The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(227)

What then?

‘I’ve got a topping scheme for airing “The Meads”.’ ‘The Meads’ was one of the worst slum parishes in London. ‘Clear the slums!’ thought Michael; ‘that’s practical, anyway!’ You could smell the slums, and feel them. They stank and bit and bred corruption. And yet the dwellers therein loved them; or at least preferred them to slums they knew not of! And slum-dwellers were such good sorts! Too bad to play at shuttlecock with them! He must have a talk with Uncle Hilary. Lots of vitality in England still – numbers of red-haired children! But the vitality got sooted as it grew up – like plants in a back garden. Slum clearance, smoke abolition, industrial peace, emigration, agriculture, and safety in the air! ‘Them’s my sentiments!’ thought Michael. ‘And if that isn’t a large enough policy for any man, I’m –!’

He turned his face towards the statement, and thought of his uncle’s words about this ‘House’. Were they all really in a state of auto-intoxication here – continual slow poisoning of the tissues? All these chaps around him thought they were doing things. And he looked at the chaps. He knew most of them, and had great respect for many, but collectively he could not deny that they looked a bit dazed. His neighbour to the right was showing his front teeth in an asphyxiated smile. ‘Really,’ he thought; ‘it’s heroic how we all keep awake day after day!’





Chapter Eight



SECRET



IT would not have been natural that Fleur should rejoice in the collapse of the General Strike. A national outlook over such a matter was hardly in her character. Her canteen was completing the re-establishment in her of the social confidence which the Marjorie Ferrar affair had so severely shaken; and to be thoroughly busy with practical matters suited her. recruited by norah curfew, by herself, michael, and his Aunt lady alison charwell, she had a first-rate crew of helpers of all ages, most of them in Society. They worked in the manner popularly attributed to Negroes; they craned at nothing – not even cockroaches. They got up at, or stayed up to, all hours. They were never cross and always cheery. In a word, they seemed inspired. The difference they had made in the appearance of the railway’s culinary premises was starding to the Company. Fleur herself was ‘on the bridge’ all the time. On her devolved the greasing of the official wheels, the snipping off of red tape in numberless telephonic duels,- and the bearding of the managerial face. She had even opened her father’s pocket to supplement the shortcomings she encountered. The volunteers were fed to repletion, and – on Michael’s inspiration – she had undermined the pickets with surreptitious coffee dashed with rum, at odd hours of their wearisome vigils. Her provisioning car, entrusted to Holly, ran the blockade, by leaving and arriving, as though Harridge’s, whence she drew her supplies, were the last placo in its thoughts.

‘Let us give the strikers,’ said Michael, ‘every possible excuse to wink the other eye.’

The canteen, in fact, was an unqualified success. She had not seen Jon again, but she lived in that peculiar mixture of fear and hope which signifies a real interest in life. On the Friday Holly announced to her that Jon’s wife had arrived – might she bring her down next morning?

‘Oh! yes,’ said Fleur. ‘What is she like?’

‘Attractive – with eyes like a water-nymph’s, or so Jon thinks; but it’s quite the best type of water-nymph.’

‘M-m!’ said Fleur.

She was checking a list on the telephone next day when Holly brought Anne. About Fleur’s own height, straight and slim, darker in the hair, browner in complexion, browner in the eye (Fleur could see what Holly had meant by ‘water-nymph’), her nose a little too sudden, her chin pointed and her teeth very white, her successor stood. Did she know that Jon and she – ?

And stretching out her free hand, Fleur said:

‘I think it’s awfully sporting of you as an American. How’s your brother Francis?’

The hand she squeezed was brown, dry, warm; the voice she heard only faintly American, as if Jon had been at it.

‘You were just too good to Francis. He always talks of you. If it hadn’t been for you –’

‘That’s nothing. Excuse me…. Ye-cs?… No! If the Princess comes, ask her to be good enough to come when they’re feeding. Yes – yes – thank you! To-morrow? Certainly…. Did you have a good crossing?’

‘Frightful!’ I was glad Jon wasn’t with me. I do so hate being green, don’t you?’