The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2 (8 page)

The Chairman spoke.

‘There will be no difficulty about that, I imagine, Elderson! But in any case, Mr Forsyte, we should hardly be justified in penalizing the present year for the sake of eventualities which we hope will not arise.'

‘I don't know,' said Soames. ‘We are here to decide policy according to our common sense, and we must have the fullest opportunity of exercising it. That is my point. We have not enough information.'

That ‘plausible chap' was speaking again:

‘Mr Forsyte seems to be indicating a lack of confidence in the management.' Taking the bull by the horns – was he?

‘Am I to have that information?'

The voice of old Mothergill rose cosy in the silence.

‘The Board could be adjourned, perhaps, Mr Chairman; I could come up myself at a pinch. Possibly we could all attend. The times are very peculiar – we mustn't take any unnecessary risks. The policy of foreign contracts is undoubtedly somewhat new to us. We have no reason so far to complain of the results. And I am sure we have the utmost confidence in the judgement of our managing director. Still, as Mr Forsyte has asked for this information, I think perhaps we ought to have it. What do you say, my lord?'

‘I can't come up next week. I agree with the chairman that on these accounts we couldn't burke this year's dividend. No good
getting the wind up before we must. When do the accounts go out, Elderson?'

‘Normally at the end of this week.'

‘These are not normal times,' said Soames. ‘To be quite plain, unless I have that information I must tender my resignation.' He saw very well what was passing in their minds. A newcomer making himself a nuisance – they would take his resignation readily – only it would look awkward just before a general meeting unless they could announce ‘wife's ill-health' or something satisfactory, which he would take very good care they didn't.

The chairman said coldly:

‘Well, we will adjourn the Board to this day week; you will be able to get us those figures, Elderson?'

‘Certainly.'

Into Soames's mind flashed the thought: ‘Ought to ask for an independent scrutiny.' But he looked round. Going too far – perhaps – if he intended to remain on the Board – and he had no wish to resign – after all, it was a big thing, and a thousand a year! No! Mustn't overdo it!

Walking away, he savoured his triumph doubtfully, by no means sure that he had done any good. His attitude had only closed the ‘all together' attitude round Elderson. The weakness of his position was that he had nothing to go on, save an uneasiness, which when examined was found to be simply a feeling that he hadn't enough control himself. And yet, there couldn't be two managers – you must trust your manager!

A voice behind him tittupped: ‘Well, Forsyte, you gave us quite a shock with your alternative. First time I remember anything of the sort on that Board.'

‘Sleepy hollow,' said Soames.

‘Yes, I generally have a nap. It gets very hot in there. Wish I'd stuck to my spinneys. They come high, even as early as this.'

Incurably frivolous, this tittupping baronet!

‘By the way, Forsyte, I wanted to say: With all this modern birth control and the rest of it, one gets uneasy. We're not the royal family; but don't you feel with me it's time there was a movement in heirs?'

Soames did, but he was not going to confess to anything so indelicate about his own daughter.

‘Plenty of time,' he muttered.

‘I don't like that dog, Forsyte.'

Soames stared.

‘Dog!' he said. ‘What's that to do with it?'

‘I like a baby to come before a dog. Dogs and poets distract young women. My grandmother had five babies before she was twenty-seven. She was a Montjoy; wonderful breeders, you remember them – the seven Montjoy sisters – all pretty. Old Montjoy had forty-seven grandchildren. You don't get it nowadays, Forsyte.'

‘Country's over-populated,' said Soames grimly.

‘By the wrong sort – less of them, more of ourselves. It's almost a matter for legislation.'

‘Talk to your son,' said Soames.

‘Ah! but they think us fogeys, you know. If we could only point to a reason for existence. But it's difficult, Forsyte, it's difficult.'

‘They've got everything they want,' said Soames.

‘Not enough, my dear Forsyte, not enough; the condition of the world is on the nerves of the young. England's dished, they say, Europe's dished. Heaven's dished, and so is Hell! No future in anything but the air. You can't breed in the air; at least, I doubt it – the difficulties are considerable.'

Soames sniffed.

‘If only the journalists would hold their confounded pens,' he said; for, more and more of late, with the decrescendo of scare in the daily Press, he was regaining the old sound Forsyte feeling of security. ‘We've only to keep clear of Europe,' he added.

‘Keep clear and keep the ring! Forsyte, I believe you've hit it. Good friendly terms with Scandinavia, Holland, Spain, Italy, Turkey – all the outlying countries that we can get at by sea. And let the others dree their weirds. It's an idea!' How the chap rattled on!

‘I'm no politician,' said Soames.

‘Keep the ring! The new formula. It's what we've been coming
to unconsciously! And as to trade – to say we can't do without trading with this country or with that – bunkum, my dear Forsyte. The world's large – we can.'

‘I don't know anything about that,' said Soames. ‘I only know we must drop this foreign contract assurance.'

‘Why not confine it to the ring countries? Instead of “balance of power”, “keep the ring”! Really, it's an inspiration!'

Thus charged with inspiration, Soames said hastily:

‘I leave you here, I'm going to my daughter's.'

‘Ah! I'm going to my son's. Look at these poor devils!'

Down by the Embankment at Blackfriars a band of unemployed were trailing dismally with money-boxes.

‘Revolution in the bud! There's one thing that's always forgotten, Forsyte, it's a great pity.'

‘What's that?' said Soames, with gloom. The fellow would tittup all the way to Fleur's!

‘Wash the working-class, put them in clean, pleasant-coloured jeans, teach 'em to speak like you and me, and there'd be an end of class feeling. It's all a matter of the senses. Wouldn't you rather share a bedroom with a clean, neat-clothed plumber's assistant who spoke and smelled like you than with a profiteer who dropped his aitches and reeked of opoponax? Of course you would.'

