Conference at Cold Comfort Farm

by Stella Gibbons

  Flora went into the Greate Laundrie, where some of the Starkadder maidens, pale not from late hours but with excitement and hope, were serving breakfast to all the Managerial Revolutionaries, who looked as miserable as their flat, dull little faces would permit.

  She sat down immediately opposite somebody hidden by The New York Times, who soon lowered it to receive some toast which a Managerial had buttered for him, and revealed himself as Mr Hubris, with the morning light reflected from his pink, massaged chins. Mdlle Avaler was also revealed – for The New York Times is a very large newspaper – wearing a delicious travelling costume of fawn linen and gaily eating an egg. Mr Hubris took no notice of Flora, who was glad, but Mdlle Avaler smilingly waved her spoon.

  Delegates began to crawl in by twos and threes, most of them dressed ready to leave by car, brake or air, but by far the greater number was still asleep in unconventional nooks. Presently Flora gathered from some remarks shouted by Mrs Ernestine Thump (who had prolonged her visit to include the Party) that Mr Claud Hubris was motoring immediately after breakfast to Gatwick Airport, where his private aeroplane would be at the service of Mdlle Avaler should she require a lift.

  Someone at Flora’s side started convulsively. She turned, and saw Mr Mybug, who had slouched in unobserved.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Flora, and then thought it wiser, judging by his appearance and expression, not to ask him if he had enjoyed the Party.

  ‘How horribly fresh you look!’ snarled Mr Mybug.

  Being used to this comment upon her appearance from people who habitually sat up until three in the morning, Flora placidly continued her breakfast without replying.

  ‘I suppose I have “had it”,’ Mr Mybug went on in a dreary undertone. ‘I can’t afford diamond bracelets or a trip to the Bahamas.’

  ‘Surely that is all for the best, in the circumstances?’ suggested Flora. ‘The flesh is sometimes weak.’

  ‘The flesh! That comes well, from you!’

  Flora ate some toast and did not reply.

  ‘You simply don’t understand, that’s all,’ said Mr Mybug very bitterly. ‘You have ichor in your veins –’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Ichor, not warm red human blood. You’ve never understood me –’

  ‘It is not my duty to understand you, Mr Mybug. That privilege belongs to Rennett.’

  ‘You’ve never understood me, ever since we first met, sixteen years ago. I told you then that there was a remote, virginal, unawakened quality about you –’

  ‘So you did. I remember now.’

  ‘– and there still is. The truth is – and I only say it because you drive me to it, it isn’t a thing a decent human being would choose to say lightly to another – you’re both repressed and inhibited – and,’ concluded Mr Mybug in sorrowful triumph, ‘you haven’t matured in the least.’

  This awful accusation, which made Flora feel like a bottle of bad Empire wine, ended his tirade, for Rennett bustled in, wearing a hideous tiny hat and accompanied by the little boys, to warn him that he must telephone at once if he intended to secure the car to take them to Beershorn station that evening, and he rushed away. Shortly afterwards Mr Hubris went off, accompanied by Mdlle Avaler and Mrs Ernestine Thump. Both ladies paused to say good-bye to Flora, the young one because good manners were her substitute for a conscience, and the elderly one because she thought that Flora might one day come in useful, like some odd stocks and shares picked up for a song; you never knew; the most unexpected things did.

  ‘Robert Poste’s child!’

  It was a hoarse whisper through the open window behind Flora’s head, and she turned round and saw Adam Lambsbreath looking in.

  ‘Mus’ Urk wants a word wi’ ee. He be up at Ticklepenny’s Well, all betangled in gurt old ropes.’

  ‘Very well. I will come at once,’ and Flora rose and left the table, bowing as she passed them to the Managerial Revolutionaries and Frau Dichtverworren, whom she rightly supposed that she would not see again before their departure.

  Her crossing of the Great Yard was brightened by a glimpse of Peccavi and Riska, both clad in holey sweaters, shorts and broken sandals, preparing to set out for Lisbon on a bicycle made for two which Mr Mybug had bought for Peccavi in Haywards Heath, and watched in attentive silence by the three little Mybug boys, whose parents had explained to them what lifelong benefit they would derive from the historic sight. Riska spat at Flora for the last time, and Peccavi put out his tongue as they pedalled uncertainly away. Some of Peccavi’s pictures were strapped on the back of the bicycle, and Flora had the satisfaction of seeing them fall off into the road and disappear under the wheels of an unusually large lorry that happened to be passing.

