The Autumn of Their Lives

'Would you please pass the muttered buffins' Lady Betty of Northwood requested.

The ladies were taking tea in the front porch of St. Lukes farm while their menfolk played croquet.

'I think,' the Duchess of Dulwich corrected her politely, 'You mean buttered muffins.'

Lady Betty looked crestfallen: 'Isn't that what I said?'

With her customary tact, the Hon. Polly Conn intervened, handing Lady Betty the plate and saying: 'As a matter of fact, they're buttered scones.'

She had intended to call a halt to the annual get-together that year. But like migrating swallows the members of the group had set course for the farm as usual, blithely assuming that they would be as welcome as the blackberries on the hedgerows. They had settled into their accustomed rooms and routine. During lunch, however, Lord Auditor Joe pointed out amiably that since he had recently led a rambling group on a winding tour of the farm lands he now held Ancient Ramblers Rights to 'All squashy dells and braes and cow-patted dry lands within the compass of St. Lukes farm.' The Hon. Polly had laughed, but felt vaguely uneasy, because if his claim was true millions of ramblers could eventually lay siege to the farm. Farmer Jack's irate response would be to declare an open season for shooting ramblers.

'Would you pass the scuttered bones,' Lady Betty requested in a plaintive tone.

'Buttered scones,' the Duchess corrected her, a little more impatiently this time.

Lady Betty's weakness for Spoonerisms was among the least embarrassing of the changes of behaviour which had occurred in the aging group. More irritating, for example, was Irish Jack's tiresome insistence on reading aloud one of his long-winded stories. Out of kindness Rabbi Miriam tried to change the subject. When a Labour government had recently abolished the House of Lords by the simple expedient of granting every citizen a title of his or her own choosing, she had shrewdly decided that the r prefix 'Rabbi' would carry more clout and might even one day earn her an appearance on TV..

She said: 'That reminds me, Julia Neuberger' panel on TV. last night were discussing whether cannibalism should be made lawful.'

'How disgusting!' exclaimed Dame Pat Franco.

'If they made it legal we could eat Neubergers instead of hamburgers,' Rabbi Miriam quipped, with a chuckle.

'Why such a peculiar subject?' Dame Pat enquired.

'It all started with a report in The Sun newspaper that some enterprizing manufacturer was about to introduce human-flavoured potato crisps'

'How would anybody know what human beings taste like?' Dame Pat enquired.

'We taste like pork,' the Duchess of Dulwich said flatly.

'They shouldn't eat people; we're are definitely not kosher,' Rabbi Miriam said, giving a shudder of revulsion.

'It's a sign of the time,' the Duchess said, gloomily. 'Human-flavoured crisps first – it'll be people next.'

If that seems weird, even stranger things were happening on the croquet lawn. Farmer Jack, bent down to pluck an errant weed, and unable to straighten up, rolled helplessly into the flower bed.

Auditor Joe who had written The Definitive Work on Croquet called a Hundred and One ways to Cheat at Croquet Without Being Called to Account, immediately declared him out of bounds and under Rule 31. dropped Jack's ball behind a convenient boulder. This might have caused an altercation lasting several hours, but Baron, the Right Hon. Dr. Rackow, helping Farmer Jack out of his foetal position, tactfully suggested an interval for tea.

This was just as well, because they had been playing for at least ten minutes and were thoroughly exhausted. All the players suffered to some degree from lack of concentration. Irish Jack 'Fore!' every time he hit the ball; much worse, he seemed incapable of remembering which end of the mallet to use. Baron Franco of Shirley wasn't in much better shape. But he had a valid excuse for his inability to concentrate. He had recently gone liquid, in the belief that the bull market had run its course. He had also gone liquid, having invented a powder which, added to water, turned it immediately into seventy-per cent proof whiskey. Exploiting his invention, however, involved considerable difficulties, which were currently distracting his attention. Absorbed in his thoughts, he had several times tripped over the croquet hoops, so that to the casual onlooker it might almost have looked as if he had been trying out his own invention.

