第2章

Nevertheless, Flora wrote her letters the next morning. Mrs Smiling did not help her, because she had gone down into the slums of Mayfair on the track of a new kind of brassiиre which she had noticed in a Jew-shop while driving past in her car. Besides, she disapproved so heartily of Flora’s plan that she would have scorned to assist in the concoction of a single oily sentence.

‘I think it’s degrading of you, Flora,’ cried Mrs Smiling at breakfast. ‘Do you truly mean that you don’t ever want to work at anything?’

Her friend replied after some thought:

‘Well, when I am fifty-three or so I would like to write a novel as good as “Persuasion”, but with a modern setting, of course. For the next thirty years or so I shall be collecting material for it. If anyone asks me what I work at, I shall say, “Collecting material.” No one can object to that. Besides, so I shall be.’

Mrs Smiling drank some coffee in silent disapproval.

‘If you ask me,’ continued Flora, ‘I think I have much in common with Miss Austen. She liked everything to be tidy and pleasant and comfortable about her, and so do I. You see, Mary’ – and here Flora began to grow earnest and to wave one finger about – ‘unless everything is tidy and pleasant and comfortable all about one, people cannot even begin to enjoy life. I cannot endure messes.’

‘Oh, neither can I,’ cried Mrs Smiling, with fervour. ‘If there is one thing I do detest it is a mess. And I do think you are going to be messy, if you go and live with a lot of obscure relations.’

‘Well, my mind is made up, so there is no purpose in arguing,’ said Flora. ‘After all, if I find I cannot abide Scotland or South Kensington or Sussex, I can always come back to London and gracefully give in, and learn to work, as you suggest. But I am not anxious to do that, because I am sure it would be more amusing to go and stay with some of these dire relatives. Besides, there is sure to be a lot of material I can collect for my novel; and perhaps one or two of the relations will have messes or miseries in their domestic circle which I can clear up.’

‘You have the most revolting Florence Nightingale complex,’ said Mrs Smiling.

‘It is not that at all, and well you know it. On the whole, I dislike my fellow-beings; I find them so difficult to understand. But I have a tidy mind, and untidy lives irritate me. Also, they are uncivilized.’

The introduction of this word closed, as usual, their argument, for the friends were united in their dislike of what they termed ‘uncivilized behaviour’: a vague phrase, which was nevertheless defined in their two minds with great precision, to their mutual satisfaction.

Mrs Smiling then went away, her face lit by that remote expression which characterizes the collector when upon the trail of a specimen; and Flora began on her letters.

The oleaginous sentences flowed easily from her pen during the next hour, for she had a great gift of the gab, and took a pride in varying the style in which each letter was written to suit the nature of its recipient.

That addressed to the aunt at Worthing was offensively jolly, yet tempered by a certain inarticulate Public School grief for her bereavement. The one to the bachelor uncle in Scotland was sweetly girlish, and just a wee bit arch; it hinted that she was only a poor little orphan. She wrote to the cousin in South Kensington a distant, dignified epistle, grieved yet business-like.

It was while she was pondering over the best style in which to address the unknown and distant relatives in Sussex that she was struck by the singularity of their address:

Mrs Judith Starkadder,

Cold Comfort Farm,

Howling, SUSSEX.

But she reminded herself that Sussex, when all was said and done, was not quite like other counties, and that when one observed that these people lived on a farm in Sussex, the address was no longer remarkable. For things seemed to go wrong in the country more easily and more frequently, somehow, than they did in Town, and such a tendency must naturally reflect itself in local nomenclature.

Yet she could not decide in what way to address them, so she ended (for by now it was nearly one o’clock and she was somewhat exhausted) by sending a straightforward letter explaining her position, and requesting an early reply as her plans were so unsettled, and she was anxious to know what would happen to her.

Mrs Smiling returned to Mouse Place at a quarter after the hour, and found her friend sitting back in an armchair with her eyes shut and the four letters, ready for the post, lying in her lap. She looked rather green.

‘Flora! What is the matter? Do you feel sick? Is it your tummy again?’ cried Mrs Smiling, in alarm.

‘No. That is, not physically sick. Only rather nauseated by the way I have achieved these letters. Really, Mary’ – she sat upright, revived by her own words – ‘it is rather frightening to be able to write so revoltingly, yet so successfully. All these letters are works of art, except, perhaps, the last. They are positively oily.’

