Cold Comfort Farm (25 page)

Everybody was staring at the door. The silence was terrific. It seemed the air must burst with its pressure, and the flickering movement of the light and the fireglow upon the faces of the Starkadders was so restlessly volatile that it emphasized the strange stillness of their bodies. Flora was trying to decide just what the kitchen looked like, and came to the conclusion it was the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s.

‘Well, well,’ she said, amiably, stepping over the doorstep and drawing off her gloves, ‘the gang
is
all here, isn’t it! Is that Big Business I see there in the corner? Oh, I beg your pardon, it’s Micah. I suppose there aren’t any sandwiches?’

This cracked the social ice a bit. Signs of life were observed.

‘There’s food on the table,’ said Judith, lifelessly, coming forward, with her burning eyes fixed upon Seth; ‘but first, Robert Poste’s child, you must greet your Aunt Ada Doom.’

And she took Flora’s hand (Flora was very bucked that she had shed her clean gloves) and led her up to the figure which sat in the high-backed chair by the fire.

‘Mother,’ said Judith, ‘this is Flora, Robert Poste’s child. I have spoken to you of her.’

‘How d’ye do, Aunt Ada?’ said Flora, pleasantly, putting out her hand. But Aunt Ada made no effort to take it. She folded her own hands a little more closely upon a copy of the ‘Milk Producers’ Weekly Bulletin and Cowkeepers’ Guide’, which she held on her lap, and observed, in a low, toneless voice:

‘I saw something nasty in the woodshed.’

Flora turned to Judith, with raised and enquiring eyebrows. A murmur came from the rest of the company, which was watching closely.

‘’Tes one of her bad nights,’ said Judith, whose gaze kept wandering piteously in the direction of Seth (he was wolfing beef in a corner). ‘Mother,’ she said, louder, ‘don’t you know me? It’s Judith. I have brought Flora Poste to see you – Robert Poste’s child.’

‘Nay … I saw something nasty in the woodshed,’ said Aunt Ada Doom, fretfully moving her great head from side to side. ‘’Twas a burnin’ noonday … sixty-nine years ago. And me no bigger than a titty-wren. And I saw something na—’

‘Well, perhaps she likes it better that way,’ said Flora, soothingly. She had been observing Aunt Ada’s firm chin, clear eyes, tight little mouth and close grip upon the ‘Milk Producers’ Weekly Bulletin and Cowkeepers’ Guide’, and she came to the conclusion that if Aunt Ada was mad, then she, Flora, was one of the Marx Brothers.

‘Saw something nasty in the woodshed!!!’ suddenly shrilled Aunt Ada, smiting at Judith with the ‘Milk Producers’ Weekly Bulletin and Cowkeepers’ Guide’, ‘something nasty! Take it away. You’re all wicked and cruel. You want to go away and leave me alone in the woodshed. But you never shall. None of you. Never! There have always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort. You must all stay here with me, all of you: Judith, Amos, Micah, Urk, Luke, Mark, Elfine, Caraway, Harkaway, Reuben and Seth. Where’s Seth? Where’s my darling? Come – come here, Seth.’

Seth came pushing his way through the crowd of relations, with his mouth full of beef and bread. ‘Here, grandma,’
he crooned, soothingly. ‘Here I am. I’ll niver leave ’ee – niver.’

(‘Do not look at Seth, woman,’ whispered Amos, terribly, in Judith’s ear. ‘You are always looking at him.’)

‘That’s my good boy … my mommet … my pippet …’ the old woman murmured, patting Seth’s head with the ‘Milk Producers’ Weekly Bulletin and Cowkeepers’ Guide’. ‘Why, how grand he is tonight! What’s this? What’s all this?’ And she jerked at Seth’s dinner-jacket. ‘What’ve you been doing, boy? Tell your granny.’

Flora could see, from the way in which Aunt Ada’s remarkably shrewd eyes beneath their heavy lids were examining Seth’s person that she had rumbled their little outing. There was just time to save their faces before the deluge. So she took a deep breath and said loudly and clearly:

‘He’s been to Godmere, to Richard Hawk-Monitor’s twenty-first birthday dance. So have I. So has Elfine. So has a friend of mine called Claud Hart-Harris, whom none of you know. And, what is more, Aunt Ada, Elfine and Richard Hawk-Monitor are engaged to be married, and
will
be married, too, in about a month from now.’

There came a terrible cry from the shadows near the sink. Everybody started violently and turned to stare in the direction whence it came. It was Urk – Urk lying face downwards in the beef sandwiches, with one hand pressed upon his heart in dreadful agony. The hired girl, Meriam, laid her rough hand upon his bowed head and timidly patted it, but he shook her off with a movement like a weasel in a trap.

‘My little water-vole,’ they heard him moan. ‘My little water-vole!’