  While they were climbing up to the well she heard Adam muttering to himself.

  ‘What is the matter, Adam? Do speak up. What are you doing here, anyway? Surely you have morning duties up at Haute-Couture Hall?’

  ‘I seeks me lost treasure.’

  ‘Oh, your liddle mop. I remember: Ezra was supposed to have thrown it down the well.’

  ‘Ay. An’ what business be’es it o’ yourn if a man chooses to come out of a mornin’ to breathe th’ air? Here I be, an’ here I stays until Ticklepenny’s sides be wet once more wi’ th’ spring watters.’

  On their arrival at the summit Flora was disconcerted to see a small behind, clothed in nondescript Starkadder garments, reared against the skyline. The remainder of its owner’s person was apparently hanging down inside the well.

  ‘Mus’ Urk du be gettin’ tu work rightaways,’ observed Adam with satisfaction.

  Flora was spared the difficulty of attracting Urk’s attention by his sudden emergence from the depths. His face was pale and his eyes glittered.

  ‘’Tes dry as th’ Condemn’d Man on a New Year Day down theer,’ he observed in the somnambulistic tones which always came upon him when speaking of the well.

  ‘Never mind, we will soon put that to rights!’ cried Flora – more heartily than she felt, for, remembering his reluctance on the previous evening, she anticipated at least an hour of coaxing and urging to get him seriously to work.

  But her fears were unfounded, or rather, they immediately took another shape; for, uttering that same low, passionful cry with which he had seized Meriam the hired girl on the night of The Counting long ago, Urk began to run at full speed away from the well, dragging after him a rope attached to his waist. While Flora watched in considerable alarm and Adam banged approvingly with his stick, he ran to the rope’s full length, then began to run back again. Faster and faster he ran, until he reached the well’s edge. Then, even as Flora started forward to prevent him, he leapt in the air, uttered a triumphant shout, and disappeared into the depths. The rope slid rapidly over the side until it pulled up taut with a jerk, and stayed, quivering. All was silent.

  ‘Oh, good gracious, what a silly thing to do!’ exclaimed Flora, hurrying forward. ‘Really, no one but a Starkadder –!’

  But Adam, who had hobbled up to the well after her, now paused. With his head cocked on one side he listened. He held up a gnarled finger. Flora, who simply had not dared to peer into those depths, gazed at him in deeper alarm. What fearful sound did he hear?

  Suddenly he uttered his wheezing laugh.

  ‘’Tes th’ pickaxe!’ he cried. ‘’Tes Mus’ Urk’s pickaxe a-workin’ away! Listen, Robert Poste’s child!’

  Flora, in her turn, listened. Yes, from deep down under the earth came the muffled yet hollow sound of blows, and then, almost before you could have said something nasty in the woodshed, they were followed by frenzied shouts:

  ‘Help! help! I be whelmed by th’ waters! I be drownin’ in Ticklepenny’s Well!’

  ‘Quick, Adam! Oh, hurry, for goodness’ sake! We must pull him up by the rope!’ cried Flora, and she caught hold of it and exerted all her strength. Below in the earth she heard a washing, rushing, gurgling noise coming ever nearer, and Urk’s shouts were now repeated more faintl
y and at longer intervals. Her strength was barely enough to move the rope.

  ‘Adam! For mercy’s sake! What are you doing? Come and help me!’

  The old man was peering intently into the well.

  ‘Nay, Robert Poste’s child, niver hasten like thataways. The hand that’s shakin’ is ill at bakin’. Th’ spring watter will ride our Mus’ Urk up to th’ light. I mun seek for me lost darlin’. Ha! du I see her?’

  Flora continued to haul the rope with every ounce of strength she possessed. Her face was pale and calm and her teeth bit deeply into her lip. Hang the Starkadders! she thought; they were always in some kind of trouble.

  Suddenly Adam uttered a piercing cry.

  ‘’Tes her! ’Tes my mippet, lost this many a year! Th’ watters hev given her back tu me!’ and at the same instant he caught with both hands a small grey stick ending in a mass of dirty matted threads which a sudden freshet tossed up from the well.

