Cold Comfort Farm (32 page)

Aunt Ada’s face grew grave. She glanced round the kitchen, and observed with satisfaction that everybody was eating much too hard and talking much too fast to take any notice of anyone else. She put her wrinkled hand over Flora’s cool young one, and drew her towards her, until aunt and niece were both sheltered by the curving brim of Flora’s hat. Then she began to speak in a quick murmur. She spoke for several moments. An observer would not have noted much change in Flora’s attentive face. At last the murmur ceased. Flora lifted her head, and asked:

‘And did the goat die?’

But at this very second Aunt Ada’s attention was distracted by Elfine and Dick, who came up to her accompanied by Adam. Flora’s question went unheard, and she did not care to repeat it in front of the others.

‘Grandmother, Adam wants to come to live at Hautcouture Hall with us, and look after our cows,’ said Elfine. ‘May he? We should so like him to. He knows all about cows, you know.’

‘By all means, my dear,’ said Aunt Ada, graciously. ‘But who will care for Feckless, Graceless, Pointless and Aimless if he deserts them?’

A piercing cry broke from Adam. He flung himself forward. His gnarled hands were knotted in anguish.

‘Nay, niver say that, Mrs Starkadder, ma’am. I’ll take ’en wi’ me, all four on ’en. There’s room for us all at Howchiker Hall.’

‘It sounds like the finale of the first act in a musical comedy,’ observed Aunt Ada. ‘Well, well, you may take them if you want to.’

‘Bless ’ee. Now bless ’ee, Mrs Starkadder, ma’am,’ crooned Adam, and hurried away to tell the cows to make ready for their journey that very afternoon.

‘And did the goat die? And what about my rights?’ asked Flora, a little louder this time. Dash it, the thing must be straightened out.

But it was no use. Mrs Hawk-Monitor chose that identical second to come up to Aunt Ada, murmuring that she was so sorry that Mrs Starkadder was going away at once, and that
none of them would have an opportunity of seeing her during the summer, but that she must come to dinner the very moment she returned from her world-tour, and Aunt Ada said that
she
was so sorry, too, but would be delighted to.

So Flora’s question was not answered.

And it was fated never to be answered. For the next interruption was the high, sinister drone of an aeroplane engine, so near that it could be heard even above the roar of conversation in the kitchen; and the youngest member of the jazz-band (who had gone out into Ezra’s bean rows to be quietly sick from too many crab patties) came rushing in, his sickness forgotten, proclaiming that there was an aeroplane, an aeroplane, falling into Ticklepenny’s Field.

Everybody at once charged out into the garden to look at it, except Mrs Hawk-Monitor, Flora, the bride and bridegroom and Aunt Ada. In face of the bustle of buckling Aunt Ada into her kit, and exchanging embraces and messages and promises to write and to meet at Hautcouture Hall at Christmas, Flora could not put her question a third time. It would have been ill-bred. She must just relinquish her rights – whatever they might be – and be resigned never to know whether the goat died or not.

Everybody streamed out across the fields to see Aunt Ada off. The pilot (a dark, cross-looking young man) was presented, to his obvious repugnance, with a piece of wedding cake. They all stood round the machine laughing and talking, while Agony Beetle dashed somebody else’s glass of champagne over the propeller, and Aunt Ada made her farewells.

Then she climbed into the cockpit and settled herself comfortably. She tucked her chin deeper into her helmet, and looked down with smiling benevolence on the assembled Starkadders. Flora, standing close to the machine, had her shoulder patted, and was thanked again, in a low voice, for the transformation she had achieved in her aunt’s life.

Flora smiled prettily; but could not help feeling a bit disappointed about the goat and the rights.

The propeller began to revolve. The machine trembled.

‘Three cheers for Aunt Ada!’ cried Urk, flinging his voleskin
cap into the air. They were just at the beginning of the third ‘Hurrah!’ when the machine took a run forward and rose from the ground.

It skimmed the hedge, and rose to the level of the elms, and above them. The crowd had a last glimpse of Aunt Ada’s confident face turned over her shoulder to smile. She waved; and, still waving, was carried from their sight into the heavens.

‘Now let’s go back and drink a good deal more,’ suggested Ralph Pent-Hartigan, taking Flora’s hand in a familiar but rather pleasing way. ‘Dick and the
sposa
will be taking off in half an hour, you know. Their ’plane is timed for three-thirty.’

