The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(29)

Soames went in to dinner alone. At the polished board below which Montague Dartie had now and again slipped, if not quite slept, he dined and brooded. ‘I can trust you, that’s one thing about you, Soames.’ The words flattered and yet stung him. The depths of that sardonic joke! To give him a family shock and trust him to carry the shock out! George had never cared twelve thousand pounds for a woman who smelled of patchouli. No! It was a final gibe at his family, the Forsytes, at Soames himself! Well! one by one those who had injured or gibed at him – Irene, Bosinney, old and young Jolyon, and now George, had met their fates. Dead, dying, or in British Columbia! He saw again his cousin’s eyes above that unlighted cigar, fixed, sad, jesting – poor devil! He got up from the table, and nervously drew aside the curtains. The night was fine and cold. What happened to one – after? George used to say that he had been Charles the Second’s cook in a former existence! But reincarnation was all nonsense, weak-minded theorizing! Still, one would be glad to hold on if one could, after one was gone. Hold on, and be near Fleur! What noise was that? Gramophone going in the kitchen! When the cat was away, the mice –! People were all alike – take what they could get, and give as little as they could for it. Well! he would smoke a cigarette. Lighting it at a candle – Winifred dined by candlelight, it was the ‘mode’ again – he thought: ‘Has he still got that cigar between his teeth?’ A funny fellow, George – all his days a funny fellow! He watched a ring of smoke he had made without intending to – very blue, he never inhaled! Yes! George had lived too fast, or he would not have been dying twenty years before his time – too fast! Well, there it was, and he wished he had a cat to talk to! He took a little monster off the mantelboard. Picked up by his nephew Benedict in an Eastern bazaar the year after the War, it had green eyes – ‘Not emeralds,’ thought Soames, ‘some cheap stone!’

‘The telephone for you, sir.’

He went into the hall and took up the receiver.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Forsyte has passed away, sir – in his sleep, the doctor says.’

‘Oh!’ said Soames: ‘Had he a cig –? Many thanks.’ He hung up the receiver.

Passed away! And, with a nervous movement, he felt for the codicil in his breast pocket.





Chapter Eleven



VENTURE



FOR a week Bicket had seen ‘the job’, slippery as an eel, evasive as a swallow, for ever passing out of reach. A pound for keep, and three shillings invested on a horse, and he was down to twenty-four bob. The weather had turned sou’-westerly and Victorine had gone out for the first time. That was something off his mind, but the cramp of the unemployed sensation, that fearful craving for the means of mere existence, a protesting, agonizing anxiety, was biting into the very flesh of his spirit. If he didn’t get a job within a week or two, there would be nothing for it but the work-house, or the gas. ‘The gas,’ thought Bicket, ‘if she will, I will. I’m fed up. After all, what is it? In her arms I wouldn’t mind.’ Instinct, however, that it was not so easy as all that to put one’s head under the gas, gave him a brain-wave that Monday night. Balloons – that chap in Oxford Street today! Why not? He still had the capital for a flutter in them, and no hawker’s licence needed. His brain, working like a squirrel in the small hours, grasped the great, the incalculable advantage of coloured balloons over all other forms of commerce. You couldn’t miss the man who sold them – there he was for every eye to see, with his many radiant circumferences dangling in front of him! Not much profit in them, he had gathered – a penny on a sixpenny globe of coloured air, a penny on every three small twopenny globes; still their salesman was alive, and probably had pitched him a poor tale for fear of making his profession seem too attractive. Over the Bridge, just where the traffic – no, up by St Paul’s! He knew a passage where he could stand back a yard or two, like that chap in Oxford Street! But to the girl sleeping beside him he said nothing. No word to her till he had thrown the die. It meant gambling with his last penny. For a bare living he would have to sell – why, three dozen big and four dozen small balloons a day would only be twenty-six shillings a week profit, unless that chap was kidding. Not much towards ‘Austrylia’ out of that! And not a career – Victorine would have a shock! But it was neck or nothing now – he must try it, and in off hours go on looking for a job.

Our thin capitalist, then, with four dozen big and seven dozen small on a tray, two shillings in his pocket, and little in his stomach, took his stand off St Paul’s at two o’clock next day. Slowly he blew up and tied the necks of two large and three small, magenta, green and blue, till they dangled before him. Then with the smell of rubber in his nostrils, and protruding eyes, he stood back on the kerb and watched the stream go by. It gratified him to see that most people turned to look at him. But the first person to address him was a policeman, with: