PART Ⅲ-3
ItwasJuheseveh,Friday,theseddayofthecoarse-fishingseason.
Ihadn’thadanydifficultyinfixingthingswiththefirm.AsforHilda,I’dfittedherupwithastorythatwasallshipshapeandwatertight.I’dfixedhamformyalibi,andatthelastmomentI’deventoldherthehehotelIwasgoingtostayat,Rowbottom’sFamilyandercial.IhappeoknowtheaddressbecauseI’dstayedtheresomeyearsearlier.AtthesametimeIdidn’twantherwritingtomeatBirmingham,whichshemightdoifIwasawayaslongasaweek.AfterthinkingitoverItookyoungSaunders,whotravelsflissoFloorPolish,partlyintomyfidence.He’dhappeomentionthathe’dbepassingthroughBirminghamoeenthofJune,andIgothimtopromisethathe’dstoponhisostaletterfrommetoHilda,addressedfromRowbottom’s.ThiswastotellherthatImightbecalledawayandshe’dbetternotwrite.Saundersuood,orthoughthedid.HegavemeawinkandsaidIwaswonderfulfe.SothatsettledHilda.Shehadn’taskedaions,andevenifsheturnedsuspiciouslater,analibilikethatwouldtakesomebreaking.
IdrovethroughWesterham.ItwasawonderfulJunem.Afaintbreezeblowing,aopsswayinginthesun,littlewhitecloudsstreamingacrosstheskylikeaflockofsheep,andtheshadowschasingeachotheracrossthefields.OutsideWesterhamaWalls’IceCreamlad,withcheekslikeapples,cametearingtowardsmeonhisbike,whistlingsothatitwentthroughyourhead.ItsuddenlyremindedmeofthetimewhenI’dbeenanerrandboymyself(thoughinthosedayswedidn’thavefree-wheelbikes)andIverynearlystoppedhimandtookohey’dcutthehayinplaces,buttheyhadn’tgotitilaydryinginlongshinyrows,andthesmellofitdriftedacrosstheroadandgotmixedupwiththepetrol.
Idrovealongatageeen.Themhadakindofpeaceful,dreamyfeeling.Theducksfloatedaboutonthepondsasiftheyfelttoosatisfiedtoeat.Ilefield,thevillagebeyoerham,alittlemaninawhiteapron,withgreyhairandahugegreymoustache,dartedacrossthegreen,plantedhimselfinthemiddleoftheroadandbegandoingphysicaljerkstoattractmyattention.Mycar’sknownallalongthisroad,ofcourse.Ipulledup.It’sonlyMrWeaver,whokeepsthevillagegeneralshop.No,hedoesn’twanttoinsurehislife,norhisshopeither.He’smerelyrunoutofgeandwantstoknowwhetherI’vegotaquid’sworthof‘largesilver’.Theyneverhaveanygeilefield,notevenatthepub.
Idroveon.Thewheatwouldhavebeenastallasyourwaist.Itwentundulatingupanddownthehillslikeagreatgreencarpet,withthewindripplingitalittle,kindofthidsilky-looking.It’slikeawoman,Ithought.Itmakesyouwanttolieonit.AndabitaheadofmeIsawthesign-postwheretheroadfhtforPudleyaforOxford.
Iwasstillonmyusualbeat,iheboundaryofmyown‘district’,asthefirmcallsit.Thenaturalthing,asIwasgoiward,wouldhavebeentoleaveLondonalongtheUxbridgeRoad.ButbyakindofinstinctI’dfollowedmyusualroute.ThefactwasIwasfeelingguiltyaboutthewholebusiness.IwaogetwellawaybeforeIheadedforOxfordshire.AndinspiteofthefactthatI’dfixedthingssolywithHildaandthefirm,inspiteofthetwelvequidinmypocket-bookacaseinthebackofthecar,asIgothecrossroadsIactuallyfeltatemptation—IknewIwasn’tgoingtosuccumbtoit,atation—tochuckthewholethingup.IhadasortoffeelingthatsolongasIwasdrivingalongmynormalbeatIwasstillihelaw.It’snottoolate,Ithought.There’sstilltimetodotherespectablething.IcouldrunintoPudley,forinstance,seethemanagerofBarclay’sBank(he’sentatPudley)andfindoutifanynewbusinesshadein.ForthatmatterIcouldeventurnround,gobacktoHilda,andmakeabreastoftheplot.
IsloweddownasIgottotheer.ShouldIorshouldn’tI?ForaboutasedIwasreallytempted.Butno!Itootedtheklaxonandswungthecarwestward,ontotheOxfordroad.
Well,I’ddo.Iwasontheforbiddenground.Itwastruethatfivemilesfartheron,ifIwao,IcouldturntotheleftagainabacktoWesterham.ButforthemomentIwasheadedwestward.StrictlyspeakingIwasinflight.Andwhatwascurious,IwasnosooheOxfordroadthaperfectlycertainthatTHEYknewallaboutit.WhenIsayTHEYImeanallthepeoplewhowouldn’tapproveofatripofthiskindandwho’dhavestoppedmeiftheycould—which,Isuppose,wouldincludeprettywelleverybody.
