Free The Phoenix Generation by Henry Williamson Page A

them—those on the threshold of adult life who are now growing up in idleness and subject to demoralisation of every kind——
    Phillip had read so far when Lucy appeared. “Are you busy?”
    “I’m trying to formulate my thoughts, although it may appear I’m only reading the paper. No, that’s untrue, I’m not busy.”
    “I’m awfully sorry to worry you just now, but Uncle Hilary has just telephoned to say that he and Irene are on their way here, and I’ve asked them to luncheon. Of course, the kitchen drain would choke now.”
    “Where’s Rippingall?”
    “I haven’t seen him, otherwise I’d get him to do it. The washing water is all over the path.”
    It was eleven o’clock. There was an hour before they were due to arrive. He dug up the pipes and continued a trench through the turf of the lawn, then covered the trench, through which grey liquid was seeping, with nine-inch boards, bought recently toextend the garage. Having washed and changed his shirt, for he had worked neurotically fast, he went back to his seat.
    ‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer has told us that the unemployed figures have risen, that they are bad and getting worse. He has told the House that if the unemployed problem is regarded from a purely Party point of view a tremendous case can, in the light of the published figures be made out against the Government.
    ‘The solution lies in the system of an import control board. Applied to agriculture, and particularly to wheat, an import control board can increase the price to farmers by ten shillings a quarter above the present world prices without any increase in the price of bread. Many thousands of men can thereby be found employment on our derelict arable farms, and the policy of controlled imports can be applied no less to other trades. For if we are to build up a home market, it must be agreed that this nation be, to some extent, insulated from the electric shocks of present world conditions. You cannot build a higher civilisation and a standard of life which can absorb the great force of modern production if you are subject to price fluctuations from the rest of the world which dislocate your industry at every turn, and to the sport of competition from the virtually slave conditions in other countries.’
    Footfalls were coming along the garden path. He dropped the paper and took up his writing pad, ready as an excuse should this be an unwelcome caller. It was. With distaste he saw the grinning face of A. B. Cabton, a writer originally sent to him by Edward Cornelian, the critic and publisher’s reader, during Phillip’s time as an improver on his Uncle Hilary’s farm. Cabton had shot birds in June with a walking-stick gun, also trout in the Longpond. After that visitation neither Phillip nor Lucy had heard a word from him.
    “Hullo. How’s everybody? Don’t get up. Just be your natural self. How’s Lucy? Felicity still with you?”
    “I thought you lived in Cornwall, Cabton.”
    “So I do. But I thought I’d like a break. My novel is held up. You don’t mind if I fish in your river, do you?”
    “Well, I don’t really want the fish disturbed, Cabton. You see—well—I’m studying them. I haven’t fished myself yet.”
    “Studying them by reading the paper, eh? I saw you put it down and take up that pad. Why pretend?”
    He took out a packet of Bonville’s cigarettes and tossed them at Phillip. “Thought you might like them.’’
    “It’s good of you, but I have given up smoking.”
    “Keep them, anyway. I get them for nothing, my sister works in Bonville’s. What about this fishing?”
    “Well—I’ll show you a place later, at the end of my beat—I’m not watching that water particularly, just yet, anyway.”
    Cabton sat down and picked up the cigarettes.
    “Have you see Birkin’s speech in the paper, Cabton? It looks as though something will be started at last. May I read you a bit?” Without waiting for a reply, he read, “‘If then, this