‘Never tried,' said Soames, ‘so don't know.'

‘Pragmatist! But believe me, Forsyte – if the working class would concentrate on baths and accent instead of on their political and economic tosh, equality would be here in no time.'

‘I don't want equality,' said Soames, taking his ticket to Westminster.

The ‘tittupping' voice pursued him entering the tube lift.

‘Aesthetic equality, Forsyte, if we had it, would remove the wish for any other. Did you ever catch an impecunious professor wishing he was the King?'

‘No,' said Soames, opening his paper.

BICKET

B
ENEATH
its veneer of cheerful irresponsibility, the character of Michael Mont had deepened during two years of anchorage and continuity. He had been obliged to think of others; and his time was occupied. Conscious, from the fall of the flag, that he was on sufferance with Fleur, admitting as whole the half-truth:
‘Il y a toujours un qui baise, et l'autre qui tend la joue,'
he had developed real powers of domestic consideration; and yet he did not seem to redress the balance in his public or publishing existence. He found the human side of his business too strong for the monetary. Danby and Winter, however, were bearing up against him, and showed, so far, no signs of the bankruptcy prophesied for them by Soames on being told of the principles which his son-in-law intended to introduce. No more in publishing than in any other walk of life was Michael finding it possible to work too much on principle. The field of action was so strewn with facts – human, vegetable and mineral.

On this same Tuesday afternoon, having long tussled with the price of those vegetable facts, paper and linen, he was listening with his pointed ears to the plaint of a packer discovered with five copies of
Copper Coin
in his overcoat pocket, and the too obvious intention of converting them to his own use.

Mr Danby had ‘given him the sack' – he didn't deny that he was going to sell them, but what would Mr Mont have done? He owed rent – and his wife wanted nourishing after pneumonia – wanted it bad. ‘Dash it!' thought Michael, ‘I'd snoop an edition to nourish Fleur after pneumonia!'

‘And I can't live on my wages with prices what they are. I can't, Mr Mont, so help me!'

Michael swivelled. ‘But look here, Bicket, if we let you snoop
copies, all the packers will snoop copies; and if they do, where are Danby and Winter? In the cart. And, if they're in the cart, where are all of you? In the street. It's better that one of you should be in the street than that all of you should, isn't it?'

‘Yes, sir, I quite see your point – it's reason; but I can't live on reason, the least thing knocks you out, when you're on the bread line. Ask Mr Danby to give me another chance.'

‘Mr Danby always says that a packer's work is particularly confidential, because it's almost impossible to keep a check on it.'

‘Yes, sir, I should feel that in future; but with all this unemployment and no reference, I'll never get another job. What about my wife?'

To Michael it was as if he had said: ‘What about Fleur?' He began to pace the room; and the young man Bicket looked at him with large dolorous eyes. Presently he came to a standstill, with his hands deep plunged into his pockets and his shoulders hunched.

‘I'll ask him,' he said; ‘but I don't believe he will; he'll say it isn't fair on the others. You had five copies; it's pretty stiff, you know – means you've had 'em before, doesn't it? What?'

‘Well, Mr Mont, anything that'll give me a chance, I don't mind confessin'. I have 'ad a few previous, and it's just about kept my wife alive. You've no idea what that pneumonia's like for poor people.'

Michael pushed his fingers through his hair.

‘How old's your wife?'

‘Only a girl – twenty.'

Twenty! Just Fleur's age!

‘I'll tell you what I'll do, Bicket; I'll put it up to Mr Desert; if he speaks for you, perhaps it may move Mr Danby.'

‘Well, Mr Mont, thank you – you're a gentleman, we all sy that.'

‘Oh! hang it! But look here, Bicket, you were reckoning on those five copies. Take this to make up, and get your wife what's necessary. Only for goodness' sake don't tell Mr Danby.'

‘Mr Mont, I wouldn't deceive you for the world – I won't sy a word, sir. And my wife – well!'

A sniff, a shuffle – Michael was alone, with his hands plunged deeper, his shoulders hunched higher. And suddenly he laughed. Pity! Pity was pop! It was all dam' funny. Here he was rewarding Bicket for snooping
Copper Coin
. A sudden longing possessed him to follow the little packer and see what he did with the two pounds – see whether ‘the pneumonia' was real or a figment of the brain behind those dolorous eyes. Impossible, though! Instead he must ring up Wilfrid and ask him to put in a word with old Danby. His own word was no earthly. He had put it in too often! Bicket! Little one knew of anybody, life was deep and dark, and upside down! What was honesty? Pressure of life
versus
power of resistance – the result of that fight, when the latter won, was honesty! But why resist? Love thy neighbour as thyself – but not more! And wasn't it a darned sight harder for Bicket on two pounds a week to love him, than for him on twenty-four pounds a week to love Bicket?…

‘Hallo!… That you, Wilfrid?… Michael speaking…. One of our packers has been sneaking copies of
Copper Coin
. He's “got the sack” – poor devil! I wondered if you'd mind putting in a word for him – old Dan won't listen to me… yes, got a wife – Fleur's age; pneumonia, so he says. Won't do it again with yours anyway, insurance by common gratitude – what!… Thanks, old man, awfully good of you – will you bob in, then? We can go round home together… Oh! Well! You'll bob in anyway. Aurev!'

Good chap, old Wilfrid! Real good chap – underneath! Underneath – what?

Replacing the receiver, Michael saw a sudden great cloud of sights and scents and sounds, so foreign to the principles of his firm that he was in the habit of rejecting instantaneously every manuscript which dealt with them. The war might be ‘off'; but it was still ‘on' within Wilfrid, and himself. Taking up a tube, he spoke: