PART Ⅳ-2
Thedining-roomhadged,too.
Icouldremembertheoldroom,thoughI’dneverhadamealthere,withitsbrownmantelpieditsbronzy-yelloaper—Ineverknewwhetheritwasmeanttobethatcolour,orhadjustgotlikethatfromageandsmoke—andtheoil-painting,alsobyWm.Sandford,Painter&Carpenter,ofthebattleofTel-el-Kebir.Nowthey’dgottheplaceupinakindofmedievalstyle.Brickfireplacewithinglenooks,ahugebeamacrosstheceiling,oakpanellingonthewalls,andeverybitofitafakethatyoucouldhavespottedfiftyyardsaway.Thebeamwasgenuineoak,cameoutofsomeoldsailing-ship,probably,butitdidn’tholdanythingup,andIhadmysuspisofthepanelsassoonasIseteyesonthem.AsIsatdownatmytable,andtheslickyoungwaitercametowardsmefiddlingwithhisnapkin,Itappedthewallbehindme.Yes!Thoughtso!Notevenwood.Theyfakeitupwithsomekindofpositionandthenpaintitover.
Butthelunchwasn’tbad.IhadmylambandmintsaudIhadabottleofsomewhitewiherwithaFrenamewhichmademebelchabitbutmademefeelhappy.Therewasoherpersonlungthere,awomanofaboutthirtywithfairhair,lookedlikeaonderedwhethershewasstayingattheGee,andmadevagueplanstogetoffwithher.It’sfunnyhowyourfeelimixedup.HalfthetimeIwasseeingghosts.Thepastwasstigoutintothepresent,Marketday,andthegreatsolidfarmersthrowingtheirlegsuhelongtable,withtheirhobnailsgratingoonefloor,andwtheirwaythroughaquantityofbeefanddumplingyouwouldn’tbelievethehumanframecouldhold.Ahelittletableswiththeirshinywhiteclothsandwine-glassesandfoldednapkins,andthefaked-updecorationsandthegeneralexpensivenesswouldblotitoutagain.AndI’dthink,‘I’vegottwelvequidandanewsuit.I’mlittleGeieBowling,andwho’dhavebelievedI’deverebacktoLowerBinfieldinmyownmotorcar?’AhewinewouldsendakindofwarmfeelingupwardsfrommystomadI’drunaneyeoverthewomanwithfairhairaallytakeherclothesoff.
ItwasthesameiernoonasIlayaboutinthelounge—fake-medievalagain,butithadstreamliherarmchairsandglass-toppedtables—withsomebrandyandacigar.Iwasseeingghosts,butonthewholeIwasenjoyingit.AsamatteroffactIwasatinybitboozedandhopingthatthewomanwithfairhairwouldeinsothatIcouldscrapeacquaintance.Shenevershowedup,however.Itwasn’ttillnearlytea-timethatIwentout.
Istrolleduptothemarket-pladturheleft.Theshop!Itwasfunny.Twenty-oneyearsago,thedayofMother’sfuneral,I’dpasseditiionfly,aallshutupanddusty,withthesignburntofflumber’sblowflame,andIhadn’tcaredadamn.Andnow,whenIwassomuchfurtherawayfromit,whentherewereactuallydetailsabouttheihehousethatIcouldn’tremember,thethoughtofseeingitagaindidthingstomyheartandguts.Ipassedthebarber’sshop.Stillabarber’s,thoughthenamewasdifferent.Awarm,soapy,almondysmellcameoutofthedoor.Notquitesogoodastheoldsmellofbayrumandlatakia.Theshop—ourshop—wastwentyyardsfartherdown.Ah!
Anarty-lookingsign—paihesamechapasdidtheoheGee,Ishouldn’twonder—hangingoutoverthepavement:
WENDY’STEASHOP
MCOFFEE
HOME-MADECAKES
Atea-shop!
Isupposeifithadbeenabutcher’soranironmonger’s,oranythingelseexceptaseedsman’s,itwouldhavegivehesamekindofjolt.It’sabsurdthatbecauseyouhappentohavebeenborniainhouseyoushouldfeelthatyou’veghtsoveritfortherestofyourlife,butsoyoudo.Theplaceliveduptoitsname,allright.Bluecurtainsinthewindow,andacakeortwostandingabout,thekindofcakethat’scoveredwithchocolateandhasjustonewalnutstuewhereoop.Iwentin.Ididn’treallywantanytea,butIhadtoseetheinside.
They’devidentlyturhtheshopandwhatusedtobetheparlourintotea-rooms.AsfortheyardatthebackwherethedustbiostandandFather’slittlepatchofweedsusedtogrow,they’dpaveditalloveranddolleditupwithrustictablesandhydrangeasandthings.Iwentthroughintotheparlour.Mhosts!Thepianoasonthewall,awolumpyoldredarmchairswhereFatherandMotherusedtositonoppositesidesofthefireplace,readingthePeopleandtheNewsoftheWorldonSundayafternoons!They’dgottheplaceupinaneveiquestylethantheGee,withgatelegtablesandahammered-irondelieraerplateshangingonthewallandwhat-not.Doyounoticehowdarktheyalwaysmaomakeitintheseartytea-rooms?It’spartoftheantiqueness,Isuppose.Andinsteadofanordinarywaitresstherewasayoungwomaninakindofprinterwhometmewithasourexpression.Iaskedherfortea,aenmitingit.Youknowthekindoftea—atea,soweakthatyoucouldthinkit’swatertillyouputthemilkin.IwassittingalmostexactlywhereFather’sarmchairusedtostand.Icouldalmosthearhisvoice,readingouta‘piece’,asheusedtocallit,fromthePeople,aboutthenewflyingmaes,orthechapallowedbyawhale,orsomething.ItgavemeamostpeculiarfeelingthatIwasthereonfalsepretendtheycouldkickmeoutiftheydiscoveredwhoIwas,asimultaneouslyIhadakindoflongingtotellsomebodythatI’dbeenborhatIbelohishouse,orrather(whatIreallyfelt)thatthehousebeloome.Therewasnobodyelsehavihegirlintheprinterwashangingaboutbythewindow,andIcouldseethatifIhadhereshe’dhavebeenpigherteeth.Ibitintooheslicesofcakeshe’dbroughtme.Home-madecakes!Youbettheywere.Home-madewithmargarineandegg-substitute.ButintheendIhadtospeak.Isaid:
‘HaveyoubeeninLowerBinfieldlong?’