A babel broke out, in which Aunt Ada could dimly be discerned beating at everybody with the ‘Milk Producers’ Weekly Bulletin and Cowkeepers’ Guide’, and shrilly screaming: ‘I saw it … I saw it! I shall go mad … I can’t bear it … There have always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort. I saw something nasty in the woodshed … something nasty … nasty … nasty …’

Seth took her hands and held them in his, kneeling before her and speaking wooingly to her, as though she were a sick
child. Flora had dragged Elfine up on to a table in a corner near the fireplace, out of the racket, and was pensively feeding the two of them on bread and butter. She had given up all hope of getting to bed that night. It was nearly half-past two, and everybody seemed sitting pretty for the sunrise.

She observed several females unknown to her flitting dejectedly about in the gloom, replenishing plates with bread and butter and occasionally weeping in corners.

‘Who’s that?’ she asked Elfine, pointing interestedly at one who had a perfectly flat bust and a face like a baby bird, all goggle eyes and beaky nose. This one was weeping half inside a boot cupboard.

‘’Tes poor Rennett,’ said Elfine, sleepily. ‘Oh, Flora, I’m so happy, but I do wish we could go to bed, don’t you?’

‘Presently, yes. So that’s poor Rennett, is it? Why (if it be not tactless to ask) are all her clothes sopping wet?’

‘Oh! she jumped down the well, about eleven o’clock, Meriam, the hired girl, told me. Grandmamma kept on mocking at her because she’s an old maid. She said Rennett couldn’t even keep a tight hold on Mark Dolour when she
had
got him, and poor Rennett had hysterics, and then Grandma kept on saying things about – about flat bosoms and things, and then Rennett ran out and jumped down the well. And Grandma had an attack.’

‘Serve her right, the old trout,’ muttered Flora, yawning. ‘Hey, what’s up now?’ For a renewed uproar had broken out in the midst of the crowd gathered round Aunt Ada.

By standing on the table and peering through the confusing flicker of the firelight and lamplight, Flora and Elfine could distinguish Amos, who was bending over Aunt Ada Doom’s chair, and thundering at her. There was such an infernal clatter going on from Micah, Ezra, Reuben, Seth, Judith, Caraway, Harkaway, Susan, Letty, Prue, Adam, Jane, Phoebe, Mark and Luke that it was difficult to make out what he was saying, but suddenly he raised his voice to a roar, and the others were silent:

‘… So I mun go where th’ Lord’s work calls me to go, and spread th’ Lord’s word abroad in strange places. Ah, ’tes terrible
to have to go, but I mun do it. I been wrestlin’ and prayin’ and broodin’ over it, and I know th’ truth at last. I mun go abroad in one o’ they Ford vans, preachin’ all over th’ countryside. Ay, like th’ Apostles of old. I have heard my call, and I mun follow it.’ He flung his arms wide, and stood with the firelight playing its scarlet fantasia upon his exalted face.

‘No … No!’ screamed Aunt Ada Doom, on a high note that cracked with her agony. ‘I cannot bear it. There have always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort. You mustn’t go … none of you must go … I shall go mad! I saw something nasty in the woodshed … Ah … ah …
ah
…’

She struggled to her feet, supported by Seth and Judith, and struck weakly at Amos with the ‘Milk Producers’ Weekly Bulletin and Cowkeepers’ Guide’ (which was looking a bit the worse for wear by this time). His great body flinched from the blow, but still he stood rigid, his eyes fixed triumphantly upon some far-off, ecstatic vision, the red light wavering and flickering across his face.

‘I mun go …’ he repeated, in a strange, soft voice. ‘This very night I mun go. I hear th’ glad voices o’ angels callin’ me out over th’ ploughed fields wheer th’ liddle seedlings is clappin’ their hands in prayer; and besides, I arranged wi’ Agony Beetle’s brother to pick me up in th’ Lunnon milk-van at half-past three, so I’ve no time to lose. Ay, ’tes goodbye to you all. Mother, I’ve broken yer chain at last, wi’ th’ help o’ th’ angels and the Lord’s word. Wheer’s my hat?’

Reuben silently handed it to his father (he had had it ready for the last ten minutes).

Aunt Ada Doom sat huddled in her chair, breathing feebly and fast, striking impotently at the air with the ‘Milk Producers’ Weekly Bulletin and Cowkeepers’ Guide’. Her eyes, slots of pain in her grey face, were turned on Amos. They blazed with hate, like flaring candles that feel the pressing dark all about them and flare the brighter for their fear.

