Chapter Three
HOME-COMING
JON FORSYTE’S sensations on landing at Newhaven, by the last possible boat, after five and a half years’ absence, had been most peculiar. All the way by car to Wansdon under the Sussex Downs he was in a sort of excited dream. England! What wonderful chalk, what wonderful green! What an air of having been there for ever! The sudden dips into villages, the old bridges, the sheep, the beech clumps! And the cuckoo – not heard for six years! A poet, somewhat dormant of late, stirred within this young man. Delicious old country! Anne would be crazy about this countryside – it was so beautifully finished. When the general strike was over she could come along, and he would show her everything. In the meantime she would be all right with his mother in Paris, and he would be free for any job he could get. He remembered this bit, and Chanctonbury Ring up there, and his walk over from Worthing. He remembered very well. Fleur! His brother-in-law, Francis Wilmot, had come back from England with much to say about Fleur; she was very modern now, and attractive, and had a boy. How deeply one could be in love; and how completely get over it! Considering what his old feelings down here had been, it was strange but pleasant to be just simply eager to see Holly and ‘old Val’.
Beyond a telegram from Dieppe, he had made no announcement of his coming; but they would surely be here because of the horses. He would like to have a look at Val’s racing stable, and get a ride, perhaps, on the Downs before taking on a strike job. If only Anne were with him, and they could have that ride together! And Jon thought of his first ride with Anne in the South Carolinian woods – that ride from which they had neither of them recovered. There it was! The jolly old house! And here at the door – Holly herself! And at sight of his half-sister, slim and dark-haired in a lilac dress, Jon was visited by a stabbing memory of their father as he had looked that dreadful afternoon, lying dead in the old arm-chair at Robin Hill. Dad – always lovable – and so good to him!
‘Jon! How wonderful to see you!’
Her kiss, he remembered, had always lighted on his eyebrow – she hadn’t changed a bit. A half-sister was nicer than a full-sister, after all. With full sisters you were almost bound to fight a little.
‘What a pity you couldn’t bring Anne and your mother! But perhaps it’s just as well, till this is over. You look quite English still, Jon; and your mouth’s as nice and wide as ever. Why do Americans and naval men have such small mouths?’
‘Sense of duty, I think. How’s Val?’
‘Oh, Val’s all right. You haven’t lost your smile. D’you remember your old room?’
‘Rather. And how are you, Holly?’
‘So-so, I’ve become a writer, Jon.’
‘Splendid!’
‘Not at all. Hard labour and no reward.’
‘Oh!’
‘The first book was born too still for anything. A sort of “African Farm”, without the spiritual frills – if you remember it.’
‘Rather! But I always left the frills out.’
‘Yes, we get our objection to frills from Dad, Jon. He said to me once: “It’ll end in calling all matter spirit or all spirit matter – I don’t know which.”’
‘It won’t,’ said Jon; ‘people love to divide things up. I say, I remember every stick in this room. How are the horses? Can I have a look at them and a ride tomorrow?’
‘We’ll go forth early and see them at exercise. We’ve only got three two-year-olds, but one of them’s most promising.’
‘Fine! After that I must go up and get a good, dirty job. I should like to stoke an engine. I’ve always wanted to know how stokers feel.’
‘We’ll all go. We can stay with Val’s mother. It is so lovely to see you, Jon. Dinner’s in half an hour.’
Jon lingered five minutes at his window. That orchard in full bloom – not mathematically planted, like his just-sold North Carolinian peach trees – was as lovely as on that long-ago night when he chased Fleur therein. That was the beauty of England – nothing was planned! How home-sick he had been over there; yes, and his mother, too! He would never go back! How wonderful that sea of apple blossom! Cuckoo again! That alone was worth coming home for. He would find a place and grow fruit, down in the West, Worcestershire or Somerset, or near here – they grew a lot of figs and things at Worthing, he remembered. Turning out his suit-case, he began to dress. Just where he was sitting now, pulling on his American socks, had he sat when Fleur was showing him her Goya dress. Who would have believed then that, six years later, he would want Anne, not Fleur, beside him on this bed! The gong! Dabbing at his hair, bright and stivery, he straightened his tie and ran down.