  At the same instant, too, Flora heard shouts behind her, and the rope was suddenly hauled backwards by strong hands. Gasping with relief, she turned, and saw Reuben, Mr Jones, and Sir Richard Hawk-Monitor and his two eldest sons. She laved her own crimson and smarting hands in the icy water which was now spilling over the lip of the well while breathlessly explaining what had happened.

  Shortly afterwards Urk was tossed over the edge, accompanied by an anxious-looking water-vole, which waited just long enough to see him restored to his friends before diving back again.

  ‘Be ee amorted, disgrace that ee be’est?’ roared Reuben to his brother, while Mr Jones and Sir Richard tried artificial respiration. ‘Who gave ee leave to meddle wi’ Ticklepenny’s Well?’

  ‘Oh, do give him a chance to come round, Reuben,’ said Flora. ‘It was my idea really, and you know we arranged it all the night before last.’

  ‘Ay, now I beminds me. We did. But ut has all been done chancy-hasty,’ said Reuben in calmer tones. ‘Ah, ee be’es alive, be’est ee?’ as Urk stirred and groaned.

  Mr Jones and Sir Richard went to work with new energy, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes. (Adam, meanwhile, had gone hobbling rapidly off with his restored treasure as soon as he caught sight of Sir Richard, for he was supposed at this hour to be leading Mishap, Mislay, Misdemeanour and Mistrust down to pasture.)

  ‘’Tes done!’ muttered Urk, gazing at the well with a rapt expression which his rescuers naturally found most annoying. ‘Our Ticklepenny’s is fresh an’ flowin’ agen. An’ while I were down theer, brother Reuben, what did I see, think ee?’

  His hearers were silent. His pleased expression filled them with forebodings. If something at the bottom of a well pleased Urk, then the odds were heavily in favour of its being something that would render that well unfit for drinking by anybody except Urk, and so it proved.

  ‘Water-voles!’ he said, nodding his head round at the circle of glum faces. ‘A litter o’ ten or more, an’ th’ pell an’ th’ mell tu’ (the pell and the mell are the water-vole sire and dam). ‘An’ what were th’ liddle lovesights doin’, think ee?’

  No one cared to hazard a guess, and Sir Richard, who had an appointment in Godmere at ten, looked at his watch.

  ‘Gnawin’ their ways through to th’ water,’ said Urk, in tones thick with delight. ‘Ay, th’ water-voles know. An’ so ut dinnut need more than one blow o’ me pickaxe –’

  He paused. He gazed all round him. He clapped both hands to his sides.

  ‘Wheer is ut?’ he cried. ‘Wheer is me pockut pick-axe as I du cull up th’ herbs wi’?’

  ‘At the bottom of the well, my good chap, and you’re very lucky not to be there with it,’ said Sir Richard rather sharply. ‘And now if you will forgive me I really must –’

  But before he could finish the sentence Urk leapt to his feet and was running full tilt for the well. A cry – of exasperation rather than dismay – went up from the company, but before he could leap in, he stopped short at the brink.

  Three brown, sleek heads broke the brimming surface of the water into ripples, and six delicate transparent paws, while the other six trod water, held aloft the pocket pick-axe.

  ‘Bless ee, my beauties!’ crooned Urk, leaning over to take it, and Reuben came up behind him and crossly bundled him in.

  Flora thought it best to stroll home and put some cream on her smarting hands.

  She passed the remainder of the day peacefully enough, for she pleaded that the excitement of the morning had given her a headache which must be nursed in the Green Parlour all the afternoon. Phoebe fluttered in at four o’clock with a tray of tea, looking like a flushed and excited sheep, and Flora partook while glancing through a book of poems called Thrush-Notes that Adam had left for her that morning. It was by E. H.-M., and contained the following dedication:

  ‘To my Best Friend with the

  Author’s grateful admiration

  and tons of love.’

  The poems showed a nice nature but were technically weak.

  Sounds floated in to her occasionally: sounds softened and made pleasant by distance. Even shouts of ‘Be careful! My vork vill broken be! Ach, vot it in Inklandt suffers!’ took on a melancholy charm, an almost Venetian cadence, as if Canaletto himself were calling across the flushed evening lagoons, when heard at a distance of four hundred yards; and numerous bumps, thuds and crashes only sounded like an air raid on some other town than one’s own. About half-past five Mr Mybug, wearing a colourful lumber-jacket, dashed in to make his farewells.