‘Ay …’ she whispered. ‘Ay … so you go, and leave me in the woodshed. There have always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort … but that means nothing to you. I shall go mad … I shall die here, alone, in the woodshed, with nasty – things’ –
her voice thickened; she wrung her hands distractedly, as though to free them of some obscene spiritual treacle – ‘pressing on me … alone … alone …’

Her voice trailed into the silence. Her head sunk into her breast. Her face was drained of blood: grey, broken.

Amos moved with great, slow steps to the door. No one moved. The hush which froze the room was broken only by the idle rippling dance of the flames. Amos jerked open the door, and there was the vast, indifferent face of the night peering in.

‘Amos!’

It was a screech from her heart-roots. It buried itself in his plexus. But he never turned. He stepped blunderingly out into the dark – and was gone.

Suddenly there was a wild cry from the corner in the shadows by the sink. Urk came stumbling forward, dragging the hired girl, Meriam, in his wake.

(Flora woke up Elfine, who had gone to sleep with her head on her shoulder, and pointed out that some more fun was just beginning. It was only a quarter past three.)

Urk was chalk-white. A trail of blood drooled down his chin. His eyes were pools of pain, in which his bruised thoughts darted and fed like tortured fish. He was laughing insanely, noiselessly. Meriam shrank back from him, livid with fear.

‘Me and the water-voles … we’ve failed,’ he babbled in a low, toneless voice. ‘We’re beaten. We planned a nest for her up there by Ticklepenny’s Well, when the egg-plants was in bloom. And now she’s given herself to him, the dirty stuck-up, lying—’ He choked, and had to fight for breath for a second. ‘When she was an hour old, I made a mark on her feeding bottle, in water-vole’s blood. She were mine, see? Mine! And I’ve lost her … Oh, why did I iver think she were mine?’

He turned upon Meriam, who shrank back in terror.

‘Come here – you. I’ll take you instead. Ay, dirt as you are, I’ll take you, and we’ll sink into th’ mud together. There have always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort, and now there’ll be a Beetle too.’

‘And not the first neither, as you’d know if you’d ever cleaned out the larder,’ said a voice, tartly. It was Mrs Beetle herself,
who, hitherto unobserved by Flora, had been busily cutting bread and butter and replenishing the glasses of the farm-hands in a far corner of the long kitchen. She now came forward into the circle about the fire, and confronted Urk with her arms akimbo.

‘Well …’oo’s talking about dirt? ’Eaven knows, you should know something about it, in that coat and them trousers. Enough ter turn up one of yer precious water-voles, you are. A pity you don’t spend a bit less time with yer old water-voles and a bit more with a soap and flannel.’

Here she received unexpected support from Mark Dolour, who called in a feeling tone from the far end of the kitchen:

‘Ay, that’s right.’

‘Don’t you ’ave ’im, ducky, unless you feel like it,’ advised Mrs Beetle, turning to Meriam. ‘You’re full young yet, and ’e won’t see forty again.’

‘I don’t mind. I’ll ’ave him, if ’un wants me,’ said Meriam, amiably. ‘I can always make ’im wash a bit, if I feels like it.’

Urk gave a wild laugh. His hand fell on her shoulder, and he drew her to him and pressed a savage kiss full on her open mouth. Aunt Ada Doom, choking with rage, struck at them with the ‘Milk Producers’ Weekly Bulletin and Cowkeepers’ Guide’, but the blow missed. She fell back, gasping, exhausted.

‘Come, my beauty – my handful of dirt. I mun carry thee up to Ticklepenny’s and show ’ee to the water-voles.’ Urk’s face was working with passion.

‘What! At this time o’ night?’ cried Mrs Beetle, scandalized.

Urk put one arm round Meriam’s waist and heaved away, but could not budge her from the floor. He cursed aloud, and, kneeling down, placed his arms about her middle, and heaved again. She did not stir. Next he wrapped his arms about her shoulders, and below her knees. She declined upon him, and he, staggering beneath her, sank to the floor. Mrs Beetle made a sound resembling ‘t-t-t-t-t’.

Mark Dolour was heard to mutter that th’ Fireman’s Lift was as good a hold as any he knew.

Now Urk made Meriam stand in the middle of the floor, and with a low, passionful cry, ran at her.

‘Come, my beauty.’

The sheer animal weight of the man bore her up into his clutching arms. Mark Dolour (who dearly loved a bit of sport) held open the door, and Urk and his burden rushed out into the dark and the earthy scents of the young spring night.

A silence fell.

The door remained open, idly swinging in a slow, cold wind which had arisen.

As though frozen, the group within the kitchen waited for the distant crash which should tell them that Urk had fallen down.

Pretty soon it came: and Mark Dolour shut the door.

It was now four o’clock. Elfine had gone to sleep again. So had all the farm-hands except Mark Dolour. The fire had sunk to a red, lascivious bed of coals, that waned, and then, on the other hand, waxed again in the slow wind which blew under the door.