As they made their way to join the ladies, the Rt. Hon. Doctor Rackow, unable to throw off the ingrained habit of a lifetime, reflected on his friends' infirmities. On the whole they weren't in bad shape, he told himself– although pear-shaped with spindly legs would well describe them. But though doddery and forgetful. their basic instinct for survival made up for their shortcomings to a quite remarkable degree. They avoided stress and took regular exercise. Their main weakness was a certain mellow fogginess of mind, not uncommon among people in the autumn of their lives. Irish Jack, for example,, saw no inconsistency in issuing a request to Farmer Jack to bring on the dancing girls. Betty's spoonerism syndrome was fairly harmles – as long as she didn't ask someone to "prick that boil." Jean's twinges had definitely improved in the dry Dorset air and she had curbed her appetite for antiques, having rationed herself to three thousand pieces during the past month. Bert's general health had improved since returning to his laboratory, but not his temper, because a raging bull market had developed the day after he had gone liquid. Irish Jack's literary mania had subsided somewhat as the result of the rejection of his sixty-fourth novel.

Farmer Jack, though, seemed troubled. He had just announced that he had in mind a new and awe-inspiring engineering project. He couldn't remember at that moment precisely what it was, but he knew it was supremely important for the future of mankind and might even, with luck, make him a bob or two.

Dame Pat Franco's fortunes had improved recently. As a direct result of her devotion to painting pets all her human portraits had begun to resemble animals. But this weakness of old age had, in fact, turned out to be a major strength. She had painted a picture, entitled Her Royal Horsiness, which had created a sensation in the art world. It had reversed the normal order of things and depicted a miniature horse riding the Queen side saddle. This had started an entirely new school of painting – the so-called Animalistic School. She had been elected R.A. and if she were not one already, would undoubtedly have earned her a Damehood.

As for himself, Frank Rackow regretted that he had had to cut down the number of courses he consumed at gourmet meals from twelve to ten. However he still hoped by dint of taking more exercise to recapture his old trencherman form.

'You're just in time for dam joenuts,' Lady Betty announced, as the croquet players, sweating from their exertions, settled themselves around the tea table.

'That's funny,' Auditor Joe commented, but he was cut short by a warning glance from his wife. You were supposed to ignore these little symptoms of aging in other people, in case you own eccentricities became highlighed. A recent incident at a restaurant, when he had conducted Mahler's Fourth with knife and fork, had seemed harmless enough, until he began using the bald heads of fellow diners as kettle drums.. To distract attention from the breach of etiquette he had just arrowly avoided, he pointed to the corrugated iron roof just visible through the screen of conifers.

'What is that building used for?' he enquired.

'It's just a store house,' replied Farmer Jack.

'I bet there's an EEC gin mountain hidden in there,' someone said, jocularly.

'It's hardly big enough.' Dr. Rackow objected.

'An EEC mole hill, then?' Irish Jack suggested.

'Anything to do with this revolutionary engineering project of yours?' Baron Franco enquired, shrewdly

Farmer Jack refused to be drawn any more on the subject.

However, his guests's curiosity had been aroused and later they insisted that he allow them to inspect the inside of the shed. What they saw was indeed a mountain – a small, untidy mountain of ancient, rusty machinery joined together by coils of wire. Sitting on top of it was an orange bucket seat, above which there dangled two electrodes attached to an electric light point.

'What on earth is it?' Irish Jack enquired.

'Just something I made from some old milking machinery and the remains of a tractor,' Farmer Jack said, uneasily.

'Yes, but what does it do?'' Irish Jack persisted.

'It milk cows, of course,' Farmer Jack said and showed him a celluloid mechanical teat.

'But you only have bulls and heifers at the moment,' Auditor Joe pointed out ... 'Ah, I get it– you've built it so that you can claim it as a write-down expense for your tax returns''

Farmer Jack shook his head.

Dr. Rackow examined the hybrid collection of cogs and wheels and remarked sagely that it reminded him of an electric shocking machine he had seen in his youth.

'It's a shocker alright,''Farmer Jack muttered under his breath.

Baron Franco said sympathetically: 'Look, old chap. I know what it's like with inventions. You think you've got something that's going to make your fortune and all you get is snags and headaches''

Farmer Jack took a deep breath and said: 'O.K. You tell me what's wrong with your invention and I'll tell you what's wrong with mine.'

'Mine's easy,' said Baron Franco, with a hollow laugh. 'If I turn my patent whiskey powder on the market everyone will be permanently pissed. It'll be banned by the government. I'm thinking of turning it into a nail polish remover- or even a shoe polish remover.'

'Not so very different from my problem,''Farmer Jack commented reflectively.

'Why should a milking machine cause problems?' Auditor Joe enquired, with a mystified look.

'Because,' Farmer Jack said reluctantly, ''t doesn't milk milk; it milks Time.'

'You mean it marks time,' Auditor Joe ventured.

'No – emphatically, NO,' Farmer Jack bellowed like one of his own bulls. 'It is, in fact, a Time machine.'

'Are you sure it works?' Irish Jack enquired.

'Yes, but I haven't dared try it out on myself. There's always the problem of getting back to where you started from. But it works like a dream. When I'd finished building what I originally intended to be a milking machine, I borrowed one of my neighbour's cows and connected it up. Then I was called away. Ten minutes later, when I returned, instead of a fat cow there was a pint-sized calf standing there, wired up to the machine. The cow had travelled backwards in time about two years. Of course, from the business point of view the experiment was useless. All that fattening time wasted.. But then I realised that if I could do it in reverse, I'd make my fortune. So,' he pointed to a dial with a pointer 'I had the idea of changing the direction of the electrical charge and turning a calf into a mature cow in ten minutes. Just think of how many millions of tones of silage that would save! It would start a new agricultural revolution.'

'What happened?' Auditor Joe enquired, in an awed voice.

'I changed the direction of the charge and then had to answer a telephone call. When I got back ten minutes later there was nothing but a bucket of milk and some burn marks on the straw. Obviously the calf had grown back into a cow – it was, incidentally, an expensive Hereford- and escaped into the future. That is the endemic problem with Time Machines. If you're out in your calculations by a millisecond here or a millisecond there, you're gone. That's why I haven't dared try it out on myself. Incidentally, would anyone here like to have a go?'

Nobody volunteered. Impressed by the mind-boggling prospect of Time Travel becoming a reality here at St. Luke's farm, the home of the Dorset Ding-Dong, they turned away to go.

'Just a moment,'

They all stopped. Irish Jack had lingered behind.

He said: 'This new-fangled machine would it allow me to look into the future?'

'Of course. But you'' be well advised to carry a lot of life insurance', Farmer Jack said with a cynical laugh. 'There's always a possibility of finding yourself stranded in time, like the cow. Incidentally, it cost me a lot of money to compensate my neighbour. I suppose his cow is wandering around up there somewhere.' He vaguely indicated the moon which hung faintly in the sky.

Irish Jack braced himself for what was obviously the most important decision he had made in his life.

'I'm going to try it,' he said with a determined expression.'

'But why?' they all asked, in chorus.

'Because it represents the only chance I shall ever have of finding out if I I'm going to be published.

With considerable misgivings, Farmer Jack attached the teat to Irish Jack's left nipple and instructed him to climb up and sit on the orange bucket seat. Then standing well back, he threw a massive lever on the wall. There was a deafening explosion and Irish Jack disappeared, in a swirl of black smoke. When it had subsided, the unpublished writer was nowhere to be seen. A few pages of white paper fluttered forlornly down out of the darkness. A fitting memorial to the permanently-blocked writer.

However, he turned up the following year at a farm fete, but only because he had heard that the drinks were all free. When this turned out to be not the case, he described his experience as a fate worse than death. He would never talk about his time travelling year, but judging by the smile on his face when it is mentioned, it could not have been too painful.