Shestarted,lookedsurprised,anddidn’tariedagain:
‘IusedtoliveinLowerBinfleldmyself,agoodwhileago.’
Againnoanswer,oronlysomethingthatIcouldn’thear.Shegavemeakindidlookandtheofthewindowagain.Isaas.Toomuchofaladytogoinforback-chatwithers.Besides,sheprobablythoughtIwastryingtogetoffwithher.WhatwasthegoodoftellingherI’dbeenborninthehouse?Evenifshebelievedit,itwouldn’tiher.She’dneverheardofSamuelBowling,&SeedMert.Ipaidthebillandclearedout.
IwaothechurethingthatI’dbeenhalfafraidof,andhalflookingforwardto,wasbeingreizedbypeopleIusedtoknow.ButIhaveworried,therewasn’tafaewanywhereireets.Itseemedasifthewholetownhadgotanewpopulation.
WhenIgottothechurchIsawwhythey’dhadtohaveaery.Thechurchyardwasfulltothebrim,andhalfthegraveshadhemthatIdidn’tknow.ButthenamesIdidknowwereeasyenoughtofind.Iwanderedroundamongthegraves.Thesextonhadjustscythedthegrassandtherewasasmellofsummereveheywereallalone,alltheolderfolksI’dknown.Gravittthebutcher,andWiheotherseedsman,andTrew,whousedtokeeptheGee,andMrsWheelerfromthesweet-shop—theywerealllyingthere.Shooteraherallwereoppositeoherohersideofthepath,justasiftheywerestillsingingateachotheracrosstheaisle.SoWetherallhadn’tgothishuerall.Bornin‘43aedhislife’in1928.Buthe’dbeatenShooter,asusual.Shooterdiedin‘26.WhatatimeoldWetherallmusthavehadthoselasttwoyearswhentherewasnobodytosingagainsthim!AndoldGrimmettunderahugemarblethingshapedratherlikeaveal-and-hampie,withanironrailingroundit,andintheerawholebatmonsesundercheaplittlecrosses.Allgoodust.OldHodgeswithhistobacco-colouredteeth,andLovegrovewithhisbigbrownbeard,andLadyRamplingwiththeanaiger,andHarryBarnes’sauntwhohadaglasseye,andBreweroftheMillFarmwithhiswickedoldfacelikesomethingcarvedoutofanut—nothiofanyofthemexceptaslabofstoneandGodknowswhatunderh.
IfoundMrave,andFather’sbesideit.Bothofthemiygoodrepair.Thesextonhadkeptthegrassclipped.UncleEzekiel’swasalittlewayaway.They’dlevelledalotoftheraves,andtheoldwoodenhead-pieces,theohatusedtolookliketheendofabedstead,hadallbeenclearedaway.Whatdoyoufeelwhenyouseeyourparents’gravesaftertwentyyears?Idon’tknowwhatyououghttofeel,butI’lltellyouwhatIdidfeel,andthatwasnothing.FatherandMotherhaveneverfadedoutofmymind.It’sasiftheyexistedsomewhereorotherinakiernity,Motherbehindthebroot,Fatherwithhisbaldheadalittlemealy,andhisspectaclesandhisgreymoustache,fixedforeverlikepeopleinapicture,ainsomewayalive.Thoseboxesofboneslyinginthegroundtheredidohaveanythingtodowiththem.Merely,asIstoodthere,Ibegantowonderwhatyoufeellikewhenyou’reunderground,whetheryoucaremudhowsoonyouceasetocare,whensuddenlyaheavyshadowsweptaeandgavemeabitofastart.
Ilookedovermyshoulder.Itwasonlyabombingplanewhichhadflowweehesun.Theplaceseemedtobecreepingwiththem.
IstrolledintothechurostthefirsttimesibacktoLowerBinfieldIdidn’thavetheghostlyfeeling,orratherIhaditinadifferentform.Becausenothinghadged.Nothing,exceptthatallthepeopleweregohehassockslookedthesame.Thesamedusty,sweetishcorpse-smell.AndbyGod!thesameholeinthewindow,though,asitwaseveningandthesunwasrouherside,thespotoflightwasn’tcreepinguptheaisle.They’dstillgotpews—hadn’tgedovertochairs.Therewasourpew,andtherewastheoneinfrontwhereWetherallusedtobellowagainstShooter.SihonkingoftheAmoritesandOgthekingofBashan!Andthewornstoheaislewhereyoucouldstillhalf-readtheepitaphsoftheblokeswholaybehem.Isquatteddowntohavealookattheoneoppositeourpew.Istillkhereadablebitsofitbyheart.Eveerntheymadeseemedtohavestumymemory.LordknowshowoftenI’dreadthemduringthesermon.