‘Goodness … it’s nothing but people going off in aeroplanes,’ said Flora, rather crossly. ‘I had best go and help Elfine change her dress.’

And so, while all the others flowed back into the kitchen and sank their fangs into what was left of the provender, she slipped upstairs to Elfine’s room, and helped her to put on her blue going-away suit. Elfine was very happy and not at all tearful or nervous.

She embraced Flora warmly, thanked her a thousand times for her goodness, and promised solemnly never to forget all the good advice Flora had given her. The latter placed in her hands a copy of ‘The Higher Common Sense’, suitably inscribed, and they went downstairs together affectionately entwined.

The second aeroplane came down in the Big Field opposite the farm, punctual to the second. (Big Business had been led away by Micah a few moments previously – a suggestion from some of the blither spirits to the effect that he should be left there ‘to see what he makes of the aeroplane’ having been vetoed by Flora.)

The second departure was noisier than the first. The Starkadders were not used to drinking champagne. But they liked it all right. There was a great deal of cheering, and some tears from Susan, Prue, Letty, Phoebe and Jane and Meriam, and some thunderings from Micah warning Dick to be good to his lily-flower.

Flora took advantage of the scrimmage to slip back to the
kitchen and warn Mrs Beetle, who was sombrely beginning to tidy up, not to open any more champagne.

‘Only in case of illness, Miss Poste,’ promised Mrs Beetle.

When Flora got back to the field the aeroplane was just rising from the ground. She smiled up at Elfine’s lovely little face framed by the black flying cap, and Elfine blew her a tender kiss. The roar of the engine swelled to a triumphant thunder. They were gone.

‘Well,
now
will you come back and drink a good deal more?’ asked Ralph Pent-Hartigan, showing an inclination to put his arm round Flora’s waist.

Flora dodged him, with her prettiest smile. She
was
so wishing that everybody would go home. The wedding breakfast seemed to have been going on for ever. Except that this was a cheerful occasion and the other had been a dismal one, it reminded her of the Counting …

(‘Oh,’ she thought, ‘and I shall never know what it was that Aunt Ada saw in the woodshed. How I wish I had asked her about that as well.’)

In the kitchen the party was at last showing signs of breaking up. All the food was eaten. All the drink had gone long ago. The pretty ropes of flowers were fading in the heat. The floor was littered with crumpled paper napkins, cigarette stubs, crushed flowers, champagne corks, spilt water. The air seemed to sink under its burden of tobacco smoke and mingled smells. Only the rose-peonies were unharmed. The heat had made them open to their full extent, so that they showed their hearts of gold. Flora put her nose into one. It smelled sweet and cool.

She endeavoured to compose her spirits. She was conscious that for the last hour they had been agitated and melancholy. What could be the matter with her? She wished only to be alone.

It was with some difficulty that, in saying goodbye to everybody at the door of the kitchen, she maintained an air of cheerfulness. But she was comforted by the fact that everybody seemed to have had a perfectly lovely time. Everyone, especially Mrs Hawk-Monitor, congratulated her upon the organization
of the wedding breakfast and the deliciousness of the food and the elegance of the decorations.

She received invitations to dine with the Hawk-Monitors next week, to visit Mr Mybug and Rennett at the studio (with sink) in which they proposed to live in Fitzroy Square. Urk and Meriam said that they would be honoured if Miss Poste would come to tea at ‘Byewaies’, the villa which Urk had bought out of his savings from the water-vole trade, and into which he and his bride would move next week.

Flora thanked them all smilingly, and promised to go to all of them.

One by one the guests departed, and the Starkadders, sleepy with champagne and the novelty of enjoying themselves in a normal manner, slipped away to their bedrooms to sleep it off. The figure of the last guest, Agony Beetle, disappeared over the curve of the hill on the path that led down to Howling, accompanied by the jazz-band. Quiet, which had been driven from the farm at six o’clock that morning, began timidly to creep out of shadowy corners and to take possession of it once more.

‘Miss Poste. You look done up. Come for a run in the old bouncer?’ said Ralph Pent-Hartigan, who was about to start up his eight-cylinder Volupté which stood in the yard.

Flora came down the two little steps leading from the kitchen door and crossed the yard to the car.

