound which had continued in the background throughout her conversation with Meriam now warned Flora that Urk had stopped gritting his teeth, finished replacing the stolen sukebind in the urn under Reuben’s direction, and was now taking action stations. She just moved aside in time as he thrust his hairy fist down on Meriam’s arm, muttering:
‘Come whoam, come whoam, you piece o’ dirt. We’ve no more business here, and I lusts for me cuppa.’
‘All right. I could do wi’ one meself. Artnoon, Missus Fairford. Don’t ferget ter contact me; we’m in th’ Brighton phone book – Byewaies, Lechers Lane. Bye-bye!’ The last words were uttered in a more or less amiable scream as Urk hauled her away. In a moment Flora saw a very small, filthy dirty car beetling past the gate, and Meriam waved to her as they went by.
‘Ee’s seen an’ heard all me shame now, Cousin Flora,’ said Reuben, pausing beside her as he went to lead away the horse and buggy. ‘Th’ farm cockered up like a lost woman on Worthing Front, th’ chaps abroad in South Afriky, an’ Urk Starkadder, as allus kept his wickedness to himself decent-like, settin’ up in a Herbal Specialities shop at Bexhill. Ay, an’ stealin’ th’ herbs an’ th’ flowerets (th’ very sukebind itself what you an’ me did grub up wi’ our own hands, Cousin Flora, off this here land) ter stock it wi’. Wheer’s our man’s pride, as ee did show us ’twere right ter hev, an’ th’ poor earth as yet did bear an’ keep us in a middock o’ bread and a sup o’ bracket? Haven’t curses like rookses come home to rest in bosomses and barnses? Thet they hev; an’ rightly so, says you, maybe. An’ what do ee think o’ Cold Comfort Farm nowadays, Flora Fairford, Robert Poste’s child as was? Is ut as ee would see ut, or is ut a blot an’ a blannock on th’ fair bosom o’ Mockuncle Hill? Speak, and speak frank.’
4
But fortunately for Flora (who needed time to reflect upon all that she had heard and seen), the brake containing the delegates, the bus full of Managerial Revolutionaries, and a large hired car crammed with physicists and scientists roaring drunk on anæsthetics, now drove up to the gate. She had only time to say a hasty good-bye to Reuben and to promise to see him again, before hurrying out to welcome the arrivals.
A crowded hour ensued, but it was not disorderly (Mr Jones having taken the precaution of locking the physicists and scientists in their car, where they raved and protested harmlessly enough). Flora and Mr Mybug were provided with lists of names and the rooms allotted, and each delegate was given a numbered key.
Drooping female forms in print gowns and white aprons hurried meekly to and fro bearing cans of hot water and leading delegates to their rooms, but although Flora recognized the sheep-and-hen countenances of Phoebe, Letty and the rest, she was too busy to exchange more than the briefest greeting with them, and even this frightened Prue into hiccoughs. She did observe, however, that they were neater than of yore and that they had not noticeably aged: this might be due to the lingering influences of her own rehabilitatory work at the farm years ago, to the calmer atmosphere at the farm nowadays, or to the preservative effects of country air and home-made jam.
Not all the delegates were satisfied with their accommodation, for many of them wanted a private sitting-room in which to write reports or paint or hold a salon or go off into trances. Peccavi, for instance, insisted upon having a room overlooking the duckpond. (‘He has to get into water five times a day,’ explained Mr Mybug, who had appointed himself Peccavi’s compère. ‘Five times – five senses – you get the symbolism? If you give him this room he can just jump out of the window. It’s as simple as that.’) The Sage (who was discovered by Flora meditating by the old pig-styes, and who looked so conscious, when she asked him how he had possibly managed to cover seven miles as quickly as the cars had done, that she suspected him of using a simple Thibetan magic) refused to sleep in the farmhouse at all, saying that all was illusion, but that while he was Here it was better to sleep beside the humble and unenlightened than beside those utterly in thrall to Monkey. He then walked lightly away, almost seeming to skim over the ground, and confirming Flora’s theory about the magic. The follower, who looked exceedingly weary, scurried after him. Flora was not concerned about their comfort, for their values were not those of the other delegates, and she returned to the farm.
She was just in time to catch Mr Mybug dumping his rucksack into the powder-closet opening off Mdlle Avaler’s apartment, he observing with a cheery laugh that he was prepared to kip down anywhere. In that case, retorted Flora, he would not mind sharing a shed with his friend Hacke, who was sleeping at the foot of Woman with Wind and Woman with Child: two Army beds had been set up there, and the gentlemen would be company for one another.
This dealt with, there took place a sharp struggle with Messe over Flora’s own room. She had been allotted the smallest, darkest and lowest of those attics into which, in former days, it had not been possible to get at all. But she did not mind, for it was remote from the rooms of all the delegates, and also the topmost boughs of an enormous pear tree were thrusting their abundant leaves and fruit in at the low window. Unfortunately, Messe was avid to martyr himself upon bumpy ceilings and lumpy beds, and Flora encountered him creeping up the attic stairs with an ecstatic expression and his suitcase gripped between his teeth. After an exchange of words, dignified and kind but firm upon her side and tearful upon his, she sent him down again to the airy room and downy bed allotted to him, and returned to her own chamber.
She looked out between the pear-tree boughs. The room gave on the Greate Yarde, and below she could see Mr Jones and the large, prosperous man whose car had been outside the station. This was Mr Claud Hubris, representing the views of Democratic Industrial Management at the Conference, and closely identified with the
Managerial Revolutionary Party. He and Mr Jones had just unlocked the scientists, who were tumbling out like tigers at a circus. They were all large, vital men, as wild as wild could be, not recognizable as grandsons of that mild and absentminded old scientific josser in Comic Cuts who amused the schoolboys of forty years ago. And no one liked them or found them funny any more.
However, Mr Hubris could manage them. He instantly supplied them with drink and promised them a lot of parties, and they all formed themselves into a chain and marched away to their rooms chanting ‘The Jolly Physicists’:
‘We care for nobody, no, not we,
And God knows nobody cares for us.
Who – was – Britannia?
Electrons Rule the Waves!’
Then Mr Hubris dusted his hands upon a handkerchief and went off to the Lytel Herbary (formerly a w.c.), which (as Flora could see by craning out of the window) had been fitted up as a bar. Mr Jones mooched about, kicking the cobblestones.
A step caused Flora to turn round. A female form was arranging clean towels upon the basin.
‘Phoebe?’ said Flora pleasantly, ‘I am sure you will remember me; I was Miss Poste.’
‘Ay, an’ I’m still Miss Starkadder;’ retorted Phoebe dejectedly. ‘Be you a wife? ’Tes all the luck i’ th’ tea-leaves some souls do have, surelie.’
Flora wished to learn the state of mind of Phoebe and her relatives, so she went on:
‘I hear that you and the other – er – maidens are living in the Great Barn now?’
‘Ay – a burden on t’ charity o’ half-brother Reuben.’
‘You must feel it so, I am sure. Do you still do that pretty quilting work?’
‘Nay. ’Tes nought but foolishness.’
‘Not nowadays. You could sell it to the rich Americans.’
‘I wouldna ha’ th’ heart.’
‘Not by yourself, I daresay, and you don’t know any rich Americans, but I will give you the address of some people who do,’ and Flora wrote upon a leaf torn from one of those successive little notebooks which had accompanied her everywhere since her fifteenth year.
Conference at Cold Comfort Farm Page 4