Here..................fo.,
ofthisparifh..........hisjuft&
upright..........................
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Tohis........manifoldprivatebene
volencesheaddedadiligent.......
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.......................belovedwife
Amelia,by..............iffuefeven
daughters..........................
IrememberedhowthelongS’susedtopuzzlemeasakid.UsedtowonderwhetherintheolddaystheypronouheirS’sasF’s,andifso,why.
Therebehindme.Ilookedup.Achapinacassockwasstandingoverme.Itwasthevicar.
ButImeanTHEvicar!ItwasoldBetterton,who’dbeenvitheolddays—not,asamatteroffact,eversinceIcouldremember,butsince1904orthereabouts.Ireizedhimatohoughhishairwasquitewhite.
Hedidn’treizeme.Iwasonlyafattripperinabluesuitdoingabitofsightseeing.Hesaidgoodeveningandpromptlystartedontheusuallialk—wasIiedinarchitecture,remarkableoldbuildingthis,foundationsgobacktoSaxontimesandsoonandsoforth.Andsoonhewasdround,showihesights,suchastheywere—Normanarchleadingintothevestry,brasseffigyofSirRoderiewhowaskilledattheBattleofNewbury.AndIfollowedhimwiththekindofwhipped-dogairthatmiddle-agedbusinessmenalwayshavewhenthey’rebeingshownroundachurchorapicture-gallery.ButdidItellhimthatIkallalready?DidItellhimthatIwasGeieBowling,sonofSamuelBowling—he’dhaverememberedmyfatherevenifhedidn’trememberme—andthatI’dnotonlylisteohissermonsfortenyearsandgoohisfirmationclasses,butevenbeloheLowerBinfieldReadingCirdhadagoatSesameandLiliesjusttopleasehim?No,Ididn’t.Imerelyfollowedhimround,makingthekindofmumblethatyoumakewhensomebodytellsyouthatthisorthatisfivehundredyearsoldandyou’tthinkwhatthehelltosayexceptthatitdoesn’tlookit.FromthemomentthatIseteyesonhimI’ddecidedtolethimthinkIwasastranger.AssoonasIdetlycouldIdroppedsixpeheChurchExpensesboxandbunked.
Butwhy?WhynotmaketaowthatatlastI’dfoundsomebodyIknew?
Becausethegeinhisappearaertwentyyearshadactuallyfrightenedme.Isupposeyouthihathelookedolder.Buthedidn’t!HelookedYOUNGER.Anditsuddenlytaughtmesomethingaboutthepassageoftime.
IsupposeoldBettertonwouldbeaboutsixty-fivenow,sothatwhenIlastsawhimhe’dhavebeenaboutforty-five—myowage.Hishairwaswhitenow,andthedayheburiedMotheritwasakindofstreakygrey,likeashaving-brush.AassoonasIsawhimthefirstthingthatstruckmewasthathelookedyounger.I’dthoughtofhimasanold,oldman,andafterallhewasn’tsoveryold.Asaboy,itoccurredtome,allpeopleoverfortyhadseemedtomejustworn-outoldwrecks,sooldthattherewashardlyanydiffereweenthem.Amanofforty-fivehadseemedtomeolderthanthisolddoddererofsixty-fiveseemednow.AndChrist!Iwasforty-fivemyself.Itfrightenedme.
Sothat’swhatIlookliketochapsoftwenty,IthoughtasImadeoffbetweenthegraves.Justapooroldhulk.Fiwascurious.AsaruleIdon’tcareadamnaboutmyage.WhyshouldI?I’mfat,butI’mstrongahy.IdoeverythingIwanttodo.ArosesmellsthesametomenowasitdidwhenIwastwenty.Ah,butdoIsmellthesametotherose?Likeanansweragirl,mighthavebeeeen,cameupthechurchyardlane.Shehadtopasswithinayardortwoofme.Isawthelookshegaveme,justatinymomentarylook.No,nhtened,norhostile.Onlykindofwild,remote,likeawildanimalwhenyoucatchitseye.She’dbeenbornandgrownupinthosetwentyyearswhileIwasawayfromLowerBinfield.Allmymemorieswouldhavebeenmeanioher.Livinginadifferentworldfromme,likeananimal.
IwentbacktotheGee.Iwantedadrink,butthebardidn’topenforanotherhalf-hour.Ihungaboutforabit,readingaSpandDramaticoftheyearbefore,alythefair-haireddame,theohoughtmightbeawidow,camein.Ihadasuddendesperateyearningtogetoffwithher.Waoshowmyselfthatthere’slifeintheolddogyet,eveniftheolddogdoeshavetowearfalseteeth.Afterall,Ithought,ifshe’sthirtyandI’mforty-five,that’sfairenough.Iwasstandinginfrontoftheemptyfireplace,makingbelievetowarmmybum,thewayyoudoonasummerday.InmybluesuitIdidn’tlooksobad.Abitfat,nodoubt,butdistingue.Amanoftheworld.Icouldpassforastockbroker.Iputonmytoatandsaidcasually:
‘WonderfulJuherwe’rehaving.’
Itrettyharmlessremark,wasn’tit?Norinthesameclassas‘Haven’tImetyousomewherebefore?’