‘This afternoon,’ observed Mrs Smiling, leading the way to lunch, ‘I think we will go to a flick. Give Sneller those; he will post them for you.’

‘No … I think I will post them myself,’ said Flora, jealously. ‘Did you get the brassiиre, darling?’

A shadow fell upon Mrs Smiling’s face.

‘No. It was no use to me. It was just a variation on the “Venus” design made by Waber Brothers in 1938; it had three elastic sections in front, instead of two, as I hoped, and I have it already in my collection. I only saw it from the car as I drove past, you know; I was misled by the way it was folded as it hung in the window. The third section was folded back, so that it looked as though there were only two.’

‘And would that have made it more rare?’

‘But, naturally, Flora. Two-section brassiиres are extremely rare. I intended to buy it – but, of course, it was useless.’

‘Never mind, my dove. Look – nice hock. Drink it up and you’ll feel more cheerful.’

That afternoon, before they went to the Rhodopis, the great cinema in Westminster, Flora posted her letters.

When the morning of the second day brought no reply to any of the letters, Mrs Smiling expressed the hope that none of the relatives were going to answer. She said:

‘And I only pray that if any of them do answer, it won’t be those people in Sussex. I think the names are awful: too ageing and putting-off.’

Flora agreed that the names were certainly not propitious.

‘I think if I find that I have any third cousins living at Cold Comfort Farm (young ones, you know, children of Cousin Judith) who are named Seth, or Reuben, I shall decide not to go.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, because highly-sexed young men living on farms are always called Seth or Reuben, and it would be such a nuisance. And my cousin’s name, remember, is Judith. That in itself is most ominous. Her husband is almost certain to be called Amos; and if he is, it will be a typical farm, and you know what they are like.’

Mrs Smiling said sombrely:

‘I hope there will be a bathroom.’

‘Nonsense, Mary!’ cried Flora, paling. ‘Of course there will be a bathroom. Even in Sussex – it would be too much …’

‘Well, we shall see,’ said her friend. ‘And mind you wire me (if you do hear from them and do decide to go there) if either of your cousins is called Seth or Reuben, or if you want any extra boots or anything. There are sure to be masses of mud.’

Flora said that she would.

*

Mrs Smiling’s hopes were dashed. On the third morning, which was a Friday, four letters came to Mouse Place for Flora, including one in the cheapest kind of yellow envelope addressed in so barbed and illiterate a hand that the postman had some difficulty in deciphering it. The envelope was also dirty. The postmark was ‘Howling’.

‘There you are, you see!’ said Mrs Smiling, when Flora showed her this treasure at breakfast. ‘How revolting!’

‘Well, wait now while I read the others and we will save this one till the last. Do be quiet. I want to see what Aunt Gwen has to say.’

Aunt Gwen, after sympathizing with Flora in her sorrow, and reminding her that we must keep a stiff upper lip and play the game (‘Always these games!’ muttered Flora), said that she would be delighted to have her niece. Flora would be coming into a real ‘homey’ atmosphere, with plenty of fun. She would not mind giving a hand with the dogs sometimes? The air of Worthing was bracing, and there were some jolly young people living next door. ‘Rosedale’ was always full of people, and Flora would never have time to be lonely. Peggy, who was so keen on her Guiding, would love to share her bedroom with Flora.

Shuddering slightly, Flora passed the letter to Mrs Smiling; but that upright woman failed her by saying stoutly, after reading it, ‘Well, I think it’s a very kind letter. You couldn’t ask for anything kinder. After all, you didn’t think any of these people would offer you the kind of home you want to live in, did you?’

‘I cannot share a bedroom,’ said Flora, ‘so that disposes of Aunt Gwen. This one is from Mr McKnag, Father’s cousin in Perthshire.’

Mr McKnag had been shocked by Flora’s letter: so shocked that his old trouble had returned, and he had been in bed with it for the last two days. This explained, and he trusted that it excused, his delay in replying to her suggestion. He would, of course, be delighted to shelter Flora under his roof for as long as she cared to fold the white wings of her girlhood there (‘The old lamb!’ crowed Flora and Mrs Smiling), but he feared it would be a little dull for Flora, with no company save that of himself – and he was often in bed with his old trouble – his man, Hoots, and the housekeeper, who was elderly and somewhat deaf. The house was seven miles from the nearest village; that, also, might be a disadvantage. On the other hand, if Flora was fond of birds, there was some most interesting bird-life to be observed in the marshes which surrounded the house on three sides. He must end his letter now, he feared, as he felt his old trouble coming on again, and he was hers affectionately.

