The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [363]
‘Hmm. The windows are fine, don’t you think?’ The two that he indicated, one at the east end, the other in the transept, were certainly impressive. They had been designed by Burne-Jones, the Pre-Raphaelite painter who had been a visitor to the Forest in recent years. With their huge, bold forms, they were very striking. ‘Those two figures,’ he pointed to the transept window, ‘were actually done by Rossetti, you know, not Burne-Jones.’
‘Oh.’ She looked at them. ‘I suppose you know all these artists personally.’
‘I do as it happens. Why?’
‘It must be …’ she was going to say ‘so interesting’, but that sounded so banal she stopped herself.
The light from the transept window just caught his fair hair. ‘I love the fresco,’ he said with a smile.
The huge painting of The Wise and Foolish Virgins by Rossetti’s friend Leighton dominated part of the interior. The bishop had been concerned that the Pre-Raphaelite images were too ‘popish and ornamental’, but they had been allowed all the same. So they stood below the wise and foolish virgins, admiring both.
‘I asked you here,’ Mrs Albion said, ‘to talk about Beatrice.’ She took a deep breath. ‘There’s something I want you to do.’
Bognor Grockleton was in a cheerful mood. As he passed his claw-like hand over his pale, clean-shaven face to wipe off the beads of perspiration, he was smiling contentedly.
To appreciate Bognor Grockleton – he was named after the seaside resort where his parents liked to go on holiday – it was necessary to understand that he meant well. Perhaps there was something of the missionary in him, or perhaps it was the genetic legacy of his grandmother who, after leaving Lymington, had lived to a formidable old age in Bath; but whatever it was that drove Bognor Grockleton relentlessly forward, he always acted in the belief that the world was there to be improved. Few people, in the Victorian age, would have disagreed with him.
He had been trying to improve the Forest ever since he came there. It was natural that he should soon have found an ally in the Deputy Surveyor. The two men in fact were very different. To Cumberbatch the Forest was a material resource like a coal mine or a gravel pit. The Forest folk were a nuisance. If he could have chained them like galley slaves or culled them like the deer, he probably would have. To Grockleton, the Forest folk needed to be helped. Many of them lived in miserable little cottages with only an acre or two. It was primitive. Even the best sort, like the Prides of Oakley, only made their modest living because they had the run of the Forest, and that was a terrible waste of resources. Once the Forest was economically run though, there would be work for many of them in timber production. A few of the larger farms round the Forest edge would doubtless survive. The factories and enterprises growing up in Southampton and the local market towns like Fordingbridge and Ringwood should absorb the rest. The new productive world was going to be so much better. Once the Forest people saw this, they would understand.
The visit to the House of Lords in London had been interesting, but though the Select Committee had not reported yet, he had little doubt of the outcome. The plantations would continue. They had to. This was progress.
He’d been glad when Cumberbatch had offered him young George Pride as a guide this afternoon. If old Pride represented the past, his son George was the future. The job he’d taken was a good one. The keepers and under-keepers were no longer needed now the deer had gone, but there were several positions, known as woodsmen, looking after the plantations, which brought a cottage with them. Young George might be working for Cumberbatch, but he lived on the Forest and he was well paid.
‘He’ll be very anxious to please you,’ Cumberbatch had remarked with a grim smile. On his return from London the Deputy Surveyor had summoned George to his office and informed him bluntly: ‘You may not be able to control your father, but I wasn’t pleased to see him at the Committee. I’ll be watching