‘Pom, pom! that’s the stuff!’ thought Michael, returning to the light of night: ‘Back to the Land! “Plough the fields and scatter” – when they can get this? Not much!’ And he turned West again, taking a seat on the top of a bus beside a man with grease-stains on his clothes. They travelled in silence till Michael said:
‘What do you make of the political situation, sir?’
The possible plumber replied, without turning his head:
‘I should say they’ve over-reached theirselves.’
‘Ought to have fought on Russia – oughtn’t they?’
‘Russia – that cock won’t fight either. No – ought to ‘ave ‘eld on to the Spring, an’ fought on a good stiff Budget.’
‘Real class issue?’
‘Yus!’
‘But do you think class politics can wipe out unemployment?’
The man’s mouth moved under his moustache as if mumbling a new idea.
‘Ah! I’m fed up with politics; in work to-day and out tomorrow – what’s the good of politics that can’t give you a permanent job?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Reparations,’ said his neighbour; ‘we’re not goin’ to benefit by reparations. The workin’ classes ought to stand together in every country.’ And he looked at Michael to see how he liked that.
‘A good many people thought so before the war; and see what happened.’
‘Ah!’ said the man, ‘and what good’s it done us?’
‘Have you thought of emigrating to the Dominions?’
The man shook his head.
‘Don’t like what I see of the Austrylians and Canydians.’
‘Confirmed Englishman – like myself.’
‘That’s right,’ said the man. ‘So long, Mister,’ and he got off.
Michael travelled till the bus put him down under Big Ben, and it was nearly twelve. Another election! Could he stand a second time without showing his true colours? Not the faintest hope of making Foggartism clear to a rural constituency in three weeks! If he spoke from now till the day of the election, they would merely think he held rather extreme views on Imperial Preference, which, by the way, he did. He could never tell the electorate that he thought England was on the wrong tack – one might just as well not stand. He could never buttonhole the ordinary voter, and say to him: ‘Look here, you know, there’s no earthly hope of any real improvement for another ten years; in the meantime we must face the music, and pay more for everything, so that twenty years hence we may be safe from possible starvation, and self-supporting within the Empire.’ It wasn’t done. Nor could he say to his Committee: ‘My friends, I represent a policy that no one else does, so far.’
No! If he meant to stand again, he must just get the old wheezes off his chest. But did he mean to stand again? Few people had less conceit than Michael – he knew himself for a lightweight. But he had got this bee into his bonnet; the longer he lived the more it buzzed, the more its buzz seemed the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and that wilderness his country. To stop up that buzzing in his ears; to turn his back on old Blythe; to stifle his convictions, and yet remain in Parliament – he could not! It was like the war over again. Once in, you couldn’t get out. And he was ‘in’ – committed to something deeper far than the top dressings of Party politics. Foggartism had a definite solution of England’s troubles to work towards – an independent, balanced Empire; an England safe in the air, and free from unemployment – with Town and Country once more in some sort of due proportion! Was it such a hopeless dream? Apparently!
‘Well,’ thought Michael, putting his latch-key in his door, ‘they may call me what kind of a bee fool they like – I shan’t budge.’ He went up to his dressing-room and, opening the window, leaned out.
The rumourous town still hummed; the sky was faintly coloured by reflection from its million lights. A spire was visible, some stars; the tree foliage in the Square hung flat, unstirred by wind. Peaceful and almost warm – the night. Michael remembered a certain evening – the last London air-raid of the war. From his convalescent hospital he had watched it for three hours.
‘What fools we all are not to drop fighting in the air,’ he thought. ‘Well, if we don’t, I shall go all out for a great air force – all hangs, for us, on safety from air attack. Even the wise can understand that.’
Two men had stopped beneath his window, talking. One was his next-door neighbour.
‘Mark my words,’ said his neighbour, ‘the election’ll see a big turnover.’