Butitwasn’tasuccess.Shedidn’tanswer,merelyloweredforabouthalfasedthepapershewasreadingandgavemealookthatwouldhavecrackedawindoful.Shehadohoseblueeyesthatgointoyoulikeabullet.InthatsplitsedIsawhowhopelesslyI’dgotherwrong.Shewasn’tthekindofithdyedhairwholikesbeingtakenouttodance-halls.Sheer-middle-class,probablyanadmiral’sdaughter,aoohosegoodschoolswheretheyplayhockey.AndI’dgotmyselfwrongtoo.Newsuitornonewsuit,ICOULDN’Tpassforastockbroker.Merelylookedlikeaercialtravellerwho’dhappeogetholdofabitofdough.Isneakedofftotheprivatebartohaveapintortwobeforedinner.
Thebeerwasn’tthesame.Iremembertheoldbeer,thegoodThamesValleybeerthatusedtohaveabitoftasteinitbecauseitwasmadeoutofchalkywater.Iaskedthebarmaid:
‘HaveBessemers’stillgotthebrewery?’
‘Bessemers?Oo,NO,sir!They’vegorn.Oo,yearsago—longbeforewee‘ere.’
Shewasafriendlysort,whatIcalltheelder-sistertypeofbarmaid,thirty-fivish,withamildkindoffadthefatarmstheydevelopfrthebeer-handle.Shetoldmethehebihadtakehebrewery.Icouldhaveguesseditfromthetaste,asamatteroffact.Thedifferentbarsranroundinacirclewithpartmentsiween.Acrossinthepublicbartswereplayingagameofdarts,andintheJugandBottlethereIcouldn’tseewhooccasionallyputinaremarkinasepulchralkindofvoice.Thebarmaidleaelbowsonthebarandhadatalkwithme.IrahehepeopleIusedtoknow,andtherewasn’tasingleohemthatshe’dheardof.Shesaidshe’donlybeeninLowerBinfieldfiveyears.Shehadn’tevenheardofoldTrew,whousedtohavetheGeeintheolddays.
‘IusedtoliveinLowerBinfieldmyself,’Itoldher.‘Agoodwhileback,itwas,beforethewar.’
‘Beforethewar?Well,now!Youdon’tlookthatold.’
‘Seesomeges,Idessay,’saidthechapintheJugandBottle.
‘Thetown’sgrown,’Isaid.‘It’sthefactories,Isuppose.’
‘Well,ofcoursetheymostlyworkatthefactories.There’sthegramophoneworks,ahere’sTruefittStogs.Butofcoursethey’remakingbombsnowadays.’
Ididn’taltogetherseewhyitwasofcourse,butshebegantellingmeaboutayoungfelloorkedatTruefitt’sfactoryandsometimescametotheGee,aoldherthattheyweremakingbombsaswellasstogs,thetwo,forsomereasonIdidn’tuand,beiobine.AndtheoldmeaboutthebigmilitaryaerodromenearWalton—thatatedforthebombingplanesIkeptseeing—amomeartedtalkingaboutthewar,asusual.Funny.ItwasexactlytoescapethethoughtofwarthatI’dehere.Buthowyou,anyway?It’sintheairyoubreathe.
Isaiditwasingin1941.ThechapintheJugandBottlesaidhereeditwasabadjob.Thebarmaidsaiditgaveherthecreeps.Shesaid:
‘Itdoesodomuchgood,doesit,afterallsaidanddone?AndsometimesIlieawakeatnightandhearohosegreatthingsgoingoverhead,andthinktomyself,“Well,now,supposethatwastodropabhtdownontopofme!”AndallthisA.R.P.,andMissTodgers,she’stheAirWarden,tellingyouit’llbeallrightifyoukeepyourheadandstuffthewindowsupwithneer,andtheysaythey’regoingtodigashelteruheTownHall.ButthewayIlookatitis,howcouldyouputagas-maskonababy?’
ThechapintheJugandBottlesaidhe’dreadinthepaperthatyououghttogetintoahotbathtillitwasallover.Thechapsinthepublicbaroverheardthisandtherewasabitofaby-playonthesubjectofhoeoplecouldgetintothesamebath,andbothofthemaskedthebarmaidiftheycouldshareherbathwithher.Shetoldthemnottogetsaudtheuptheotherendofthebarandhauledthemoutacouplemorepintsofoldandmild.Itookasuckatmybeer.Itoorstuff.Bitter,theycallit.Anditwasbitter,rightenough,toobitter,akindofsulphuroustaste.Chemicals.TheysaynoEnglishhopsevergointobeernowadays,they’reallmadeintochemicals.Chemicals,oherhand,aremadeintobeer.IfoundmyselfthinkingaboutUncleEzekiel,whathe’dhavesaidtobeerlikethis,andwhathe’dhavesaidaboutA.R.P.andthebucketsofsandyou’resupposedtoputthethermitebombsoutwith.AsthebarmaidcamebaysideofthebarIsaid:
‘Bytheway,who’sgottheHallnowadays?’
WealwaysusedtocallittheHall,thoughitsnamewasBinfieldHouse.Foramomentshedidouand.
‘TheHall,sir?’
‘‘EmeansBinfield‘Ouse,’saidthechapintheJugandBottle.
‘Oh,BinfieldHouse!Oo,IthoughtyoumeanttheMemorialHall.It’sDrMerrall’sgotBinfieldHousenow.’
‘DrMerrall?’
‘Yes,sir.He’sgotmorethansixtypatientsupthere,theysay.’
‘Patients?Havetheyturintoahospital,orsomething?’
