Free The Phoenix Generation by Henry Williamson Page B

loan’—that is, a hundred million pounds to make new motor roads, using the unemployed, nearly three million, Cabton—‘if this loan cannot be raised in the City of London, let us confess defeat honourably and honestly; let us run up the white flag of surrender. Why is it right and desirable that British capital should go overseas to equip factories to compete against us, and by means of sweated labour to undercut our prices, to build roads in the Argentine or in Timbuktoo, while it is supposed to shake the whole basis of our financial strength if anyone dares to suggest the raising of money by the government of this country to provide work for the people of this country? In conclusion, let me say that the situation which faces us is, of course, very serious. Everybody knows that; and perhaps those who have been in office know it even better. It is not, I confidently believe, irreparable, but I feel this strongly, that the days of muddling through are over, and this time we cannot muddle through.”
    “Hear, hear,” said a voice from over the fuchsia hedge behind the summer house. Phillip saw with exasperation the weak and vacuous face of Rippingall above the shoulders of Runnymeade’s old pepper-and-salt suit.
    “Everything all reet, old dear?” Rippingall drew himself to attention and went on, with an attempt at clear articulation, “I have—just—seen—the ghost—of—the Rascal Monk—of— Mona-Mona-Monaquorum Abbey—sir.”
    Deciding to treat Rippingall as though he was his normal self, Phillip said, “Come here and meet Mr. Cabton, old soldier. I want you to show him Fossett’s pool, where I’ve given him a day’s fishing, fly only, of course. Come and listen to Birkin’s speech of resignation.”
    Rippingall walked on down the lane to the gate and came into the garden. Gravely he took off his brown bowler and bowed to Cabton, saying quietly, “Sir, Fossett’s pool—is haunted—by the Rascal Monk.” Then turning to Phillip he said, “Sir Olive Lodge—Physical Society. Sir, with respect, there are ghosts—in—the—old Abbey, sir.” He added as an afterthought, “It is said to be haunted.”
    Cabton took out his pocket knife and began to clean his nails as Phillip said to Rippingall, “This is the peroration of Birkin’s speech. He was pleading in the Commons yesterday for a hundred million pounds to make new motor roads for the future, and also to give work——”
    “—to three million unemployed,” said Cabton, inspecting the long nails with their raised half-moons.
    “Per-or-ration,” said Rippingall, solemnly. “The climax, as the Greeks would say.”
    “Do listen to this. Birkin has just said that this time we cannot muddle through, or there’ll be a smash.”
    “All politicians are crooks,” remarked Cabton.
    That comes well from you, thought Phillip. “Listen to this, Rippingall.
    “‘I feel this, indeed, from the depths of my being: I believe with all the hopes of all the soldiers of our nation who lived for a better world and died on the battlefields of the Great War—on the rolling downlands of the Aisne and the Somme—upon the vast and featureless crater-zones of Flanders—in the March retreat across the waste lands of nineteen-sixteen—in the last summer-time advances to the Hindenburg Line, which they finally breached and led the way to victory, leaving nearly a million dead on these and other battlefields —dying in the hope, in the belief of a better life for their children—and the years drift by, and those children are on the dole, and who can rally their comrades who survived, who can mobilise and rally for a tremendous effort, and who can do that except the Government of the day?’”
    At this point Rippingall said, “I’ve seen the ghost of the murdered priest.”
    Ignoring this drunken fantasy, Phillip read on, “‘If that effort is not made, we may soon come to a crisis, to a real crisis. I do not fear that so much, for this reason: that in