  ‘God, what an afternoon! We’ve been moving Woman with Wind and Woman with Child into the lorry. (You’re very peaceful in here, I must say, but the backwater is your native element, isn’t it?) Well, “bye-bye”. Post those figures to the Trust, won’t you, and see that Meutre gets the bill for last night’s “do”.’ He wrung her hand. ‘See you soon in town. I must fly.’

  And he flew, with the colourful lumber-jacket fluttering behind him like the tail of a nightmare peacock. Flora had not taken him into her confidence about the return of the Starkadders, and therefore he did not know that these were the last account sheets the Weavers’ Whim Trust would ever receive from Cold Comfort Farm.

  Presently she heard Mr Jones’ discontented voice enquiring if anyone had seen Mrs Fairford; he wanted to say good-bye to her. She kept quiet, and at length he gave it up, and the sounds that followed indicated that he was driving off with the Mybugs, Hacke, Messe, Woman with Wind and Woman with Child.

  When the noise of the engines had died off into the stillness, Flora waited another half-hour in case a belated delegate might appear; then she sauntered out into the late afternoon sunlight. Everyone seemed to have gone; a slightly museum-ish peacefulness filled the rooms, and all that remained of the Conference was a leaflet, upon which she could distinguish the words global importance, screwed up in a ball in a corner of the Lytel Scullerie. Flora screwed it up still smaller and poked it down a crack in the boards.

  She was idly completing this task to her satisfaction when a sound fell upon her ears. Someone in the distance was softly howling. She thought she recognized the voice, and strolled out into the Greate Yarde which, it will be remembered, gave upon the public road.

  Yes, there were the Sage, newly girt for departure, and the follower laden with his begging-bowl and crutch, crossing the Yarde just as she came out through the door. The Sage looked at her remotely from beneath the orange folds of his turban, and the follower continued, with tears pouring down his black cheeks, to howl, and beat his breast with one hand, the other being occupied with clutching his master’s gear.

  ‘Farewell, Teacher,’ called Flora, and they both stood still and regarded her, the follower squinting out of eyes made smaller than ever by grief. ‘I fear that you have not acquired merit from the Conference?’ she went on, coming up to them.

  ‘How could it be possible to do so, daughter? This meeting was called by Monkey, Monkey was present throughout, and Monkey alone will rejoice in the results.’

 
‘Didn’t you even enjoy the change of air?’

  ‘All air is alike to the Enlightened, daughter. Yet it is possible that this one’ (touching his breast) ‘and that one’ (indicating the follower) ‘acquired a little, a very little, merit by contemplating the hills and the sky. But none of the feet of those whom I have seen here are set upon the Path.’

  ‘I rather thought you would say that,’ said Flora.

  The Sage was looking at her with closer attention than he had ever before bestowed upon her, and feeling certain that his next remark would concern her own feet and the impossibility of their ever being set upon the Path while she was so fond of managing things, Flora said rather hastily to the follower:

  ‘You are sad to go away, brother.’

  She did not know what else to call him. It must be twenty-five years since anyone in England had called anyone else my good man, mate he would not have understood, and comrade, once the name of affection between rough men-at-arms, now had boring associations.

  He began to howl again, with his eyes shut.

  ‘It is all illusion,’ said the Sage, looking down at him as he stood there, small and black and drowned in tears. ‘Illusion, and the evil of desire. He loveth the one who helpeth with the washing of the pots, he loveth the children of the house, he even loveth me. He desireth to stay here and love them, he desireth to go hence with me and love me. He is all desire. Hence, he is all evil.’

  At this the follower howled aloud and pulled out some of his hair.

  ‘Well,’ said Flora, seeing that she could be of no practical use here, ‘you must go your way and I mine, Teacher. Farewell.’

  ‘Farewell, daughter.’

  He made her a salutation, beautiful, in the brief instant that it lasted, as the pose of a dancing Kali. Then he strode away, and the follower scurried after him. When they reached the summit of the road leading on to Mockuncle Hill and thence to open country, the Sage moved swiftly up to the skyline, was silhouetted there for a moment, and then began to disappear from sight down the far side, but the follower turned back when he reached the top, and, incommoded as he was by bowl, crutch and his fast-falling tears yet contrived to make Flora a clumsy salaam. Then he hurried on after his master.