Whatwasmore,Iactuallyhadafeelingthattheywereaftermealready.Thewholelotofthem!Allthepeoplewhocouldn’tuandwhyamiddle-agedmanwithfalseteethshouldsneakawayforaquietweekintheplacewherehespenthisboyhood.Andallthemean-mindedbastardswhoCOULDuandonlytoowell,andwho’draiseheavehtopreventit.Theywereallonmytrack.Itwasasifahugearmywerestreaminguptheroadbehindme.Iseemedtoseetheminmymind’seye.Hildawasinfront,ofcourse,withthekidstaggingafterher,andMrsWheelerdrivingherforwardwithagrim,vindictiveexpression,andMissMinnsrushingalongintherear,withherpinezslippingdownandalookofdistressonherface,likethehenthatgetsleftbehiheothershavegotholdofthebarind.AndSirHerbertCrumandthehigher-upsoftheFlyingSalamaheirRolls-RoydHispano-Suizas.Andallthechapsattheoffidallthepoordown-troddenpen-pushersfromEllesmereRoadandfromallsuchotherroads,someofthemwheelingpramsandmowing-maesandcretegarden-rollers,someofthemchuggingalonginlittleAustinSevens.Andallthesoul-saversandNoseyParkers,thepeoplewhomyou’veneverseenbutwhoruleyourdestinyallthesame,theHomeSecretary,ScotlandYard,theTemperanceLeague,theBankofEngland,LordBeaverbrook,HitlerandStalinonatandembicycle,thebenchofBishops,Mussolini,thePope—theywereallofthemafterme.Icouldalmosthearthemshouting:
‘There’sachapwhothinkshe’sgoingtoescape!There’sachapwhosaysheworeamlined!He’sgoingbacktoLowerBinfield!Afterhim!Stophim!’
It’squeer.TheimpressionwassthatIactuallytookapeepthroughthelittlewindowatthebackoftheakesureIwasn’tbeingfollowed.Guiltysce,Isuppose.Buttherewasnobody.Onlythedustywhiteroadandthelongliheelmsdwindlingoutbehindme.
Itrodonthegasandtheoldcarrattledintothethirties.AfewmierIasttheWesterhamturning.Sothatwasthat.I’dburntmyboats.Thiswastheideawhiadimsortofway,hadbeguntoformitselfinmymindthedayIgotmynewfalseteeth.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
Ihadn’thadanydifficultyinfixingthingswiththefirm.AsforHilda,I’dfittedherupwithastorythatwasallshipshapeandwatertight.I’dfixedhamformyalibi,andatthelastmomentI’deventoldherthehehotelIwasgoingtostayat,Rowbottom’sFamilyandercial.IhappeoknowtheaddressbecauseI’dstayedtheresomeyearsearlier.AtthesametimeIdidn’twantherwritingtomeatBirmingham,whichshemightdoifIwasawayaslongasaweek.AfterthinkingitoverItookyoungSaunders,whotravelsflissoFloorPolish,partlyintomyfidence.He’dhappeomentionthathe’dbepassingthroughBirminghamoeenthofJune,andIgothimtopromisethathe’dstoponhisostaletterfrommetoHilda,addressedfromRowbottom’s.ThiswastotellherthatImightbecalledawayandshe’dbetternotwrite.Saundersuood,orthoughthedid.HegavemeawinkandsaidIwaswonderfulfe.SothatsettledHilda.Shehadn’taskedaions,andevenifsheturnedsuspiciouslater,analibilikethatwouldtakesomebreaking.
IdrovethroughWesterham.ItwasawonderfulJunem.Afaintbreezeblowing,aopsswayinginthesun,littlewhitecloudsstreamingacrosstheskylikeaflockofsheep,andtheshadowschasingeachotheracrossthefields.OutsideWesterhamaWalls’IceCreamlad,withcheekslikeapples,cametearingtowardsmeonhisbike,whistlingsothatitwentthroughyourhead.ItsuddenlyremindedmeofthetimewhenI’dbeenanerrandboymyself(thoughinthosedayswedidn’thavefree-wheelbikes)andIverynearlystoppedhimandtookohey’dcutthehayinplaces,buttheyhadn’tgotitilaydryinginlongshinyrows,andthesmellofitdriftedacrosstheroadandgotmixedupwiththepetrol.
Idrovealongatageeen.Themhadakindofpeaceful,dreamyfeeling.Theducksfloatedaboutonthepondsasiftheyfelttoosatisfiedtoeat.Ilefield,thevillagebeyoerham,alittlemaninawhiteapron,withgreyhairandahugegreymoustache,dartedacrossthegreen,plantedhimselfinthemiddleoftheroadandbegandoingphysicaljerkstoattractmyattention.Mycar’sknownallalongthisroad,ofcourse.Ipulledup.It’sonlyMrWeaver,whokeepsthevillagegeneralshop.No,hedoesn’twanttoinsurehislife,norhisshopeither.He’smerelyrunoutofgeandwantstoknowwhetherI’vegotaquid’sworthof‘largesilver’.Theyneverhaveanygeilefield,notevenatthepub.
