PART Ⅳ-6
AfterbreakfastIstrolledoutintothemarket-place.Itwasalovelym,kindofcoolandstill,aleyellowlightlikewhitewineplayingovereverything.Thefreshsmellofthemwasmixedupwiththesmellofmycigar.Buttherewasazoomingnoisefrombehindthehouses,andsuddenlyafleetofgreatblaberscamewhizzingover.Ilookedupatthem.Theyseemedtobebangoverhead.
ThemomentIheardsomething.Andatthesamemoment,ifyou’dhappeobethere,you’dhaveseenainginstanceofwhatIbelieveiscalledditionedreflex.BecausewhatI’dheard—therewasn’taionofmistake—wasthewhistleofabomb.Ihadn’theardsuchathingfortwentyyears,butIdidobetoldwhatitwas.AndwithouttakinganykindofthoughtIdidtherightthing.Iflungmyselfonmyface.
AfterallI’mgladyoudidn’tseeme.Idon’tsupposeIlookeddignified.Iwasflatteonthepavementlikearatwhenitsqueezesunderadoor.Nobodyelsehadbeenhalfasprompt.I’dactedsoquicklythatinthesplitsedwhilethebombwaswhistlingdownIevenhadtimetobeafraidthatitwasallamistakeandI’dmadeafoolofmyselffornothing.
Butthemoment—ah!
BOOM-BRRRRR!
AnoiseliketheDayofJudgment,andthenanoiselikeatonofcoalfallingontoasheetoftin.Thatwasfallingbricks.Iseemedtokindofmeltintothepavement.‘It’sstarted,’Ithought.‘Ik!OldHitlerdidn’twait.Justsenthisbombersacrosswithoutwarning.’
Ahere’sapeculiarthing.Evenintheechoofthatawful,deafeningcrash,whichseemedtofreezemeupfromtoptotoe,Ihadtimetothinkthatthere’ssomethinggrandabouttheburstingofabigprojectile.Whatdoesitsoundlike?It’shardtosay,becausewhatyouhearismixedupwithwhatyou’refrightenedof.Mainlyitgivesyouavisionofburstial.Youseemtoseegreatsheetsofironburstingopen.Butthepeculiarthingisthefeelingitgivesyouofbeingsuddenlyshovedupagaiy.It’slikebeingwokenupbysomebodyshyingabucketofwateroveryou.You’resuddenlydraggedoutofyourdreamsbyagofburstial,andit’sterrible,andit’sreal.
Therewasasoundofscreamsandyells,andalsoofcarbrakesbeingsuddenlyjammedon.ThesedbombwhichIwaswaitingfordidn’tfall.Iraisedmyheadalittle.Oneverysidepeopleseemedtoberushingroundandscreaming.Acarwasskiddingdiagonallyacrosstheroad,Icouldhearawoman’svoiceshrieking,‘TheGermans!TheGermans!’ThtIhadavagueimpressionofaman’sroundwhiteface,ratherlikeawrinkledpaperbag,lookingdownatme.Hewaskindofdithering:
‘Whatisit?What’shappened?Whataretheydoing?’
‘It’sstarted,’Isaid.‘Thatwasabomb.Liedown.’
Butstillthesedbombdidn’tfall.Anotherquarterofaminuteorso,andIraisedmyheadagain.Someofthepeoplewerestillrushingabout,otherswerestandingasifthey’dbeeheground.Fromsomewherebehindthehousesahugehazeofdusthadrisenup,andthroughitablackjetofsmokewasstreamingupwards.AndthenIsawaraordinarysight.Attheotherendofthemarket-placetheHighStreetrisesalittle.Anddownthislittlehillaherdofpigsing,asortofhugefloodofpig-faces.Themoment,ofcourse,Isawwhatitwas.Itwasn’tpigsatall,itwasonlytheschoolchildrenintheirgas-masks.Isupposetheywereboltingforsomecellarwherethey’dbeentoldtotakecoverincaseofair-raids.AtthebackofthemIcouldeveatallerpigrobablyMissTodgers.ButItellyouforamomenttheylookedexactlylikeaherdofpigs.
Ipickedmyselfupandwalkedacrossthemarket-place.Peoplewerecalmingdownalready,andquitealittlecrowdhadbeguntoflocktowardstheplacewherethebombhaddropped.
Oh,yes,yht,ofcourse.Itwasn’taGermanaeroplaerall.Thewarhadn’tbrokenout.Itwasonlyanact.Theplaneswereflyiodoabitofbombingpractice—atanyratetheywerecarryingbombs—andsomebodyhadputhishandsontheleverbymistake.Iexpecthegotagoodtigoffforit.BythetimethatthepostmasterhadrungupLondontoaskwhethertherewasawaron,aoldthattherewasn’t,everyonehadgraspedthatitwasanact.Butthere’dbeenaspae,somethiweenaminuteandfiveminutes,whehousandpeoplebelievedwewereatwar.Agoodjobitdidn’tlastanylonger.Anotherquarterofanhourandwe’dhavebeenlyngourfirstspy.
Ifollowedthecrowd.Thebombhaddroppedinalittleside-streetofftheHighStreet,theonewhereUncleEzekielusedtohavehisshop.Itwasn’tfiftyyardsfromwheretheshopusedtobe.AsIcameroundtheerIcouldhearvoicesmurmuring‘Oo-oo!’—akindofawednoise,asiftheywerefrightenedaingabigkickoutofit.LuckilyIgotthereafewminutesbeforetheambulahefire-engine,andinspiteofthefiftypeopleorsothathadalreadycollectedIsaweverything.
Atfirstsightitlookedasiftheskyhadbeenrainingbridvegetables.Therewerecabbageleaveseverywhere.Thebombhadblownagreengrocer’sshopoutofexistehehousethtofithadpartofitsroofblownoff,andtheroofbeamswereonfire,andallthehousesroundhadbeenmoreorlessdamagedandhadtheirwindowssmashed.Butwhateveryonewaslookingatwasthehouseo.Itswall,theojoihegreengrocer’sshop,pedoffaslyasifsomeonehaddowithaknife.Andwhatwasextraordinarywasthatiairsroomsnothinghadbeentouched.Itwasjustlikelookingintoadoll’shouse.Chests-of-drawers,bedroomchairs,fadedaper,abedmade,andajerryuhebed—allexactlyasithadbeenlivedin,exceptthatonewallwasgothelowerroomshadcaughttheforceoftheexplosion.Therewasafrightfulsmashed-upmessofbricks,plaster,chair-legs,bitsofavarnisheddresser,ragsoftablecloth,pilesofbrokenplates,andksofascullerysink.Ajarofmarmaladehadrolledacrossthefloor,leavingalongstreakofmarmaladebehind,andrunningsidebysidewithittherewasaribbonofblood.Butinamongthebrokencrockerytherewaslyingaleg.Justaleg,withthetrouserstillonitandablackbootwithaWood-Milnerubberheel.Thiswaseoplewereoo-ingandah-ingat.
Ihadagoodlookatitandtookitin.Thebloodwasbeginningtogetmixedupwiththemarmalade.Whenthefire-enginearrivedIclearedofftotheGeetopackmybag.
