The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(268)

‘Michael’s over head and ears.’

‘In debt?’

‘Oh, no! Committed himself to a slum scheme, just as he did to Foggartism. I hardly see him.’

Soames made a sound within himself. Young Jon Forsyte lurked now behind all his thoughts of her. Did she really resent Michael’s absorption in public life, or was it pretence – an excuse for having a private life of her own?

‘The slums want attending to, no doubt,’ he said. ‘He must have something to do.’

Fleur shrugged.

‘Michael’s too good to live.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Soames; ‘but he’s – er – rather trustful.’

‘That’s not your failing, is it, Dad? You don’t trust me a bit.’

‘Not trust you!’ floundered Soames. ‘Why not?’

‘Exactly!’

Soames sought refuge in the Fragonard. Sharp! She had seen into him!

‘I suppose June wants me to buy a picture,’ he said.

‘She wants you to have me painted.’

‘Does she? What’s the name of her lame duck?’

‘Blade, I think.’

‘Never heard of him!’

‘Well, I expect you will.’

‘Yes,’ muttered Soames; ‘she’s like a limpet. It’s in the blood.’

‘The Forsyte blood? You and I, then, too, dear.’

Soames turned from the Fragonard and looked her straight in the eyes.

‘Yes; you and I, too.’

‘Isn’t that nice?’ said Fleur.





Chapter Eight



THE JOLLY ACCIDENT



IN doubting Fleur’s show of resentment at Michael’s new ‘stunt’, Soames was near the mark. She did not resent it at all. It kept his attention off herself, it kept him from taking up birth control, for which she felt the country was not yet quite prepared, and it had a popular appeal denied to Foggartism. The slums were under one’s nose, and what was under the nose could be brought to the attention even of party politics. Being a town proposition, slums would concern six-sevenths of the vote. Foggartism, based on the country life necessary to national stamina and the growth of food within and overseas, concerned the whole population, but only appealed to one-seventh of the vote. And Fleur, nothing if not a realist, had long grasped the fact that the main business of politicians was to be, and to remain, elected. The vote was a magnet of the first order, and unconsciously swayed every political judgement and aspiration; or, if not, it ought to, for was it not the touchstone of democracy? In the committee, too, which Michael was forming, she saw, incidentally, the best social step within her reach.

‘If they want a meeting-place,’ she had said, ‘why not here?’

‘Splendid!’ answered Michael. ‘Handy for the House and clubs. Thank you, old thing!’

Fleur had added honestly:

‘Oh, I shall be quite glad. As soon as I take Kit to the sea, you can start. Norah Curfew’s letting me her cottage at Loring for three weeks.’ She did not add: ‘And it’s only five miles from Wansdon.’

On the Friday, after lunch, she telephoned to June:

‘I’m going to the sea on Monday – I could come this afternoon, but I think you said Jon was coming. Is he? Because if so –’

‘He’s coming at four-thirty, but he’s got to catch a train back at six-twenty.’

‘His wife, too?’

‘No. He’s just coming to see Harold’s work.’

‘Oh! – well – I think I’d better come on Sunday, then.’

‘Yes, Sunday will be all right; then Harold will see you. He never goes out on Sunday. He hates the look of it so.’

Putting down the receiver, Fleur took up the time-table. Yes, there was the train! What a coincidence if she happened to take it to make a preliminary inspection of Norah Curfew’s cottage! Not even June, surely, would mention their talk on the phone.

At lunch she did not tell Michael she was going – he might want to come, too, or at least to see her off. She knew he would be at ‘the House’ in the afternoon, she would just leave a note to say that she had gone to make sure the cottage would be in order for Monday. And after lunch she bent over and kissed him between the eyes, without any sense of betrayal. A sight of Jon was due to her after these dreary weeks I Any sight of Jon was always due to her who had been defrauded of him. And, as the afternoon drew on, and she put her night things into her dressing-case, a red spot became fixed in each cheek, and she wandered swiftly, her hands restive, her spirit homeless. Having had tea, and left the note giving her address – an hotel at Nettlefold – she went early to Victoria Station. There, having tipped the guard to secure emptiness, she left her bag in a corner seat and took up her stand by the bookstall, where Jon must pass with his ticket. And while she stood there, examining the fiction of the day, all her faculties were busy with reality. Among the shows and shadows of existence, an hour and a half of real life lay before her. Who could blame her for filching it back from a filching Providence? And if anybody could, she didn’t care! The hands of the station clock moved on, and Fleur gazed at this novel after that, all of them full of young women in awkward situations, and vaguely wondered whether they were more awkward than her own. Three minutes to the time! Wasn’t he coming after all? Had that wretched June kept him for the night? At last in despair she caught up a tome called Violin Obbligato, which at least would be modern, and paid for it. And then, as she was receiving her change, she saw him hastening. Turning, she passed through the wicket, walking quickly, knowing that he was walking more quickly. She let him see her first.