‘I don’t think I’ll come for a run, thanks,’ she said. ‘But it would be very kind of you if you would take me down into the village. I want to telephone.’

He was delighted. He made her get in beside him at once, and soon they were spinning down the hill into Howling. The speed made a wind of grateful coolness that fanned their flushed cheeks.

‘I suppose you wouldn’t care to dine with me in Town tonight? Marvellous evening. We might dance at the New River, if you like?’

‘I would have loved it, but the fact is I’ve just made up my mind to leave the farm tonight. I shall have packing and things to do. I’m so sorry. Some other time it would be delightful.’

‘Well … but … look here, couldn’t I run you back?’

The car had stopped outside the post office. Flora got out.

‘Again, I’m so sorry,’ she said, smiling into his disappointed young face, ‘but I think my cousin is going to fetch me. I’m just going to see if he is at home. We made the arrangement months ago.’

Fortunately there was only a delay of a few minutes to the Hertfordshire exchange. Flora, waiting in the stuffy telephone box, was not in the mood to be sensible about delays. She had not even started to fume when the bell rang, sounding deafening in that narrow space.

She took off the receiver, and listened.

‘Hullo,’ said Charles’s quiet, deep voice, seventy miles away. It was made tiny by distance, but not less musical.

She gave a little gasp.

‘Oh … hullo, Charles. Is that you? This is Flora. Look here, are you doing anything tonight?’

‘Not if you want me.’

‘Well … could you be an absolute angel, and come and fetch me away from the farm tonight in Speed Cop the Second? We’ve had a wedding here today, and I’ve tidied everything up. I mean, there’s nothing left for me to do here. And I really am rather tired. I would like to be fetched … if you could …’

‘
I ’m coming
,’ said the deep voice. ‘What time may I be there? Is there a big field near the house?’

‘Oh, yes, just outside. Can you be here by eight, do you think? It’s nearly five o’clock now.’

‘Of course. I’ll be there at eight.’

There was a pause.

‘Charles,’ said Flora.

‘Yes?’

‘Charles … I mean, it isn’t putting you out or anything?’

Smiling, she hung up the receiver to the tiny distant sound of Charles’s laughter.

Young Pent-Hartigan drove her back to the farm. She said goodbye to him and promised to dine with him very soon. Then he drove off; and with the retreating noise of his engine the last invader of the farm’s quietude was gone. Quiet flowed back into the sunny empty rooms like the returning sea. The only sounds were the tiny ones of a summer’s day that is drawing towards evening.

Flora went upstairs and changed from her party dress into a tweed suit in which she could fly without feeling cold. She brushed her hair and cooled her hands and forehead with eau-de-Cologne. Then she packed, and labelled her trunk for 1, Mouse Place. It would be sent off tomorrow. She took with her only the Pensées, ‘The Higher Common Sense’ and what Chaucer has summed up for all time as ‘a bag of needments’.

It was six o’clock when she came slowly downstairs again. The kitchen was tidy and empty. All signs of the feast had been cleared away. Only the awning was left, its stripes of red and white glowing against the deep blue sky of early evening. The shadows of the bean rows were long across the garden, and their flowers were transparent red in the sunlight. All was cool, quiet, blessedly peaceful. Flora’s supper was neatly laid and of the Starkadders there was not a sign. She supposed that they must all be asleep upstairs or else gone a-mollocking off to Godmere. She hoped they would not come downstairs before she left. She loved them all dearly, but this evening she just did not want to see them any more.

She sat down, with a sigh, in a comfortable deep chair, and relaxed all her limbs. She would sit here, she thought, until
half-past six; then she would eat her supper; and then go out into the Big Field and sit on the stile under the may-tree and wait for Charles.

Her dreamy musings were interrupted by the distant soft janglings of bells. She recognized the sound: it was made by the bells that (copying a heathen foreign fashion he had once seen demonstrated on the talkies) Adam had hung round the necks of Graceless, Pointless, Feckless and Aimless.

Even as she listened a procession came into sight. It wound across the rising path which she could see, silhouetted against the blue sky and held as if in a frame by the open door, from where she sat.

It was Adam and the cows, on their way to Hautcouture Farm.

Adam went first, wearing his ancient hat and his age-green corduroys. The liddle mop was slung round his neck. His head was lifted to the sinking sun, whose strong rays turned him to gold. He was singing the bawdy song he had learned for the wedding of George I.