ThisfinishesmewithLowerBinfield,Ithought.I’mgoinghome.ButasamatteroffactIdidn’tshakethedustoffmyshoesandleaveimmediately.Oneneverdoes.Whenanythinglikethathappens,peoplealwaysstandaboutanddiscussitforhours.Therewasn’tmuchworkdoheoldpartofLowerBihatday,everyooobusytalkingaboutthebomb,whatitsoundedlikeandwhattheythoughtwhentheyheardit.ThebarmaidattheGeesaiditfairgavehertheshudders.Shesaidshe’dneversleepsoundinherbedagain,andwhatdidyouexpect,itjustshowedthatwiththeseherebombsyouneverknew.Awomanhadbittenoffpartueowingtothejumptheexplosiongaveher.ItturthatwhereasatourendofthetowneveryonehadimagiwasaGermanair-raid,everyoheotherendhadtakenitfrahatitlosionatthestogfactory.Afterwards(Igotthisoutoftheneer)theAirMinistrysentachaptoihedamage,andissuedareportsayingthattheeffectsofthebombwere‘disappointing’.Asamatteroffactitonlykilledthreepeople,thegreengrocer,Perrotthisnamewas,andanoldcouplewholiveddoor.Thewomanwasn’tmuchsmashedabout,andtheyidentifiedtheoldmanbyhisboots,buttheyneverfoundatraceofPerrott.Notevenatrouser-buttoheburialserviceover.
IernoonIpaidmybillandhookedit.Ididn’thavemuchmorethanthreequidleftafterI’dpaidthebill.Theyknowhowtocutitoutofyouthesedolled-uptryhotels,andwhatwithdrinksandotheroddsandendsI’dbeenshyingmoneyaboutprettyfreely.Ileftmynewrodaofthefishingtackleinmybedroom.Let‘emkeepit.ome.ItwasmerelyaquidthatI’dchuckeddownthedraintoteachmyselfalesson.AndI’dlearntthelessonallright.Fatmenofforty-five’tgofishing.Thatkindofthihappenanylo’sjustadream,there’llbenomorefishingthissideofthegrave.
It’sfunnyhowthingssinkintoyoubydegrees.WhathadIreallyfeltwhenthebombexploded?Attheactualmoment,ofcourse,itscaredthewitsoutofme,andwhenIsawthesmashed-uphouseandtheoldman’slegI’dhadthekindofmildkickthatyougetfromseeingastreet-act.Disgusting,ofcourse.Quiteenoughtomakemefed-upwiththisso-calledholiday.Butithadn’treallymademuchimpression.
ButasIgotclearoftheoutskirtsofLowerBinfieldandturhecareastward,itallcamebae.Youknowhowitiswhenyou’reinacaralohere’ssomethiherinthehedgesflyingpastyou,orihroboftheehatgetsyourthoughtsrunningiainrhythm.Youhavethesamefeelingsometimeswhenyou’reirain.It’safeelingofbeingabletoseethingsierperspectivethanusual.AllkindsofthingsthatI’dbeendoubtfulaboutIfeltcertainaboutnow.Tobeginwith,I’detoLowerBinfieldwithaquestioninmymind.What’saheadofus?Isthegamereallyup?wegetbacktothelifeweusedtolive,orisitgoneforever?Well,I’dhadmyaheoldlife’sfinished,andtogobacktoLowerBinfield,you’tputJonahbatothewhale.IKhoughIdon’texpectyoutofollowmytrainofthought.AnditwasaqueerthingI’ddoneinghere.AllthoseyearsLowerBinfieldhadbeentuckedawaysomewhereorotherinmymind,asortofquieterthatIcouldstepbatowhelikeit,andfinallyI’dsteppedbatoitandfoundthatitdid.I’dchuckedapineappleintomydreams,ahereshouldbeanymistaketheRoyalAirForcehadfollowedupwithfivehundredpoundsofT.N.T.
Warising.1941,theysay.Andthere’llbeplentyofbrokencrockery,andlittlehousesrippedopenlikepag-cases,asofthecharteredatant’sclerkplasteredoverthepianothathe’sbuyingonthenever-never.Butwhatdoesthatkindofthingmatter,anyway?I’lltellyouwhatmystayinLowerBinfieldhadtaughtme,anditwasthis.IT’SALLGOINGTOHAPPEN.Allthethingsyou’vegotatthebackofyourmind,thethingsyou’reterrifiedof,thethingsthatyoutellyourselfarejustanightmareoronlyhappeninfntries.Thebombs,thefood-queues,therubbertruns,thebarbedwire,thecolouredshirts,theslogans,theenormousfaces,themae-gunssquirtingoutofbedroomwindows.It’sallgoingtohappen.Iknowit—atanyrate,Ikhen.There’snoescape.Fightagainstitifyoulike,orlooktheotherretendnottonotice,rabyourspannerandrushouttodoabitofface-smashingalongwiththeothers.Butthere’snowayout.It’sjustsomethingthat’sgottohappen.
Itrodonthegas,andtheoldcarwhizzedupanddowlehills,andthecowsareesandfieldsofwheatrushedpasttilltheenginerettynearlyred-hot.IfeltinmuchthesamemoodasI’dfeltthatdayinJanuarywhenIwasingdowrand,thedayIgotmynewfalseteeth.ItwasasthoughthepowerofprophecyhadbeengiveseemedtomethatIcouldseethewholeofEngland,andallthepeopleinit,andallthethingsthat’llhappentoallofthem.Sometimes,ofcourse,eventhen,Ihadadoubtortwo.Theworldisverylarge,that’sathingyounoticewhenyou’redrivingaboutinacar,andinawayit’sreassuring.ThinkoftheenormousstretchesoflandyoupassoverwhenyoucrossaerofasingleEnglishty.It’slikeSiberia.Andthefieldsandbeechspinneysandfarmhousesandchurches,andthevillageswiththeirlittlegrocers’shopsandtheparishhallandtheduckswalkingacrossthegreen.Surelyit’stoobigtobeged?Boundtoremainmoreorlessthesame.AlyIstrutoouterLondonandfollowedtheUxbridgeRoadasfarasSouthall.Milesandmilesofuglyhouses,withpeoplelivingdulldetlivesihem.AndbeyonditLondogonandon,streets,squares,back-alleys,tes,blocksofflats,pubs,fried-fishshops,picture-houses,onandonfortwentymiles,andalltheeightmillionpeoplewiththeirlittleprivateliveswhichtheydon’twanttohavealtered.Thebombsaren’tmadethatcouldsmashitoutofexistendthechaosofit!Theprivatenessofallthoselives!JohnSmithcuttingoutthefootballcoupons,BillWilliamssingstoriesinthebarber’s.MrsJonesinghomewiththesupperbeer.Eightmillionofthem!Surelythey’llmanagesomehow,bombsornobombs,tokeeponwiththelifethatthey’vebeeo?
Illusion!Balodoesn’tmatterhowmanyofthemthereare,they’reallforit.Thebadtimesareing,areamlinedmenareingtoo.What’singafterwardsIdon’tknow,ithardlyevesme.Ionlyknowthatifthere’sanythingyoucareacurseabout,bettersaygood-byetoitnow,becauseeverythingyou’veeverknownisgoingdown,down,intothemuck,withthemae-gunsrattlingallthetime.
ButwhenIgotbacktothesuburbmymoodsuddenlyged.
Itsuddenlystruckme—andithadn’tevencrossedmymindtillthatmoment—thatHildamightreallybeillafterall.
That’stheeffectofenviro,yousee.InLowerBinfieldI’dtakenitabsolutelyfrahatshewasn’tillandwasmerelyshammingiogetmehome.Ithadseemednaturalatthetime,Idon’tknowwhy.ButasIdroveiBletchleyandtheHesperidesEstateclosedroundmelikeakindofred-brickprison,whichiswhatitis,theordinaryhabitsofthoughtcameback.IhadthiskindofMondaymfeelingwhehingseemsbleakandsensible.Isawwhatbloodyrotitwas,thisbusihatI’dwastedthelastfivedayson.SneakingofftoLowerBiotryandrecoverthepast,andthen,intheinghome,thinkingalotofpropheticbaloneyaboutthefuture.Thefuture!What’sthefuturegottodowithchapslikeyouandme?Holdingdownourjobs—that’sourfuture.AsforHilda,evehebombsaredroppingshe’llbestillthinkingaboutthepriceofbutter.
AndsuddenlyIsawwhatafoolI’dbeentothinkshe’ddoathinglikethat.OfcoursetheS.O.S.wasn’tafake!Asthoughshe’dhavetheimagination!Itwasjusttheplaincoldtruth.Shewasn’tshammingatall,shewasreallyill.AndGosh!atthismomentshemightbelyingsomewhereinghastlypain,orevendead,forallIkhethoughtsentamosthorriblepanghtthroughme,asortofdreadfulcoldfeelinginmyguts.IwhizzeddownEllesmereRoadatnearlyfortymilesanhour,andinsteadoftakiothelock-upgarageasusualIstoppedoutsidethehouseandjumpedout.
SoI’mfondofHildaafterall,yousay!Idon’tklywhatyoumeanbyfond.Areyoufondofyourorobablynot,butyou’timagineyourselfwithoutit.It’spartofyou.Well,that’showIfeltaboutHilda.WhenthingsaregoingwellI’tstickthesightofher,butthethoughtthatshemightbedeadoreveninpaiheshiversthroughme.
Ifumbledwiththekey,gotthedooropen,andthefamiliarsmellofoldmatosheshitme.
‘Hilda!’Iyelled.‘Hilda!’
Noanswer.ForamomentIwasyelling‘Hilda!Hilda!’intouttersilendsomecoldsweatstartedoutonmybaaybetheycartedherawaytohospitalalready—maybethereselyingupstairsiyhouse.
Istartedtodashupthestairs,butatthesamemomewokids,intheirpyjamas,cameoutoftheirroomsohersideofthelanding.Itwaseightornineo’clock,Isuppose—atanyratethelightwasjustbeginningtofail.Lornahuhebanisters.
‘Oo,Daddy!Oo,it’sDaddy!Whyhaveyouebacktoday?Mummysaidyouweren’tingtillFriday.’
‘Where’syourmother?’Isaid.
‘Mummy’sout.ShewentoutwithMrsWheeler.Whyhaveyouehometoday,Daddy?’
‘Thenyourmotherhasn’tbeenill?’
‘No.Whosaidshe’dbeenill?Daddy!HaveyoubeeninBirmingham?’
‘Yes.Getbacktobed,now.You’llbecatgcold.’
‘Butwhere’sourpresents,Daddy?’
‘resents?’
‘Thepresentsyou’veboughtusfrham.’
‘You’llseetheminthem,’Isaid.
‘Oo,Daddy!’tweseethemtonight?’
‘No.Dryup.GetbacktobedorI’llthepairofyou.’
Soshewasn’tillafterall.SheHADbeenshamming.AndreallyIhardlyknewwhethertobegladorsorry.Iturnedbacktothefrontdoor,whichI’dleftopen,andthere,aslargeaslife,wasHildaingupthegardenpath.
Ilookedatherasshecametowardsmeioftheeveninglight.ItwasqueertothinkthatlessthanthreeminutesearlierI’dbeeninthedevilofastew,withactualcoldsweatonmybae,atthethoughtthatshemightbedead.Well,shewasn’tdead,shewasjustasusual.OldHildawithherthinshouldersandheranxiousfadthegasbillandtheschool-fees,andthematoshysmellandtheoffionday—allthebedrockfactsthatyouinvariablyebackto,theeteriesasoldPorteouscallsthem.IcouldseethatHildawasn’tintoogoodatemper.Shedartedmealittlequicklook,likeshedoessometimeswhenshe’sgotsomethingonhermind,thekindoflooksomelittlethinanimal,aweaselforinstance,mightgiveyou.Shedidn’tseemsurprisedtoseemeback,however.
‘Oh,soyou’rebackalready,areyou?’shesaid.
ItseemedprettyobviousthatIwasbadIdidn’tanswer.Shedidn’tmakeanymovetokissme.
‘There’snothingforyoursupper,’shewentonpromptly.That’sHildaallover.Alwaysmaosaysomethingdepressiantyousetfootihehouse.‘Iwasn’texpegyou.You’lljusthavetohavebreadandcheese—butIdon’tthinkwe’vegotanycheese.’
Ifollowedherindoors,intothesmellofmatoshes.Wewentintothesitting-room.Ishutthedoorandswitchedonthelight.Imeanttogetmysayinfirst,andIkwouldmakethierifItookastronglinefromthestart.
‘Now’,Isaid,‘whatthebloodyhelldoyoumeanbyplayingthattrie?’
She’djustlaidherbagdownontopoftheradio,andforamomentshelookedgenuinelysurprised.
‘Whattrick?Whatdoyoumean?’
‘SendingoutthatS.O.S.!’
‘WhatS.O.S.?WhatareyouTALKINGabout,Gee?’
‘AreytotellmeyoudidhemtosendoutanS.O.S.sayingyouwereseriouslyill?’
‘OfcourseIdidn’t!HowcouldI?Iwasn’till.WhatwouldIdoathinglikethatfor?’
Ibegantoexplain,butalmostbeforeIbeganIsawwhathadhappewasallamistake.I’dohelastfewwordsoftheS.O.S.andobviouslyitwassomeotherHildaBowling.Isupposethere’dbescoresofHildaBowlingsifyoulookedthenameupinthedirectory.Itjustwasthekindofdullstupidmistakethat’salwayshappening.Hildahadn’tevenshowedthatlittlebitofimaginationI’dcreditedherwith.ThesoleiinthewholeaffairhadbeenthefiveminutesorsowhenIthoughtshewasdead,andfoundthatIcaredafterall.Butthatwasoveranddoh.WhileIexplainedshewaswatgme,andIcouldseeihattherewastroubleofsomekinding.AndthenshebegaioningmeinwhatIcallherthird-degreevoice,whi’t,asyoumightexpegryandnagging,butquietandkindofwatchful.
‘SoyouheardthisS.O.S.ielatBirmingham?’
‘Yes.Lastnight,oionalBroadcast.’
‘WhendidyouleaveBirmingham,then?’
‘Thism,ofcourse.’(I’dplathejourneyinmymind,justihereshouldbeaoliemywayoutofit.Leftatten,lunchattry,teaatBedford—I’dgotitallmappedout.)
‘SoyouthoughtlastnightIwasseriouslyill,andyoudidn’teveillthism?’
‘ButItellyouIdidn’tthinkyouwereill.Haven’tIexplaihoughtitwasjustanotherofyourtricks.Itsoundedadamnsightmorelikely.’
‘ThenI’mrathersurprisedyouleftatall!’shesaidwithsomuegarinhervoicethatIkherewassomethingmoreing.Butshewentonmorequietly:‘Soyouleftthism,didyou?’
‘Yes.Ileftaboutten.Ihadlunchattry—’
‘ThenhowdoyouatforTHIS?’shesuddenlyshotoutatme,andinthesameinstantsherippedherbagopen,tookoutapieceofpaper,aoutasifithadbeenafedcheque,orsomething.
Ifeltasifsomeonehadhitmeasothewind.Imighthaveknownit!She’dcaughtmeafterall.Andtherewastheevidehedossierofthecase.Ididn’tevenknowwhatitwas,exceptthatitwassomethingthatprovedI’dbeenoffwithawoman.Allthestuffioutofme.AmomentearlierI’dbeenkindofbullyingher,makingouttobeangrybecauseI’dbeendraggedbaBirminghamfornothing,andnowshe’dsuddenlyturhetablesonme.Youdon’thavetotellmewhatIlooklikeatthatmoment.Iknow.Guiltwrittenallovermeinbigletters—Iknow.AndIwasn’tevenguilty!Butit’samatterofhabit.I’musedtobeinginthewrong.ForahundredquidIcouldn’thavekepttheguiltoutofmyvoiceasIanswered:
‘Whatdoyoumean?What’sthatthingyou’vegotthere?’
‘Youreaditandyou’llseewhatitis.’
Itookit.Itwasaletterfromwhatseemedtobeafirmofsolicitors,anditwasaddressedfromthesamestreetasRowbottom’sHotel,Inoticed.
‘DearMadam,’Iread,‘Withrefereoyourletterofthe18thinst.,wethinktheremustbesomemistake.Rowbottom’sHotelwascloseddowntwoandhasbeenvertedintoablockofoffiooneansweringthedescriptionofyourhusbandhasbeenhere.Possibly—’
Ididn’treadanyfurther.OfcourseIsawitallinaflash.I’dbeenalittlebittoocleverandputmyfootinit.Therewasjustonefaintrayofhope—youngSaundersmighthavefottentoposttheletterI’daddressedfromRowbottom’s,inwhichcaseitwasjustpossibleIcouldbrazenitout.ButHildasoonputthelidonthatidea.
‘Well,Gee,youseewhatthelettersays?ThedayyoulefthereIwrotetoRowbottom’sHotel—oh,justalittlenote,askingthemwhetheryou’darrivedthere.AndyouseetheanswerIgot!Thereisn’tevenanysuchplaceasRowbottom’sHotel.Andthesameday,theverysamepost,Igotyourlettersayingyouwereatthehotel.Yougotsomeoopostitforyou,Isuppose.THATwasyourbusinessinBirmingham!’
‘Butlookhere,Hilda!You’vegotallthiswrong.Itisn’twhatyouthinkatall.Youdon’tuand.’
‘Oh,yes,Ido,Gee.IuandPERFECTLY.’
‘Butlookhere,Hilda—’
Wasn’tanyuse,ofcourse.Itwasafaircop.Icouldn’tevehereye.Iturnedandtriedtomakeforthedoor.
‘I’llhavetotakethecarroundtothegarage,’Isaid.
‘Oh,ne!Youdoofitlikethat.You’llstayhereandlistentowhatI’vegottosay,please.’
‘But,damnit!I’vegottoswitchthelightson,haven’tI?It’spastlighting-uptime.Youdon’twantustogetfined?’
Atthatsheletmego,aoutandswitchedthecarlightson,butwhenIcamebackshewasstillstandingtherelikeafigureofdoom,withthetwoletters,mihesolicitor’soableinfrontofher.I’dgotalittleofmynervebadIhadary:
‘Listen,Hilda.You’vegotholdofthewrongendofthestickaboutthisbusiness.Iexplainthewholething.’
‘I’msureYOUcouldexplainanything,Gee.ThequestioniswhetherI’dbelieveyou.’
‘Butyou’rejustjumpingtoclusions!Whatmadeyouwritetothesehotelpeople,anyway?’
‘ItwasMrsWheeler’sidea.Andaverygoodideatoo,asittur.’
‘Oh,MrsWheeler,wasit?Soyoudon’tmiingthatblastedwomanintoourprivateaffairs?’
‘Shedidn’tneedaingin.Itwasshewhowaryouwereuptothisweek.Somethiotellher,shesaid.Andshewasright,yousee.Sheknowsallaboutyou,Gee.SheusedtohaveahusbandJUSTlikeyou.’
‘But,Hilda—’
Ilookedather.Herfacehadgoneakindofwhiteuhesurface,thewayitdoeswhehinksofmewithanotherwoman.Awoman.Ifonlyithadbeentrue!
AndGosh!whatIcouldseeaheadofme!Youknowwhatit’slike.Theweeksonendofghastlynaggingandsulking,ayremarksafteryouthinkpeacehasbeensigned,andthemealsalwayslate,andthekidswantingtoknowwhatit’sallabout.Butwhatreallygotmedownwasthekindofmentalsqualor,thekindofmentalatmosphereinwhichtherealreasonwhyI’dgooLowerBinfieldwouldn’tevenbeceivable.Thatwaswhatchieflystruckmeatthemoment.IfIspentaweekexplainingtoHildaWHYI’dbeentoLowerBinfield,she’dneveruand.AndwhoWOULDuand,hereinEllesmereRoad?Gosh!didIeveandmyself?Thewholethiobefadingoutofmymind.WhyhadIgooLowerBinfield?HADIgohere?Inthisatmosphereitjustseemedmeaningless.Nothing’srealinEllesmereRoadexceptgasbills,school-fees,boiledcabbage,andtheoffionday.
Onemoretry:
‘Butlookhere,Hilda!Iknowwhatyouthink.Butyou’reabsolutelywrong.Isweartoyouyou’rewrong.’
‘Oh,no,Gee.IfIwaswrongwhydidyouhavetotellallthoselies?’
ingawayfromthat,ofcourse.
Itookapaceortwoupanddown.Thesmellofoldmatosheswasverystrong.WhyhadIrunawaylikethat?WhyhadIbotheredaboutthefuturea,seeingthatthefutureadon’tmatter?WhatevermotivesImighthavehad,Icouldhardlyrememberthemnow.TheoldlifeinLowerBihewaraer-war,Hitler,Stalin,bombs,mae-guns,food-queues,rubbertruns—itwasfadingout,allfadingout.Nothingremainedexceptavulgarloinasmellofoldmatoshes.
Otry:
‘Hilda!Justlistentomeaminute.Lookhere,youdon’tknowwhereI’vebeenallthisweek,doyou?’
‘Idon’twanttoknowwhereyou’vebeen.IknowWHATyou’vebeendoing.That’squiteenoughforme.’
‘Butdashit—’
Quiteuseless,ofcourse.She’dfoundmeguiltyandnowshewasgoingtotellmewhatshethoughtofme.Thatmighttakeacoupleofhours.Andafterthattherewasfurthertroubleloomingup,becausepresentlyitwouldoccurtohertowonderwhereI’dgotthemoneyforthistrip,andthenshe’ddiscoverthatI’dbeenholdingoutonherabouttheseventeenquid.Reallytherewasnoreasonwhythisrowshouldn’tgoontillthreeinthem.Nouseplayinginjuredinnoylonger.AllIwantedwasthelineofleastresistandinmymindIrahethreepossibilities,whichwere:
A.TotellherwhatI’dreallybeendoingandsomehowmakeherbelieveme.
B.Topulltheoldgagaboutlosingmymemory.
C.Tolethergoonthinkingitwasawoman,andtakemymedie.
But,damnit!Iknewwhichitwouldhavetobe.
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ThemomentIheardsomething.Andatthesamemoment,ifyou’dhappeobethere,you’dhaveseenainginstanceofwhatIbelieveiscalledditionedreflex.BecausewhatI’dheard—therewasn’taionofmistake—wasthewhistleofabomb.Ihadn’theardsuchathingfortwentyyears,butIdidobetoldwhatitwas.AndwithouttakinganykindofthoughtIdidtherightthing.Iflungmyselfonmyface.
AfterallI’mgladyoudidn’tseeme.Idon’tsupposeIlookeddignified.Iwasflatteonthepavementlikearatwhenitsqueezesunderadoor.Nobodyelsehadbeenhalfasprompt.I’dactedsoquicklythatinthesplitsedwhilethebombwaswhistlingdownIevenhadtimetobeafraidthatitwasallamistakeandI’dmadeafoolofmyselffornothing.
Butthemoment—ah!
BOOM-BRRRRR!
AnoiseliketheDayofJudgment,andthenanoiselikeatonofcoalfallingontoasheetoftin.Thatwasfallingbricks.Iseemedtokindofmeltintothepavement.‘It’sstarted,’Ithought.‘Ik!OldHitlerdidn’twait.Justsenthisbombersacrosswithoutwarning.’
Ahere’sapeculiarthing.Evenintheechoofthatawful,deafeningcrash,whichseemedtofreezemeupfromtoptotoe,Ihadtimetothinkthatthere’ssomethinggrandabouttheburstingofabigprojectile.Whatdoesitsoundlike?It’shardtosay,becausewhatyouhearismixedupwithwhatyou’refrightenedof.Mainlyitgivesyouavisionofburstial.Youseemtoseegreatsheetsofironburstingopen.Butthepeculiarthingisthefeelingitgivesyouofbeingsuddenlyshovedupagaiy.It’slikebeingwokenupbysomebodyshyingabucketofwateroveryou.You’resuddenlydraggedoutofyourdreamsbyagofburstial,andit’sterrible,andit’sreal.
Therewasasoundofscreamsandyells,andalsoofcarbrakesbeingsuddenlyjammedon.ThesedbombwhichIwaswaitingfordidn’tfall.Iraisedmyheadalittle.Oneverysidepeopleseemedtoberushingroundandscreaming.Acarwasskiddingdiagonallyacrosstheroad,Icouldhearawoman’svoiceshrieking,‘TheGermans!TheGermans!’ThtIhadavagueimpressionofaman’sroundwhiteface,ratherlikeawrinkledpaperbag,lookingdownatme.Hewaskindofdithering:
‘Whatisit?What’shappened?Whataretheydoing?’
‘It’sstarted,’Isaid.‘Thatwasabomb.Liedown.’
Butstillthesedbombdidn’tfall.Anotherquarterofaminuteorso,andIraisedmyheadagain.Someofthepeoplewerestillrushingabout,otherswerestandingasifthey’dbeeheground.Fromsomewherebehindthehousesahugehazeofdusthadrisenup,andthroughitablackjetofsmokewasstreamingupwards.AndthenIsawaraordinarysight.Attheotherendofthemarket-placetheHighStreetrisesalittle.Anddownthislittlehillaherdofpigsing,asortofhugefloodofpig-faces.Themoment,ofcourse,Isawwhatitwas.Itwasn’tpigsatall,itwasonlytheschoolchildrenintheirgas-masks.Isupposetheywereboltingforsomecellarwherethey’dbeentoldtotakecoverincaseofair-raids.AtthebackofthemIcouldeveatallerpigrobablyMissTodgers.ButItellyouforamomenttheylookedexactlylikeaherdofpigs.
Ipickedmyselfupandwalkedacrossthemarket-place.Peoplewerecalmingdownalready,andquitealittlecrowdhadbeguntoflocktowardstheplacewherethebombhaddropped.
Oh,yes,yht,ofcourse.Itwasn’taGermanaeroplaerall.Thewarhadn’tbrokenout.Itwasonlyanact.Theplaneswereflyiodoabitofbombingpractice—atanyratetheywerecarryingbombs—andsomebodyhadputhishandsontheleverbymistake.Iexpecthegotagoodtigoffforit.BythetimethatthepostmasterhadrungupLondontoaskwhethertherewasawaron,aoldthattherewasn’t,everyonehadgraspedthatitwasanact.Butthere’dbeenaspae,somethiweenaminuteandfiveminutes,whehousandpeoplebelievedwewereatwar.Agoodjobitdidn’tlastanylonger.Anotherquarterofanhourandwe’dhavebeenlyngourfirstspy.
Ifollowedthecrowd.Thebombhaddroppedinalittleside-streetofftheHighStreet,theonewhereUncleEzekielusedtohavehisshop.Itwasn’tfiftyyardsfromwheretheshopusedtobe.AsIcameroundtheerIcouldhearvoicesmurmuring‘Oo-oo!’—akindofawednoise,asiftheywerefrightenedaingabigkickoutofit.LuckilyIgotthereafewminutesbeforetheambulahefire-engine,andinspiteofthefiftypeopleorsothathadalreadycollectedIsaweverything.
Atfirstsightitlookedasiftheskyhadbeenrainingbridvegetables.Therewerecabbageleaveseverywhere.Thebombhadblownagreengrocer’sshopoutofexistehehousethtofithadpartofitsroofblownoff,andtheroofbeamswereonfire,andallthehousesroundhadbeenmoreorlessdamagedandhadtheirwindowssmashed.Butwhateveryonewaslookingatwasthehouseo.Itswall,theojoihegreengrocer’sshop,pedoffaslyasifsomeonehaddowithaknife.Andwhatwasextraordinarywasthatiairsroomsnothinghadbeentouched.Itwasjustlikelookingintoadoll’shouse.Chests-of-drawers,bedroomchairs,fadedaper,abedmade,andajerryuhebed—allexactlyasithadbeenlivedin,exceptthatonewallwasgothelowerroomshadcaughttheforceoftheexplosion.Therewasafrightfulsmashed-upmessofbricks,plaster,chair-legs,bitsofavarnisheddresser,ragsoftablecloth,pilesofbrokenplates,andksofascullerysink.Ajarofmarmaladehadrolledacrossthefloor,leavingalongstreakofmarmaladebehind,andrunningsidebysidewithittherewasaribbonofblood.Butinamongthebrokencrockerytherewaslyingaleg.Justaleg,withthetrouserstillonitandablackbootwithaWood-Milnerubberheel.Thiswaseoplewereoo-ingandah-ingat.
Ihadagoodlookatitandtookitin.Thebloodwasbeginningtogetmixedupwiththemarmalade.Whenthefire-enginearrivedIclearedofftotheGeetopackmybag.
ThisfinishesmewithLowerBinfield,Ithought.I’mgoinghome.ButasamatteroffactIdidn’tshakethedustoffmyshoesandleaveimmediately.Oneneverdoes.Whenanythinglikethathappens,peoplealwaysstandaboutanddiscussitforhours.Therewasn’tmuchworkdoheoldpartofLowerBihatday,everyooobusytalkingaboutthebomb,whatitsoundedlikeandwhattheythoughtwhentheyheardit.ThebarmaidattheGeesaiditfairgavehertheshudders.Shesaidshe’dneversleepsoundinherbedagain,andwhatdidyouexpect,itjustshowedthatwiththeseherebombsyouneverknew.Awomanhadbittenoffpartueowingtothejumptheexplosiongaveher.ItturthatwhereasatourendofthetowneveryonehadimagiwasaGermanair-raid,everyoheotherendhadtakenitfrahatitlosionatthestogfactory.Afterwards(Igotthisoutoftheneer)theAirMinistrysentachaptoihedamage,andissuedareportsayingthattheeffectsofthebombwere‘disappointing’.Asamatteroffactitonlykilledthreepeople,thegreengrocer,Perrotthisnamewas,andanoldcouplewholiveddoor.Thewomanwasn’tmuchsmashedabout,andtheyidentifiedtheoldmanbyhisboots,buttheyneverfoundatraceofPerrott.Notevenatrouser-buttoheburialserviceover.
IernoonIpaidmybillandhookedit.Ididn’thavemuchmorethanthreequidleftafterI’dpaidthebill.Theyknowhowtocutitoutofyouthesedolled-uptryhotels,andwhatwithdrinksandotheroddsandendsI’dbeenshyingmoneyaboutprettyfreely.Ileftmynewrodaofthefishingtackleinmybedroom.Let‘emkeepit.ome.ItwasmerelyaquidthatI’dchuckeddownthedraintoteachmyselfalesson.AndI’dlearntthelessonallright.Fatmenofforty-five’tgofishing.Thatkindofthihappenanylo’sjustadream,there’llbenomorefishingthissideofthegrave.
It’sfunnyhowthingssinkintoyoubydegrees.WhathadIreallyfeltwhenthebombexploded?Attheactualmoment,ofcourse,itscaredthewitsoutofme,andwhenIsawthesmashed-uphouseandtheoldman’slegI’dhadthekindofmildkickthatyougetfromseeingastreet-act.Disgusting,ofcourse.Quiteenoughtomakemefed-upwiththisso-calledholiday.Butithadn’treallymademuchimpression.
ButasIgotclearoftheoutskirtsofLowerBinfieldandturhecareastward,itallcamebae.Youknowhowitiswhenyou’reinacaralohere’ssomethiherinthehedgesflyingpastyou,orihroboftheehatgetsyourthoughtsrunningiainrhythm.Youhavethesamefeelingsometimeswhenyou’reirain.It’safeelingofbeingabletoseethingsierperspectivethanusual.AllkindsofthingsthatI’dbeendoubtfulaboutIfeltcertainaboutnow.Tobeginwith,I’detoLowerBinfieldwithaquestioninmymind.What’saheadofus?Isthegamereallyup?wegetbacktothelifeweusedtolive,orisitgoneforever?Well,I’dhadmyaheoldlife’sfinished,andtogobacktoLowerBinfield,you’tputJonahbatothewhale.IKhoughIdon’texpectyoutofollowmytrainofthought.AnditwasaqueerthingI’ddoneinghere.AllthoseyearsLowerBinfieldhadbeentuckedawaysomewhereorotherinmymind,asortofquieterthatIcouldstepbatowhelikeit,andfinallyI’dsteppedbatoitandfoundthatitdid.I’dchuckedapineappleintomydreams,ahereshouldbeanymistaketheRoyalAirForcehadfollowedupwithfivehundredpoundsofT.N.T.
Warising.1941,theysay.Andthere’llbeplentyofbrokencrockery,andlittlehousesrippedopenlikepag-cases,asofthecharteredatant’sclerkplasteredoverthepianothathe’sbuyingonthenever-never.Butwhatdoesthatkindofthingmatter,anyway?I’lltellyouwhatmystayinLowerBinfieldhadtaughtme,anditwasthis.IT’SALLGOINGTOHAPPEN.Allthethingsyou’vegotatthebackofyourmind,thethingsyou’reterrifiedof,thethingsthatyoutellyourselfarejustanightmareoronlyhappeninfntries.Thebombs,thefood-queues,therubbertruns,thebarbedwire,thecolouredshirts,theslogans,theenormousfaces,themae-gunssquirtingoutofbedroomwindows.It’sallgoingtohappen.Iknowit—atanyrate,Ikhen.There’snoescape.Fightagainstitifyoulike,orlooktheotherretendnottonotice,rabyourspannerandrushouttodoabitofface-smashingalongwiththeothers.Butthere’snowayout.It’sjustsomethingthat’sgottohappen.
Itrodonthegas,andtheoldcarwhizzedupanddowlehills,andthecowsareesandfieldsofwheatrushedpasttilltheenginerettynearlyred-hot.IfeltinmuchthesamemoodasI’dfeltthatdayinJanuarywhenIwasingdowrand,thedayIgotmynewfalseteeth.ItwasasthoughthepowerofprophecyhadbeengiveseemedtomethatIcouldseethewholeofEngland,andallthepeopleinit,andallthethingsthat’llhappentoallofthem.Sometimes,ofcourse,eventhen,Ihadadoubtortwo.Theworldisverylarge,that’sathingyounoticewhenyou’redrivingaboutinacar,andinawayit’sreassuring.ThinkoftheenormousstretchesoflandyoupassoverwhenyoucrossaerofasingleEnglishty.It’slikeSiberia.Andthefieldsandbeechspinneysandfarmhousesandchurches,andthevillageswiththeirlittlegrocers’shopsandtheparishhallandtheduckswalkingacrossthegreen.Surelyit’stoobigtobeged?Boundtoremainmoreorlessthesame.AlyIstrutoouterLondonandfollowedtheUxbridgeRoadasfarasSouthall.Milesandmilesofuglyhouses,withpeoplelivingdulldetlivesihem.AndbeyonditLondogonandon,streets,squares,back-alleys,tes,blocksofflats,pubs,fried-fishshops,picture-houses,onandonfortwentymiles,andalltheeightmillionpeoplewiththeirlittleprivateliveswhichtheydon’twanttohavealtered.Thebombsaren’tmadethatcouldsmashitoutofexistendthechaosofit!Theprivatenessofallthoselives!JohnSmithcuttingoutthefootballcoupons,BillWilliamssingstoriesinthebarber’s.MrsJonesinghomewiththesupperbeer.Eightmillionofthem!Surelythey’llmanagesomehow,bombsornobombs,tokeeponwiththelifethatthey’vebeeo?
Illusion!Balodoesn’tmatterhowmanyofthemthereare,they’reallforit.Thebadtimesareing,areamlinedmenareingtoo.What’singafterwardsIdon’tknow,ithardlyevesme.Ionlyknowthatifthere’sanythingyoucareacurseabout,bettersaygood-byetoitnow,becauseeverythingyou’veeverknownisgoingdown,down,intothemuck,withthemae-gunsrattlingallthetime.
ButwhenIgotbacktothesuburbmymoodsuddenlyged.
Itsuddenlystruckme—andithadn’tevencrossedmymindtillthatmoment—thatHildamightreallybeillafterall.
That’stheeffectofenviro,yousee.InLowerBinfieldI’dtakenitabsolutelyfrahatshewasn’tillandwasmerelyshammingiogetmehome.Ithadseemednaturalatthetime,Idon’tknowwhy.ButasIdroveiBletchleyandtheHesperidesEstateclosedroundmelikeakindofred-brickprison,whichiswhatitis,theordinaryhabitsofthoughtcameback.IhadthiskindofMondaymfeelingwhehingseemsbleakandsensible.Isawwhatbloodyrotitwas,thisbusihatI’dwastedthelastfivedayson.SneakingofftoLowerBiotryandrecoverthepast,andthen,intheinghome,thinkingalotofpropheticbaloneyaboutthefuture.Thefuture!What’sthefuturegottodowithchapslikeyouandme?Holdingdownourjobs—that’sourfuture.AsforHilda,evehebombsaredroppingshe’llbestillthinkingaboutthepriceofbutter.
AndsuddenlyIsawwhatafoolI’dbeentothinkshe’ddoathinglikethat.OfcoursetheS.O.S.wasn’tafake!Asthoughshe’dhavetheimagination!Itwasjusttheplaincoldtruth.Shewasn’tshammingatall,shewasreallyill.AndGosh!atthismomentshemightbelyingsomewhereinghastlypain,orevendead,forallIkhethoughtsentamosthorriblepanghtthroughme,asortofdreadfulcoldfeelinginmyguts.IwhizzeddownEllesmereRoadatnearlyfortymilesanhour,andinsteadoftakiothelock-upgarageasusualIstoppedoutsidethehouseandjumpedout.
SoI’mfondofHildaafterall,yousay!Idon’tklywhatyoumeanbyfond.Areyoufondofyourorobablynot,butyou’timagineyourselfwithoutit.It’spartofyou.Well,that’showIfeltaboutHilda.WhenthingsaregoingwellI’tstickthesightofher,butthethoughtthatshemightbedeadoreveninpaiheshiversthroughme.
Ifumbledwiththekey,gotthedooropen,andthefamiliarsmellofoldmatosheshitme.
‘Hilda!’Iyelled.‘Hilda!’
Noanswer.ForamomentIwasyelling‘Hilda!Hilda!’intouttersilendsomecoldsweatstartedoutonmybaaybetheycartedherawaytohospitalalready—maybethereselyingupstairsiyhouse.
Istartedtodashupthestairs,butatthesamemomewokids,intheirpyjamas,cameoutoftheirroomsohersideofthelanding.Itwaseightornineo’clock,Isuppose—atanyratethelightwasjustbeginningtofail.Lornahuhebanisters.
‘Oo,Daddy!Oo,it’sDaddy!Whyhaveyouebacktoday?Mummysaidyouweren’tingtillFriday.’
‘Where’syourmother?’Isaid.
‘Mummy’sout.ShewentoutwithMrsWheeler.Whyhaveyouehometoday,Daddy?’
‘Thenyourmotherhasn’tbeenill?’
‘No.Whosaidshe’dbeenill?Daddy!HaveyoubeeninBirmingham?’
‘Yes.Getbacktobed,now.You’llbecatgcold.’
‘Butwhere’sourpresents,Daddy?’
‘resents?’
‘Thepresentsyou’veboughtusfrham.’
‘You’llseetheminthem,’Isaid.
‘Oo,Daddy!’tweseethemtonight?’
‘No.Dryup.GetbacktobedorI’llthepairofyou.’
Soshewasn’tillafterall.SheHADbeenshamming.AndreallyIhardlyknewwhethertobegladorsorry.Iturnedbacktothefrontdoor,whichI’dleftopen,andthere,aslargeaslife,wasHildaingupthegardenpath.
Ilookedatherasshecametowardsmeioftheeveninglight.ItwasqueertothinkthatlessthanthreeminutesearlierI’dbeeninthedevilofastew,withactualcoldsweatonmybae,atthethoughtthatshemightbedead.Well,shewasn’tdead,shewasjustasusual.OldHildawithherthinshouldersandheranxiousfadthegasbillandtheschool-fees,andthematoshysmellandtheoffionday—allthebedrockfactsthatyouinvariablyebackto,theeteriesasoldPorteouscallsthem.IcouldseethatHildawasn’tintoogoodatemper.Shedartedmealittlequicklook,likeshedoessometimeswhenshe’sgotsomethingonhermind,thekindoflooksomelittlethinanimal,aweaselforinstance,mightgiveyou.Shedidn’tseemsurprisedtoseemeback,however.
‘Oh,soyou’rebackalready,areyou?’shesaid.
ItseemedprettyobviousthatIwasbadIdidn’tanswer.Shedidn’tmakeanymovetokissme.
‘There’snothingforyoursupper,’shewentonpromptly.That’sHildaallover.Alwaysmaosaysomethingdepressiantyousetfootihehouse.‘Iwasn’texpegyou.You’lljusthavetohavebreadandcheese—butIdon’tthinkwe’vegotanycheese.’
Ifollowedherindoors,intothesmellofmatoshes.Wewentintothesitting-room.Ishutthedoorandswitchedonthelight.Imeanttogetmysayinfirst,andIkwouldmakethierifItookastronglinefromthestart.
‘Now’,Isaid,‘whatthebloodyhelldoyoumeanbyplayingthattrie?’
She’djustlaidherbagdownontopoftheradio,andforamomentshelookedgenuinelysurprised.
‘Whattrick?Whatdoyoumean?’
‘SendingoutthatS.O.S.!’
‘WhatS.O.S.?WhatareyouTALKINGabout,Gee?’
‘AreytotellmeyoudidhemtosendoutanS.O.S.sayingyouwereseriouslyill?’
‘OfcourseIdidn’t!HowcouldI?Iwasn’till.WhatwouldIdoathinglikethatfor?’
Ibegantoexplain,butalmostbeforeIbeganIsawwhathadhappewasallamistake.I’dohelastfewwordsoftheS.O.S.andobviouslyitwassomeotherHildaBowling.Isupposethere’dbescoresofHildaBowlingsifyoulookedthenameupinthedirectory.Itjustwasthekindofdullstupidmistakethat’salwayshappening.Hildahadn’tevenshowedthatlittlebitofimaginationI’dcreditedherwith.ThesoleiinthewholeaffairhadbeenthefiveminutesorsowhenIthoughtshewasdead,andfoundthatIcaredafterall.Butthatwasoveranddoh.WhileIexplainedshewaswatgme,andIcouldseeihattherewastroubleofsomekinding.AndthenshebegaioningmeinwhatIcallherthird-degreevoice,whi’t,asyoumightexpegryandnagging,butquietandkindofwatchful.