‘Well—it’snotwhatyou’dcallanordinaryhospital.Moreofasanatorium.It’smentalpatients,reely.WhattheycallaMentalHome.’
Aloony-bin!
Butafterall,whatelsecouldyouexpect?松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
Icouldremembertheoldroom,thoughI’dneverhadamealthere,withitsbrownmantelpieditsbronzy-yelloaper—Ineverknewwhetheritwasmeanttobethatcolour,orhadjustgotlikethatfromageandsmoke—andtheoil-painting,alsobyWm.Sandford,Painter&Carpenter,ofthebattleofTel-el-Kebir.Nowthey’dgottheplaceupinakindofmedievalstyle.Brickfireplacewithinglenooks,ahugebeamacrosstheceiling,oakpanellingonthewalls,andeverybitofitafakethatyoucouldhavespottedfiftyyardsaway.Thebeamwasgenuineoak,cameoutofsomeoldsailing-ship,probably,butitdidn’tholdanythingup,andIhadmysuspisofthepanelsassoonasIseteyesonthem.AsIsatdownatmytable,andtheslickyoungwaitercametowardsmefiddlingwithhisnapkin,Itappedthewallbehindme.Yes!Thoughtso!Notevenwood.Theyfakeitupwithsomekindofpositionandthenpaintitover.
Butthelunchwasn’tbad.IhadmylambandmintsaudIhadabottleofsomewhitewiherwithaFrenamewhichmademebelchabitbutmademefeelhappy.Therewasoherpersonlungthere,awomanofaboutthirtywithfairhair,lookedlikeaonderedwhethershewasstayingattheGee,andmadevagueplanstogetoffwithher.It’sfunnyhowyourfeelimixedup.HalfthetimeIwasseeingghosts.Thepastwasstigoutintothepresent,Marketday,andthegreatsolidfarmersthrowingtheirlegsuhelongtable,withtheirhobnailsgratingoonefloor,andwtheirwaythroughaquantityofbeefanddumplingyouwouldn’tbelievethehumanframecouldhold.Ahelittletableswiththeirshinywhiteclothsandwine-glassesandfoldednapkins,andthefaked-updecorationsandthegeneralexpensivenesswouldblotitoutagain.AndI’dthink,‘I’vegottwelvequidandanewsuit.I’mlittleGeieBowling,andwho’dhavebelievedI’deverebacktoLowerBinfieldinmyownmotorcar?’AhewinewouldsendakindofwarmfeelingupwardsfrommystomadI’drunaneyeoverthewomanwithfairhairaallytakeherclothesoff.
ItwasthesameiernoonasIlayaboutinthelounge—fake-medievalagain,butithadstreamliherarmchairsandglass-toppedtables—withsomebrandyandacigar.Iwasseeingghosts,butonthewholeIwasenjoyingit.AsamatteroffactIwasatinybitboozedandhopingthatthewomanwithfairhairwouldeinsothatIcouldscrapeacquaintance.Shenevershowedup,however.Itwasn’ttillnearlytea-timethatIwentout.
Istrolleduptothemarket-pladturheleft.Theshop!Itwasfunny.Twenty-oneyearsago,thedayofMother’sfuneral,I’dpasseditiionfly,aallshutupanddusty,withthesignburntofflumber’sblowflame,andIhadn’tcaredadamn.Andnow,whenIwassomuchfurtherawayfromit,whentherewereactuallydetailsabouttheihehousethatIcouldn’tremember,thethoughtofseeingitagaindidthingstomyheartandguts.Ipassedthebarber’sshop.Stillabarber’s,thoughthenamewasdifferent.Awarm,soapy,almondysmellcameoutofthedoor.Notquitesogoodastheoldsmellofbayrumandlatakia.Theshop—ourshop—wastwentyyardsfartherdown.Ah!
Anarty-lookingsign—paihesamechapasdidtheoheGee,Ishouldn’twonder—hangingoutoverthepavement:
WENDY’STEASHOP
MCOFFEE
HOME-MADECAKES
Atea-shop!
Isupposeifithadbeenabutcher’soranironmonger’s,oranythingelseexceptaseedsman’s,itwouldhavegivehesamekindofjolt.It’sabsurdthatbecauseyouhappentohavebeenborniainhouseyoushouldfeelthatyou’veghtsoveritfortherestofyourlife,butsoyoudo.Theplaceliveduptoitsname,allright.Bluecurtainsinthewindow,andacakeortwostandingabout,thekindofcakethat’scoveredwithchocolateandhasjustonewalnutstuewhereoop.Iwentin.Ididn’treallywantanytea,butIhadtoseetheinside.
