The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(70)

The cab rattled down the station slope and drew up under cover. Ten minutes to twelve, and a long heavy train on platform one!

‘What shall I do?’ thought Michael: ‘It’s so darned crude! Must I go down – carriage by carriage? “Couldn’t let you go, old man, without” – blurb!’

Bluejackets! If not drunk – as near as made no matter. Eight minutes still! He began slowly walking along the train. He had not passed four windows before he saw his quarry. Desert was sitting back to the engine in the near corner of an empty first. An unlighted cigarette was in his mouth, his fur collar turned up to his eyes, and his eyes fixed on an unopened paper on his lap. He sat without movement; Michael stood looking at him. His heart beat fast. He struck a match, took two steps, and said:

‘Light, old boy?’

Desert stared up at him.

‘Thanks,’ he said, and took the match. By its flare his face was dark, thin, drawn; his eyes dark, deep, tired. Michael leaned in the window. Neither spoke.

‘Take your seat, if you’re going, sir.’

‘I’m not,’ said Michael. His whole inside seemed turning over.

‘Where are you going, old man?’ he said suddenly.

‘Jericho.’

‘God, Wilfrid, I’m sorry!’

Desert smiled.

‘Cut it out!’

‘Yes, I know! Shake hands?’

Desert held out his hand.

Michael squeezed it hard.

A whistle sounded.

Desert rose suddenly and turned to the rack above him. He took a parcel from a bag. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘these wretched things! Publish them if you like.’

Something clicked in Michael’s throat.

‘Thanks, old man! That’s great! Good-bye!’

A sort of beauty came into Desert’s face.

‘So long!’ he said.

The train moved. Michael withdrew his elbows; quite still, he stared at the motionless figure slowly borne along, away. Carriage after carriage went by him, full of bluejackets leaning out, clamouring, singing, waving handkerchiefs and bottles. Guard’s van now – the tail light – all spread – a crimson blur – setting East – going – going – gone!

And that was all – was it? He thrust the parcel into his coat pocket. Back to Fleur, now! Way of the world – one man’s meat, another’s poison! He passed his hand over his eyes. The dashed things were full of – blurb!





PART THREE





Chapter One



BANK HOLIDAY



WHITSUNTIDE Bank Holiday was producing its seasonal invasion of Hampstead Heath, and among the ascending swarm were two who meant to make money in the morning and spend it in the afternoon.

Tony Bicket, with balloons and wife, embarked early on the Hampstead Tube.

‘You’ll see,’ he said, ‘I’ll sell the bloomin’ lot by twelve o’clock, and we’ll go on the bust.’

Squeezing his arm, Victorine fingered, through her dress, a slight swelling just above her right knee. It was caused by fifty-four pounds fastened in the top of her stocking. She had little feeling, now, against balloons. They afforded temporary nourishment, till she had the few more pounds needful for their passage-money. Tony still believed he was going to screw salvation out of his blessed balloons: he was ‘that hopeful – Tony’, though their heads were only just above water on his takings. And she smiled. With her secret she could afford to be indifferent now to the stigma of gutter hawking. She had her story pat. From the evening paper, and from communion   on buses with those interested in the national pastime, she had acquired the necessary information about racing. She even talked of it with Tony, who had street-corner knowledge. Already she had prepared chapter and verse of two imaginary coups; a sovereign made out of stitching imaginary blouses, invested on the winner of the Two Thousand Guineas, and the result on the dead-heater for the Jubilee at nice odds; this with a third winner, still to be selected, would bring her imaginary winnings up to the needed sixty pounds odd she would so soon have saved now out of ‘the altogether’. This tale she would pitch to Tony in a week or two, reeling off by heart the wonderful luck she had kept from him until she had the whole of the money. She would slip her forehead against his eyes if he looked at her too hard, and kiss his lips till his head was no longer clear. And in the morning they would wake up and take their passages. Such was the plan of Victorine, with five ten-pound and four one-pound notes in her stocking, attached to the pink silk stays.

Afternoon of a Dryad had long been finished, and was on exhibition at the Dumetrius Gallery, with other works of Aubrey Greene. Victorine had paid a shilling to see it; had stood some furtive minutes gazing at that white body glimmering from among grass and spikey flowers, at the face, turned as if saying: ‘I know a secret!’