The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(104)

DEAR MONT, – I start tomorrow to try and cross Arabia. I thought you might like a line in case Arabia crosses me. I have recovered my senses. The air here is too clear for sentiment of any kind; and passion in exile soon becomes sickly. I am sorry I made you so much disturbance. It was a mistake for me to go back to England after the war, and hang about writing drivel for smart young women and inky folk to read. Poor old England – she’s in for a bad time. Give her my love; the same to yourselves.

Yours ever,

WILFRID DESERT

P.S. – If you’ve published the things I left behind, send any royalties to me care of my governor. – W.D.

Half Michael’s brain thought: ‘Well, that’s that! And the book coming out today!’ Queer! Was Wilfrid right – was it all a blooming gaff – the inky stream? Was one just helping on England’s sickness? Ought they all to get on camels and ride the sun down? And yet, in books were comfort and diversion; and they were wanted! England had to go on – go on! ‘No retreat, no retreat, they must conquer or the who have no retreat!…’ God! There it was again! Back he flew upstairs, with his ears covered and his eyes wild. The sounds ceased; Annette came out to him.

‘Her father, mon cher; try to find her father!’

‘I have – I can’t,’ gasped Michael.

‘Try Green Street – Mrs Dartie. Courage! All is normal – it will be quite soon, now.’

When he had rung up Green Street and been answered at last, he sat with the door of his study open, waiting for ‘Old Forsyte’ to come. Half his sight remarked a round hole burnt in his trouser leg – he hadn’t even noticed the smell; hadn’t even realized that he had been smoking. He must pull himself together for the ‘old man’. He heard the bell ring, and ran down to open.

‘Well?’ said Soames.

‘Not yet, sir. Come up to my study. It’s nearer.’

They went up side by side. That trim grey head, with the deep furrow between the eyes, and those eyes staring as if at pain behind them, steadied Michael. Poor old chap! He was ‘for it’, too! They were both on ‘their uppers’!

‘Have a peg, sir? I’ve got brandy here.’

‘Yes,’ said Soames. ‘Anything.’

With the brandies in their hands, half-raised, they listened – jerked their hands up, drank. They were automatic, like two doll figures worked by the same string.

‘Cigarette, sir?’ said Michael.

Soames nodded.

With the lighted cigarettes just not in their mouths, they listened, put them in, took them out, puffed smoke. Michael had his right arm across his chest. Soames his left. They formed a pattern, thus, side by side.

‘Bad to stick, sir. Sorry!’

Soames nodded. His teeth were clenched. Suddenly his hand relaxed.

‘Listen!’ he said. Sounds – different – confused!

Michael’s hand seized something, gripped it hard; it was cold, thin – the hand of Soames. They sat thus, hand in hand, staring at the doorway, for how long neither knew.

Suddenly that doorway darkened; a figure in grey stood there – Annette!

‘It is all r-right! A son!’





Chapter Fifteen



CALM



ON waking from deep sleep next morning, Michael’s first thought was: ‘Fleur is back!’ He then remembered.

To his: ‘O.K.?’ whispered at her door, he received an emphatic nod from the nurse.

In the midst of excited expectation he retained enough modernity to think: ‘No more blurb! Go and eat your breakfast quietly!’

In the dining-room Soames was despising the broken egg before him. He looked up as Michael entered, and buried his face in his cup. Michael understood perfectly; they had sat hand in hand! He saw, too, that the journal opened by his plate was of a financial nature.

‘Anything about the meeting, sir? Your speech must read like one o’clock!’

With a queer little sound Soames held out the paper. The headlines ran: ‘Stormy meeting – resignation of two directors – a vote of confidence.’ Michael skimmed down till he came to:

‘Mr Forsyte, the director involved, in a speech of some length, said he had no intention of singing small. He deprecated the behaviour of the shareholders; he had not been accustomed to meet with suspicions. He tendered his resignation.’

Michael dropped the sheet.

‘By Jove!’ he said – ‘“Involved – suspicions”. They’ve given it a turn, as though –!’

‘The papers!’ said Soames, and resumed his egg.

Michael sat down, and stripped the skin off a banana. ‘“Nothing became him like his death”,’ he thought: ‘Poor old boy!’