The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(159)

‘Where are we?’

‘Gawd knows, sir.’

Michael coughed, put up the window again, and resumed his clutch of Fleur.

‘By the way, Wastwater asked me if I’d read Canthar. He says there’s a snorting cut-up of it in The Protagonist. It’ll have the usual effect – sends sales up.’

‘They say it’s very clever.’

‘Horribly out of drawing – not fit for children, and tells adults nothing they don’t know. I don’t see how it can be justified.’

‘Genius, my dear. If it’s attacked, it’ll be defended.’

‘Sib Swan won’t have it – he says it’s muck.’

‘Oh! yes; but Sib’s getting a back number.’

‘That’s very true,’ said Michael, thoughtfully. ‘By Jove! how fast things move, except in politics, and fog.’

Their cab had come to a standstill. Michael let down the window again.

‘I’m fair lost, sir,’ said the driver’s hoarse voice. ‘Ought to be near the Embankment, but for the life of me I can’t find the turning.’ Michael buttoned his coat, put up the window again, and got out on the near side.

The night was smothered, alive only with the continual hootings of creeping cars. The black vapour, acrid and cold, surged into Michael’s lungs.

‘I’ll walk beside you; we’re against the kerb; creep on till we strike the river, or a bobby.’

The cab crept on, and Michael walked beside it, feeling with his foot for the kerb.

The refined voice of an invisible man said: ‘This is sanguinary!’

‘It is,’ said Michael. ‘Where are we?’

‘In the twentieth century, and the heart of civilization.’

Michael laughed, and regretted it; the fog tasted of filth.

‘Think of the police!’ said the voice, ‘having to be out in this all night!’

‘Splendid force, the police!’ replied Michael. ‘Where are you, sir?’

‘Here, sir. Where are you?’

It was the exact position. The blurred moon of a lamp glowed suddenly above Michael’s head. The cab ceased to move.

‘If I could only smell the ’Ouses of Parliament,’ said the cabman. ‘They’ll be ’avin’ supper there be now.’

‘Listen!’ said Michael – Big Ben was striking. ‘That was to our left.’

‘At our back,’ said the cabman.

‘Can’t be, or we should be in the river; unless you’ve turned right round!’

‘Gawd knows where I’ve turned,’ said the cabman, sneezing. ‘Never saw such a night!’

‘There’s only one thing for it – drive on until we hit something. Gently does it.’

The cabman started the cab, and Michael, with his hand on it, continued to feel for the kerb with his foot.

‘Steady!’ he said, suddenly. ‘Car in front.’ There was a slight bump.

‘Nah then!’ said a voice. ‘Where yer comin’? Cawn’t yer see?’

Michael moved up alongside of what seemed to be another taxi.

‘Comin’ along at that pice!’ said its driver; ‘and fool moon, too!’

‘Awfully sorry,’ said Michael. ‘No harm done. You got any sense of direction left?’

‘The pubs are all closed – worse luck! There’s a bloomin’ car in front o’ me that I’ve hit three times. Can’t make any impression on it. The driver’s dead, I think. Would yer go and look, Guv’nor?’

Michael moved towards the loom in front. But at that moment it gave way to the more universal blackness. He ran four steps to hail the driver, stumbled off the kerb, fell, picked himself up and spun round. He moved along the kerb to his right, felt he was going wrong, stopped and called: ‘Hallo!’ A faint ‘Hallo!’ replied from – where? He moved what he thought was back, and called again. No answer! Fleur would be frightened. He shouted. Half a dozen faint hallos replied to him; and someone at his elbow said: ‘Don’t cher know where y’are?’

‘No; do you?’

‘What do you think? Lost anything?’

‘Yes; my cab.’

‘Left anything in it?’

‘My wife.’

‘Lawd! You won’t get ’er back tonight.’ A hoarse laugh, ghostly and obscene, floated by. A bit of darkness loomed for a moment, and faded out. Michael stood still. ‘Keep your head!’ he thought. ‘Here’s the kerb – either they’re in front, or they’re behind; or else I’ve turned a corner.’ He stepped forward along the kerb. Nothing! He stepped back. Nothing! ‘What the blazes have I done?’ he muttered: ‘or have they moved on!’ Sweat poured down him in spite of the cold. Fleur would be really scared! And the words of his election address sprang from his lips: ‘Chiefly by the elimination of smoke!’