They’devidentlyturhtheshopandwhatusedtobetheparlourintotea-rooms.AsfortheyardatthebackwherethedustbiostandandFather’slittlepatchofweedsusedtogrow,they’dpaveditalloveranddolleditupwithrustictablesandhydrangeasandthings.Iwentthroughintotheparlour.Mhosts!Thepianoasonthewall,awolumpyoldredarmchairswhereFatherandMotherusedtositonoppositesidesofthefireplace,readingthePeopleandtheNewsoftheWorldonSundayafternoons!They’dgottheplaceupinaneveiquestylethantheGee,withgatelegtablesandahammered-irondelieraerplateshangingonthewallandwhat-not.Doyounoticehowdarktheyalwaysmaomakeitintheseartytea-rooms?It’spartoftheantiqueness,Isuppose.Andinsteadofanordinarywaitresstherewasayoungwomaninakindofprinterwhometmewithasourexpression.Iaskedherfortea,aenmitingit.Youknowthekindoftea—atea,soweakthatyoucouldthinkit’swatertillyouputthemilkin.IwassittingalmostexactlywhereFather’sarmchairusedtostand.Icouldalmosthearhisvoice,readingouta‘piece’,asheusedtocallit,fromthePeople,aboutthenewflyingmaes,orthechapallowedbyawhale,orsomething.ItgavemeamostpeculiarfeelingthatIwasthereonfalsepretendtheycouldkickmeoutiftheydiscoveredwhoIwas,asimultaneouslyIhadakindoflongingtotellsomebodythatI’dbeenborhatIbelohishouse,orrather(whatIreallyfelt)thatthehousebeloome.Therewasnobodyelsehavihegirlintheprinterwashangingaboutbythewindow,andIcouldseethatifIhadhereshe’dhavebeenpigherteeth.Ibitintooheslicesofcakeshe’dbroughtme.Home-madecakes!Youbettheywere.Home-madewithmargarineandegg-substitute.ButintheendIhadtospeak.Isaid:
‘HaveyoubeeninLowerBinfieldlong?’
Shestarted,lookedsurprised,anddidn’tariedagain:
‘IusedtoliveinLowerBinfleldmyself,agoodwhileago.’
Againnoanswer,oronlysomethingthatIcouldn’thear.Shegavemeakindidlookandtheofthewindowagain.Isaas.Toomuchofaladytogoinforback-chatwithers.Besides,sheprobablythoughtIwastryingtogetoffwithher.WhatwasthegoodoftellingherI’dbeenborninthehouse?Evenifshebelievedit,itwouldn’tiher.She’dneverheardofSamuelBowling,&SeedMert.Ipaidthebillandclearedout.
IwaothechurethingthatI’dbeenhalfafraidof,andhalflookingforwardto,wasbeingreizedbypeopleIusedtoknow.ButIhaveworried,therewasn’tafaewanywhereireets.Itseemedasifthewholetownhadgotanewpopulation.
WhenIgottothechurchIsawwhythey’dhadtohaveaery.Thechurchyardwasfulltothebrim,andhalfthegraveshadhemthatIdidn’tknow.ButthenamesIdidknowwereeasyenoughtofind.Iwanderedroundamongthegraves.Thesextonhadjustscythedthegrassandtherewasasmellofsummereveheywereallalone,alltheolderfolksI’dknown.Gravittthebutcher,andWiheotherseedsman,andTrew,whousedtokeeptheGee,andMrsWheelerfromthesweet-shop—theywerealllyingthere.Shooteraherallwereoppositeoherohersideofthepath,justasiftheywerestillsingingateachotheracrosstheaisle.SoWetherallhadn’tgothishuerall.Bornin‘43aedhislife’in1928.Buthe’dbeatenShooter,asusual.Shooterdiedin‘26.WhatatimeoldWetherallmusthavehadthoselasttwoyearswhentherewasnobodytosingagainsthim!AndoldGrimmettunderahugemarblethingshapedratherlikeaveal-and-hampie,withanironrailingroundit,andintheerawholebatmonsesundercheaplittlecrosses.Allgoodust.OldHodgeswithhistobacco-colouredteeth,andLovegrovewithhisbigbrownbeard,andLadyRamplingwiththeanaiger,andHarryBarnes’sauntwhohadaglasseye,andBreweroftheMillFarmwithhiswickedoldfacelikesomethingcarvedoutofanut—nothiofanyofthemexceptaslabofstoneandGodknowswhatunderh.
IfoundMrave,andFather’sbesideit.Bothofthemiygoodrepair.Thesextonhadkeptthegrassclipped.UncleEzekiel’swasalittlewayaway.They’dlevelledalotoftheraves,andtheoldwoodenhead-pieces,theohatusedtolookliketheendofabedstead,hadallbeenclearedaway.Whatdoyoufeelwhenyouseeyourparents’gravesaftertwentyyears?Idon’tknowwhatyououghttofeel,butI’lltellyouwhatIdidfeel,andthatwasnothing.FatherandMotherhaveneverfadedoutofmymind.It’sasiftheyexistedsomewhereorotherinakiernity,Motherbehindthebroot,Fatherwithhisbaldheadalittlemealy,andhisspectaclesandhisgreymoustache,fixedforeverlikepeopleinapicture,ainsomewayalive.Thoseboxesofboneslyinginthegroundtheredidohaveanythingtodowiththem.Merely,asIstoodthere,Ibegantowonderwhatyoufeellikewhenyou’reunderground,whetheryoucaremudhowsoonyouceasetocare,whensuddenlyaheavyshadowsweptaeandgavemeabitofastart.
Ilookedovermyshoulder.Itwasonlyabombingplanewhichhadflowweehesun.Theplaceseemedtobecreepingwiththem.
IstrolledintothechurostthefirsttimesibacktoLowerBinfieldIdidn’thavetheghostlyfeeling,orratherIhaditinadifferentform.Becausenothinghadged.Nothing,exceptthatallthepeopleweregohehassockslookedthesame.Thesamedusty,sweetishcorpse-smell.AndbyGod!thesameholeinthewindow,though,asitwaseveningandthesunwasrouherside,thespotoflightwasn’tcreepinguptheaisle.They’dstillgotpews—hadn’tgedovertochairs.Therewasourpew,andtherewastheoneinfrontwhereWetherallusedtobellowagainstShooter.SihonkingoftheAmoritesandOgthekingofBashan!Andthewornstoheaislewhereyoucouldstillhalf-readtheepitaphsoftheblokeswholaybehem.Isquatteddowntohavealookattheoneoppositeourpew.Istillkhereadablebitsofitbyheart.Eveerntheymadeseemedtohavestumymemory.LordknowshowoftenI’dreadthemduringthesermon.