Idroveon.Thewheatwouldhavebeenastallasyourwaist.Itwentundulatingupanddownthehillslikeagreatgreencarpet,withthewindripplingitalittle,kindofthidsilky-looking.It’slikeawoman,Ithought.Itmakesyouwanttolieonit.AndabitaheadofmeIsawthesign-postwheretheroadfhtforPudleyaforOxford.
Iwasstillonmyusualbeat,iheboundaryofmyown‘district’,asthefirmcallsit.Thenaturalthing,asIwasgoiward,wouldhavebeentoleaveLondonalongtheUxbridgeRoad.ButbyakindofinstinctI’dfollowedmyusualroute.ThefactwasIwasfeelingguiltyaboutthewholebusiness.IwaogetwellawaybeforeIheadedforOxfordshire.AndinspiteofthefactthatI’dfixedthingssolywithHildaandthefirm,inspiteofthetwelvequidinmypocket-bookacaseinthebackofthecar,asIgothecrossroadsIactuallyfeltatemptation—IknewIwasn’tgoingtosuccumbtoit,atation—tochuckthewholethingup.IhadasortoffeelingthatsolongasIwasdrivingalongmynormalbeatIwasstillihelaw.It’snottoolate,Ithought.There’sstilltimetodotherespectablething.IcouldrunintoPudley,forinstance,seethemanagerofBarclay’sBank(he’sentatPudley)andfindoutifanynewbusinesshadein.ForthatmatterIcouldeventurnround,gobacktoHilda,andmakeabreastoftheplot.
IsloweddownasIgottotheer.ShouldIorshouldn’tI?ForaboutasedIwasreallytempted.Butno!Itootedtheklaxonandswungthecarwestward,ontotheOxfordroad.
Well,I’ddo.Iwasontheforbiddenground.Itwastruethatfivemilesfartheron,ifIwao,IcouldturntotheleftagainabacktoWesterham.ButforthemomentIwasheadedwestward.StrictlyspeakingIwasinflight.Andwhatwascurious,IwasnosooheOxfordroadthaperfectlycertainthatTHEYknewallaboutit.WhenIsayTHEYImeanallthepeoplewhowouldn’tapproveofatripofthiskindandwho’dhavestoppedmeiftheycould—which,Isuppose,wouldincludeprettywelleverybody.
Whatwasmore,Iactuallyhadafeelingthattheywereaftermealready.Thewholelotofthem!Allthepeoplewhocouldn’tuandwhyamiddle-agedmanwithfalseteethshouldsneakawayforaquietweekintheplacewherehespenthisboyhood.Andallthemean-mindedbastardswhoCOULDuandonlytoowell,andwho’draiseheavehtopreventit.Theywereallonmytrack.Itwasasifahugearmywerestreaminguptheroadbehindme.Iseemedtoseetheminmymind’seye.Hildawasinfront,ofcourse,withthekidstaggingafterher,andMrsWheelerdrivingherforwardwithagrim,vindictiveexpression,andMissMinnsrushingalongintherear,withherpinezslippingdownandalookofdistressonherface,likethehenthatgetsleftbehiheothershavegotholdofthebarind.AndSirHerbertCrumandthehigher-upsoftheFlyingSalamaheirRolls-RoydHispano-Suizas.Andallthechapsattheoffidallthepoordown-troddenpen-pushersfromEllesmereRoadandfromallsuchotherroads,someofthemwheelingpramsandmowing-maesandcretegarden-rollers,someofthemchuggingalonginlittleAustinSevens.Andallthesoul-saversandNoseyParkers,thepeoplewhomyou’veneverseenbutwhoruleyourdestinyallthesame,theHomeSecretary,ScotlandYard,theTemperanceLeague,theBankofEngland,LordBeaverbrook,HitlerandStalinonatandembicycle,thebenchofBishops,Mussolini,thePope—theywereallofthemafterme.Icouldalmosthearthemshouting:
‘There’sachapwhothinkshe’sgoingtoescape!There’sachapwhosaysheworeamlined!He’sgoingbacktoLowerBinfield!Afterhim!Stophim!’
It’squeer.TheimpressionwassthatIactuallytookapeepthroughthelittlewindowatthebackoftheakesureIwasn’tbeingfollowed.Guiltysce,Isuppose.Buttherewasnobody.Onlythedustywhiteroadandthelongliheelmsdwindlingoutbehindme.
Itrodonthegasandtheoldcarrattledintothethirties.AfewmierIasttheWesterhamturning.Sothatwasthat.I’dburntmyboats.Thiswastheideawhiadimsortofway,hadbeguntoformitselfinmymindthedayIgotmynewfalseteeth.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
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Copyright (C) 2019 All Rights Reserved 版权所有：松语文学
并不代表本站立场!本站亦无法严格审:Coming up for Air最新章节其版权归属。如您对Coming up for AirTXT下载持有版权方面的异议，请联系本站客服。我们将于72小时内处理。
Copyright (C) 2019 All Rights Reserved 版权所有：松语文学