Flora and Mrs Smiling looked at one another, and shook their heads.

‘There you are, you see,’ said Mrs Smiling, once more. ‘They are all quite hopeless. You had much better stay here with me and learn how to work.’

But Flora was reading the third letter. Her mother’s cousin in South Kensington said that she would be very pleased to have Flora, only there was a little difficulty about the bedroom. Perhaps Flora would not mind using the large attic, which was now used as a meeting-room for the Orient-Star-in-the-West Society on Tuesdays, and for the Spiritist Investigators’ League on Fridays. She hoped that Flora was not a sceptic, for manifestations sometimes occurred in the attic, and even a trace of scepticism in the atmosphere of the room spoiled the conditions, and prevented phenomena, the observations of which provided the Society with such valuable evidence in favour of Survival. Would Flora mind if the parrot kept his corner of the attic? He had grown up in it, and at his age the shock of removal to another room might well prove fatal.

‘Again, you see, it means sharing a bedroom,’ said Flora. ‘I do not object to the phenomena, but I do object to the parrot.’

‘Do open the Howling one,’ begged Mrs Smiling, coming round to Flora’s side of the table.

The last letter was written upon cheap lined paper, in a bold but illiterate hand:

‘DEAR NIECE,

‘So you are after your rights at last. Well, I have expected to hear from Robert Poste’s child these last twenty years.

‘Child, my man once did your father a great wrong. If you will come to us I will do my best to atone, but you must never ask me what for. My lips are sealed.

‘We are not like other folk, maybe, but there have always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort, and we will do our best to welcome Robert Poste’s child.

‘Child, child, if you come to this doomed house, what is to save you? Perhaps you may be able to help us when our hour comes.

‘Yr. affec. Aunt,

‘J. STARKADDER’

Flora and Mrs Smiling were much excited by this unusual epistle. They agreed that at least it had the negative merit of keeping silence upon the subject of sleeping arrangements.

‘And there is nothing about spying on birds in marshes or anything of that kind,’ said Mrs Smiling. ‘Oh, I do wonder what it was her man did to your father. Did you ever hear him say anything about a Mr Starkadder?’

‘Never. The Starkadders are only connected with us by marriage. This Judith is a daughter of Mother’s eldest sister, Ada Doom. So, you see, Judith is really my cousin, not my aunt. (I suppose she got muddled, and I’m sure I’m not surprised. The conditions under which she seems to live are probably conducive to muddle.) Well, Aunt Ada Doom was always rather a misery, and Mother couldn’t abide her because she really loved the country and wore artistic hats. She ended by marrying a Sussex farmer. I suppose his name was Starkadder. Perhaps the farm belongs to Judith now, and her man was carried off in a tribal raid from a neighbouring village, and he had to take her name. Or perhaps she married a Starkadder. I wonder what has happened to Aunt Ada? She would be quite old now; she was fifteen years or so older than Mother.’

‘Did you ever meet her?’

‘No, I am happy to say. I have never met any of them. I found their address in a list in Mother’s diary; she used to send them cards every Christmas.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Smiling, ‘it sounds an appalling place, but in a different way from all the others. I mean, it does sound interesting and appalling, while the others just sound appalling. If you have really made up your mind to go, and if you will not stay here with me, I think you had best go to Sussex. You will soon grow tired of it, anyhow, and then, when you have tried it out and seen what it is really like to live with relatives, you will be all ready to come sensibly back here and learn how to work.’

Flora thought it wiser to ignore the last part of this speech.

‘Yes, I think I will go to Sussex, Mary. I am anxious to see what Cousin Judith means by “rights”. Oh, do you think she means some money? Or perhaps a little house? I should like that even better. Anyway, I shall find out when I get there. And when do you think I had better go? Today is Friday. Suppose I go down on Tuesday, after lunch?’

‘Well, surely you needn’t go quite so soon. After all, there is no hurry. Probably you will not be there for longer than three days, so what does it matter when you go? You’re all eager about it, aren’t you?’

