The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(137)
And, among his artichokes, approving of those who did not tell tales, disapproving of anyone who wanted them told, Soames resolved grimly that told they must be. The leaf-fire smouldered, and the artichokes smelled rank, the sun went down behind the high brick wall mellowed by fifty years of weather; all was peaceful and chilly, except in his heart. Often now, morning or evening, he would walk among his vegetables – they were real and restful, and you could eat them. They had better flavour than the greengrocer’s and saved his bill – middle-men’s profiteering and all that. Perhaps they represented atavistic instincts in this great grandson of ‘Superior Dosset’s’ father, last of a long line of Forsyte ‘agriculturists’. He set more and more store by vegetables the older he grew. When Fleur was a little bit of a thing, he would find her when he came back from the City, seated among the sunflowers or blackcurrants, nursing her doll. He had once taken a bee out of her hair, and the little brute had stung him. Best years he ever had, before she grew up and took to this gadabout Society business, associating with women who went behind her back. Apology! So she wouldn’t hear of one? She was in the right. But to be in the right and have to go into Court because of it, was one of the most painful experiences that could be undergone. The Courts existed to penalize people who were in the right – in divorce, breach of promise, libel and the rest of it. Those who were in the wrong went to the South of France, or if they did appear, defaulted afterwards and left you to pay your costs. Had he not himself had to pay them in his action against Bosinney? And in his divorce suit had not young Jolyon and Irene been in Italy when he brought it? And yet, he couldn’t bear to think of Fleur eating humble-pie to that red-haired cat. Among the gathering shadows, his resolve hardened. Secure evidence that would frighten the baggage into dropping the whole thing like a hot potato – it was the only way!
Chapter Fourteen
FURTHER CONSIDERATION
THE Government had ‘taken their toss’ over the Editor – no one could say precisely why – and Michael sat down to compose his address. How say enough without saying anything? And having impetuously written: ‘Electors of mid-Bucks’, he remained for many moments still as a man who has had too good a dinner. ‘If’ he traced words slowly – ‘if you again return me as your representative, I shall do my best for the country according to my lights. I consider the limitations of armaments, and, failing that, the security of Britain through the enlargement of our air defences; the development of home agriculture; the elimination of unemployment through increased emigration to the Dominions; and the improvement of the national health particularly through the abatement of slums and smoke, to be the most pressing and immediate concerns of British policy. If I am returned, I shall endeavour to foster these ends with determination and coherence; and try not to abuse those whose opinions differ from my own. At my meetings I shall seek to give you some concrete idea of what is in my mind, and submit myself to your questioning.’
Dare he leave it at that? Could one issue an address containing no disparagement of the other side, no panegyric of his own? Would his Committee allow it? Would the electors swallow it? Well, if his Committee didn’t like it – they could turn it down, and himself with it; only – they wouldn’t have time to get another candidate!
The Committee, indeed, did not like it, but they lumped it; and the address went out with an effigy on it of Michael, looking, as he said, like a hairdresser. Thereon he plunged into a fray, which like every other, began in the general and ended in the particular.
During the first Sunday lull at Lippinghall, he developed his poultry scheme – by marking out sites, and deciding how water could be laid on. The bailiff was sulky. In his view it was throwing away money. ‘Fellers like that!’ Who was going to teach them the job? He had not time, himself. It would run into hundreds, and might just as well be poured down the gutter. ‘The townsman’s no mortal use on the land, Master Michael.’
‘So everybody says. But, look here, Tutfield, here are three “down and outs”, two of them ex-Service, and you’ve got to help me put this through. You say yourself this land’s all right for poultry – well, it’s doing no good now. Bowman knows every last thing about chickens, set him on to it until these chaps get the hang. Be a good fellow and put your heart into it; you wouldn’t like being “down and out” yourself.’
The bailiff had a weakness for Michael, whom he had known from his bottle up. He knew the result, but if Master Michael liked to throw his father’s money away, it was no business of his. He even went so far as to mention that he knew ‘a feller’ who had a hut for sale not ten miles away; and that there was ‘plenty of wood in the copse for the cuttin’.’