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IrememberedhowthelongS’susedtopuzzlemeasakid.UsedtowonderwhetherintheolddaystheypronouheirS’sasF’s,andifso,why.
Therebehindme.Ilookedup.Achapinacassockwasstandingoverme.Itwasthevicar.
ButImeanTHEvicar!ItwasoldBetterton,who’dbeenvitheolddays—not,asamatteroffact,eversinceIcouldremember,butsince1904orthereabouts.Ireizedhimatohoughhishairwasquitewhite.
Hedidn’treizeme.Iwasonlyafattripperinabluesuitdoingabitofsightseeing.Hesaidgoodeveningandpromptlystartedontheusuallialk—wasIiedinarchitecture,remarkableoldbuildingthis,foundationsgobacktoSaxontimesandsoonandsoforth.Andsoonhewasdround,showihesights,suchastheywere—Normanarchleadingintothevestry,brasseffigyofSirRoderiewhowaskilledattheBattleofNewbury.AndIfollowedhimwiththekindofwhipped-dogairthatmiddle-agedbusinessmenalwayshavewhenthey’rebeingshownroundachurchorapicture-gallery.ButdidItellhimthatIkallalready?DidItellhimthatIwasGeieBowling,sonofSamuelBowling—he’dhaverememberedmyfatherevenifhedidn’trememberme—andthatI’dnotonlylisteohissermonsfortenyearsandgoohisfirmationclasses,butevenbeloheLowerBinfieldReadingCirdhadagoatSesameandLiliesjusttopleasehim?No,Ididn’t.Imerelyfollowedhimround,makingthekindofmumblethatyoumakewhensomebodytellsyouthatthisorthatisfivehundredyearsoldandyou’tthinkwhatthehelltosayexceptthatitdoesn’tlookit.FromthemomentthatIseteyesonhimI’ddecidedtolethimthinkIwasastranger.AssoonasIdetlycouldIdroppedsixpeheChurchExpensesboxandbunked.
Butwhy?WhynotmaketaowthatatlastI’dfoundsomebodyIknew?
Becausethegeinhisappearaertwentyyearshadactuallyfrightenedme.Isupposeyouthihathelookedolder.Buthedidn’t!HelookedYOUNGER.Anditsuddenlytaughtmesomethingaboutthepassageoftime.
IsupposeoldBettertonwouldbeaboutsixty-fivenow,sothatwhenIlastsawhimhe’dhavebeenaboutforty-five—myowage.Hishairwaswhitenow,andthedayheburiedMotheritwasakindofstreakygrey,likeashaving-brush.AassoonasIsawhimthefirstthingthatstruckmewasthathelookedyounger.I’dthoughtofhimasanold,oldman,andafterallhewasn’tsoveryold.Asaboy,itoccurredtome,allpeopleoverfortyhadseemedtomejustworn-outoldwrecks,sooldthattherewashardlyanydiffereweenthem.Amanofforty-fivehadseemedtomeolderthanthisolddoddererofsixty-fiveseemednow.AndChrist!Iwasforty-fivemyself.Itfrightenedme.
Sothat’swhatIlookliketochapsoftwenty,IthoughtasImadeoffbetweenthegraves.Justapooroldhulk.Fiwascurious.AsaruleIdon’tcareadamnaboutmyage.WhyshouldI?I’mfat,butI’mstrongahy.IdoeverythingIwanttodo.ArosesmellsthesametomenowasitdidwhenIwastwenty.Ah,butdoIsmellthesametotherose?Likeanansweragirl,mighthavebeeeen,cameupthechurchyardlane.Shehadtopasswithinayardortwoofme.Isawthelookshegaveme,justatinymomentarylook.No,nhtened,norhostile.Onlykindofwild,remote,likeawildanimalwhenyoucatchitseye.She’dbeenbornandgrownupinthosetwentyyearswhileIwasawayfromLowerBinfield.Allmymemorieswouldhavebeenmeanioher.Livinginadifferentworldfromme,likeananimal.
IwentbacktotheGee.Iwantedadrink,butthebardidn’topenforanotherhalf-hour.Ihungaboutforabit,readingaSpandDramaticoftheyearbefore,alythefair-haireddame,theohoughtmightbeawidow,camein.Ihadasuddendesperateyearningtogetoffwithher.Waoshowmyselfthatthere’slifeintheolddogyet,eveniftheolddogdoeshavetowearfalseteeth.Afterall,Ithought,ifshe’sthirtyandI’mforty-five,that’sfairenough.Iwasstandinginfrontoftheemptyfireplace,makingbelievetowarmmybum,thewayyoudoonasummerday.InmybluesuitIdidn’tlooksobad.Abitfat,nodoubt,butdistingue.Amanoftheworld.Icouldpassforastockbroker.Iputonmytoatandsaidcasually:
‘WonderfulJuherwe’rehaving.’
Itrettyharmlessremark,wasn’tit?Norinthesameclassas‘Haven’tImetyousomewherebefore?’