‘I want my rights,’ said Flora. ‘Probably they are something too useless, like a lot of used-up mortgages; but if they are mine I am going to have them. Now you go away, Mary, because I am going to write to all these good souls and that will take time.’

Flora had never been able to understand how railway timetables worked, and she was too conceited to ask Mrs Smiling or Sneller about trains to Howling. So in her letter she asked her cousin Judith if she would just mention a few trains to Howling, and what time they got in, and who would meet her, and how.

It was true that in novels dealing with agricultural life no one ever did anything so courteous as to meet a train, unless it was with the object of cutting-in under the noses of the other members of the family with some sordid or passionate end in view; but that was no reason why the Starkadders, at least, should not begin to form civilized habits. So she wrote firmly: ‘Do let me know what trains there are to Howling, and which ones you will meet’, and sealed her letter with a feeling of satisfaction. Sneller posted it in time for the country collection that evening.

*

Mrs Smiling and Flora passed their time pleasantly during the next two days.

In the morning they went ice-skating at the River Park Ice Club with Charles and Bikki and another of the Pioneers-O whose nickname was Swooth and who came from Tanganyika. Though he and Bikki were extremely jealous of one another, and in consequence suffered horrid torments, Mrs Smiling had them both so well in hand that they did not dare to look miserable but listened seriously while she told them, each in his turn, as they glided round the rink holding her hands, how distressed she was about yet a third of the Pioneers-O named Goofi, who was on his way to China and from whom she had not heard for ten days.

‘I’m afraid the poor child may be worrying,’ Mrs Smiling would say, vaguely, which was her way of indicating that Goofi had probably committed suicide, out of the depths of unrequited passion. And Bikki or Swooth, knowing from their own experience that this was indeed probably the case, would respond cheerfully, ‘Oh, I shouldn’t fret, if I were you, Mary’, and feel happier at the thought of Goofi’s sufferings.

In the afternoons the five went flying or to the Zoo or to hear music; and in the evenings they went to parties; that is, Mrs Smiling and the two Pioneers-O went to parties, where yet more young men fell in love with Mrs Smiling, and Flora who, as we know, loathed parties, dined quietly with intelligent men: a way of passing the evening which she adored, because then she could show-off a lot and talk about herself.

No letter had come by Monday evening at tea-time; and Flora thought that her departure would probably have to be postponed until Wednesday. But the last post brought her a limp postcard; and she was reading it at half-past ten on her return from one of the showing-off dinners when Mrs Smiling came in, having wearied of a nasty party she had been attending.

‘Does it give the times of the trains, my dove?’ asked Mrs Smiling. ‘It is dirty, isn’t it? I can’t help rather wishing it were possible for the Starkadders to send a clean letter.’

‘It says nothing about trains,’ replied Flora, with reserve. ‘So far as I can make out, it appears to be some verses, with which I must confess I am not familiar, from the Old Testament. There is also a repetition of the assurance that there have always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort, though why it should be necessary to impress this upon me I am at a loss to imagine.’

‘Oh, do not say it is signed Seth or Reuben,’ cried Mrs Smiling, fearfully.

‘It is not signed at all. I gather that it is from some member of the family who does not welcome the prospect of my visit. I can distinguish a reference, among other things, to vipers. I must say that I think it would have been more to the point to give a list of the trains; but I suppose it is a little illogical to expect such attention to petty details from a doomed family living in Sussex. Well, Mary, I shall go down tomorrow, after lunch, as I planned. I will wire them in the morning to say I am coming.’

‘Shall you fly?’

‘No. There is no landing-stage nearer than Brighton. Besides, I must save money. You and Sneller can work out a route for me; you will enjoy fussing over that.’

‘Of course, darling,’ said Mrs Smiling, who was by now beginning to feel a little unhappy at the prospect of losing her friend. ‘But I wish you would not go.’

Flora put the postcard in the fire; her determination remained unmoved.

The next morning Mrs Smiling looked up trains to Howling, while Flora superintended the packing of her trunks by Riante, Mrs Smiling’s maid.

Even Mrs Smiling could not find much comfort in the timetable. It seemed to her even more confused than usual. Indeed, since the aerial routes and the well-organized road routes