Butitwasn’tasuccess.Shedidn’tanswer,merelyloweredforabouthalfasedthepapershewasreadingandgavemealookthatwouldhavecrackedawindoful.Shehadohoseblueeyesthatgointoyoulikeabullet.InthatsplitsedIsawhowhopelesslyI’dgotherwrong.Shewasn’tthekindofithdyedhairwholikesbeingtakenouttodance-halls.Sheer-middle-class,probablyanadmiral’sdaughter,aoohosegoodschoolswheretheyplayhockey.AndI’dgotmyselfwrongtoo.Newsuitornonewsuit,ICOULDN’Tpassforastockbroker.Merelylookedlikeaercialtravellerwho’dhappeogetholdofabitofdough.Isneakedofftotheprivatebartohaveapintortwobeforedinner.
Thebeerwasn’tthesame.Iremembertheoldbeer,thegoodThamesValleybeerthatusedtohaveabitoftasteinitbecauseitwasmadeoutofchalkywater.Iaskedthebarmaid:
‘HaveBessemers’stillgotthebrewery?’
‘Bessemers?Oo,NO,sir!They’vegorn.Oo,yearsago—longbeforewee‘ere.’
Shewasafriendlysort,whatIcalltheelder-sistertypeofbarmaid,thirty-fivish,withamildkindoffadthefatarmstheydevelopfrthebeer-handle.Shetoldmethehebihadtakehebrewery.Icouldhaveguesseditfromthetaste,asamatteroffact.Thedifferentbarsranroundinacirclewithpartmentsiween.Acrossinthepublicbartswereplayingagameofdarts,andintheJugandBottlethereIcouldn’tseewhooccasionallyputinaremarkinasepulchralkindofvoice.Thebarmaidleaelbowsonthebarandhadatalkwithme.IrahehepeopleIusedtoknow,andtherewasn’tasingleohemthatshe’dheardof.Shesaidshe’donlybeeninLowerBinfieldfiveyears.Shehadn’tevenheardofoldTrew,whousedtohavetheGeeintheolddays.
‘IusedtoliveinLowerBinfieldmyself,’Itoldher.‘Agoodwhileback,itwas,beforethewar.’
‘Beforethewar?Well,now!Youdon’tlookthatold.’
‘Seesomeges,Idessay,’saidthechapintheJugandBottle.
‘Thetown’sgrown,’Isaid.‘It’sthefactories,Isuppose.’
‘Well,ofcoursetheymostlyworkatthefactories.There’sthegramophoneworks,ahere’sTruefittStogs.Butofcoursethey’remakingbombsnowadays.’
Ididn’taltogetherseewhyitwasofcourse,butshebegantellingmeaboutayoungfelloorkedatTruefitt’sfactoryandsometimescametotheGee,aoldherthattheyweremakingbombsaswellasstogs,thetwo,forsomereasonIdidn’tuand,beiobine.AndtheoldmeaboutthebigmilitaryaerodromenearWalton—thatatedforthebombingplanesIkeptseeing—amomeartedtalkingaboutthewar,asusual.Funny.ItwasexactlytoescapethethoughtofwarthatI’dehere.Buthowyou,anyway?It’sintheairyoubreathe.
Isaiditwasingin1941.ThechapintheJugandBottlesaidhereeditwasabadjob.Thebarmaidsaiditgaveherthecreeps.Shesaid:
‘Itdoesodomuchgood,doesit,afterallsaidanddone?AndsometimesIlieawakeatnightandhearohosegreatthingsgoingoverhead,andthinktomyself,“Well,now,supposethatwastodropabhtdownontopofme!”AndallthisA.R.P.,andMissTodgers,she’stheAirWarden,tellingyouit’llbeallrightifyoukeepyourheadandstuffthewindowsupwithneer,andtheysaythey’regoingtodigashelteruheTownHall.ButthewayIlookatitis,howcouldyouputagas-maskonababy?’
ThechapintheJugandBottlesaidhe’dreadinthepaperthatyououghttogetintoahotbathtillitwasallover.Thechapsinthepublicbaroverheardthisandtherewasabitofaby-playonthesubjectofhoeoplecouldgetintothesamebath,andbothofthemaskedthebarmaidiftheycouldshareherbathwithher.Shetoldthemnottogetsaudtheuptheotherendofthebarandhauledthemoutacouplemorepintsofoldandmild.Itookasuckatmybeer.Itoorstuff.Bitter,theycallit.Anditwasbitter,rightenough,toobitter,akindofsulphuroustaste.Chemicals.TheysaynoEnglishhopsevergointobeernowadays,they’reallmadeintochemicals.Chemicals,oherhand,aremadeintobeer.IfoundmyselfthinkingaboutUncleEzekiel,whathe’dhavesaidtobeerlikethis,andwhathe’dhavesaidaboutA.R.P.andthebucketsofsandyou’resupposedtoputthethermitebombsoutwith.AsthebarmaidcamebaysideofthebarIsaid:
‘Bytheway,who’sgottheHallnowadays?’
WealwaysusedtocallittheHall,thoughitsnamewasBinfieldHouse.Foramomentshedidouand.
‘TheHall,sir?’
‘‘EmeansBinfield‘Ouse,’saidthechapintheJugandBottle.
‘Oh,BinfieldHouse!Oo,IthoughtyoumeanttheMemorialHall.It’sDrMerrall’sgotBinfieldHousenow.’
‘DrMerrall?’
‘Yes,sir.He’sgotmorethansixtypatientsupthere,theysay.’
‘Patients?Havetheyturintoahospital,orsomething?’
‘Well—it’snotwhatyou’dcallanordinaryhospital.Moreofasanatorium.It’smentalpatients,reely.WhattheycallaMentalHome.’
Aloony-bin!
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