‘SoyouheardthisS.O.S.ielatBirmingham?’
‘Yes.Lastnight,oionalBroadcast.’
‘WhendidyouleaveBirmingham,then?’
‘Thism,ofcourse.’(I’dplathejourneyinmymind,justihereshouldbeaoliemywayoutofit.Leftatten,lunchattry,teaatBedford—I’dgotitallmappedout.)
‘SoyouthoughtlastnightIwasseriouslyill,andyoudidn’teveillthism?’
‘ButItellyouIdidn’tthinkyouwereill.Haven’tIexplaihoughtitwasjustanotherofyourtricks.Itsoundedadamnsightmorelikely.’
‘ThenI’mrathersurprisedyouleftatall!’shesaidwithsomuegarinhervoicethatIkherewassomethingmoreing.Butshewentonmorequietly:‘Soyouleftthism,didyou?’
‘Yes.Ileftaboutten.Ihadlunchattry—’
‘ThenhowdoyouatforTHIS?’shesuddenlyshotoutatme,andinthesameinstantsherippedherbagopen,tookoutapieceofpaper,aoutasifithadbeenafedcheque,orsomething.
Ifeltasifsomeonehadhitmeasothewind.Imighthaveknownit!She’dcaughtmeafterall.Andtherewastheevidehedossierofthecase.Ididn’tevenknowwhatitwas,exceptthatitwassomethingthatprovedI’dbeenoffwithawoman.Allthestuffioutofme.AmomentearlierI’dbeenkindofbullyingher,makingouttobeangrybecauseI’dbeendraggedbaBirminghamfornothing,andnowshe’dsuddenlyturhetablesonme.Youdon’thavetotellmewhatIlooklikeatthatmoment.Iknow.Guiltwrittenallovermeinbigletters—Iknow.AndIwasn’tevenguilty!Butit’samatterofhabit.I’musedtobeinginthewrong.ForahundredquidIcouldn’thavekepttheguiltoutofmyvoiceasIanswered:
‘Whatdoyoumean?What’sthatthingyou’vegotthere?’
‘Youreaditandyou’llseewhatitis.’
Itookit.Itwasaletterfromwhatseemedtobeafirmofsolicitors,anditwasaddressedfromthesamestreetasRowbottom’sHotel,Inoticed.
‘DearMadam,’Iread,‘Withrefereoyourletterofthe18thinst.,wethinktheremustbesomemistake.Rowbottom’sHotelwascloseddowntwoandhasbeenvertedintoablockofoffiooneansweringthedescriptionofyourhusbandhasbeenhere.Possibly—’
Ididn’treadanyfurther.OfcourseIsawitallinaflash.I’dbeenalittlebittoocleverandputmyfootinit.Therewasjustonefaintrayofhope—youngSaundersmighthavefottentoposttheletterI’daddressedfromRowbottom’s,inwhichcaseitwasjustpossibleIcouldbrazenitout.ButHildasoonputthelidonthatidea.
‘Well,Gee,youseewhatthelettersays?ThedayyoulefthereIwrotetoRowbottom’sHotel—oh,justalittlenote,askingthemwhetheryou’darrivedthere.AndyouseetheanswerIgot!Thereisn’tevenanysuchplaceasRowbottom’sHotel.Andthesameday,theverysamepost,Igotyourlettersayingyouwereatthehotel.Yougotsomeoopostitforyou,Isuppose.THATwasyourbusinessinBirmingham!’
‘Butlookhere,Hilda!You’vegotallthiswrong.Itisn’twhatyouthinkatall.Youdon’tuand.’
‘Oh,yes,Ido,Gee.IuandPERFECTLY.’
‘Butlookhere,Hilda—’
Wasn’tanyuse,ofcourse.Itwasafaircop.Icouldn’tevehereye.Iturnedandtriedtomakeforthedoor.
‘I’llhavetotakethecarroundtothegarage,’Isaid.
‘Oh,ne!Youdoofitlikethat.You’llstayhereandlistentowhatI’vegottosay,please.’
‘But,damnit!I’vegottoswitchthelightson,haven’tI?It’spastlighting-uptime.Youdon’twantustogetfined?’
Atthatsheletmego,aoutandswitchedthecarlightson,butwhenIcamebackshewasstillstandingtherelikeafigureofdoom,withthetwoletters,mihesolicitor’soableinfrontofher.I’dgotalittleofmynervebadIhadary:
‘Listen,Hilda.You’vegotholdofthewrongendofthestickaboutthisbusiness.Iexplainthewholething.’
‘I’msureYOUcouldexplainanything,Gee.ThequestioniswhetherI’dbelieveyou.’
‘Butyou’rejustjumpingtoclusions!Whatmadeyouwritetothesehotelpeople,anyway?’
‘ItwasMrsWheeler’sidea.Andaverygoodideatoo,asittur.’
‘Oh,MrsWheeler,wasit?Soyoudon’tmiingthatblastedwomanintoourprivateaffairs?’
‘Shedidn’tneedaingin.Itwasshewhowaryouwereuptothisweek.Somethiotellher,shesaid.Andshewasright,yousee.Sheknowsallaboutyou,Gee.SheusedtohaveahusbandJUSTlikeyou.’
‘But,Hilda—’
Ilookedather.Herfacehadgoneakindofwhiteuhesurface,thewayitdoeswhehinksofmewithanotherwoman.Awoman.Ifonlyithadbeentrue!
AndGosh!whatIcouldseeaheadofme!Youknowwhatit’slike.Theweeksonendofghastlynaggingandsulking,ayremarksafteryouthinkpeacehasbeensigned,andthemealsalwayslate,andthekidswantingtoknowwhatit’sallabout.Butwhatreallygotmedownwasthekindofmentalsqualor,thekindofmentalatmosphereinwhichtherealreasonwhyI’dgooLowerBinfieldwouldn’tevenbeceivable.Thatwaswhatchieflystruckmeatthemoment.IfIspentaweekexplainingtoHildaWHYI’dbeentoLowerBinfield,she’dneveruand.AndwhoWOULDuand,hereinEllesmereRoad?Gosh!didIeveandmyself?Thewholethiobefadingoutofmymind.WhyhadIgooLowerBinfield?HADIgohere?Inthisatmosphereitjustseemedmeaningless.Nothing’srealinEllesmereRoadexceptgasbills,school-fees,boiledcabbage,andtheoffionday.
Onemoretry:
‘Butlookhere,Hilda!Iknowwhatyouthink.Butyou’reabsolutelywrong.Isweartoyouyou’rewrong.’
‘Oh,no,Gee.IfIwaswrongwhydidyouhavetotellallthoselies?’
ingawayfromthat,ofcourse.
Itookapaceortwoupanddown.Thesmellofoldmatosheswasverystrong.WhyhadIrunawaylikethat?WhyhadIbotheredaboutthefuturea,seeingthatthefutureadon’tmatter?WhatevermotivesImighthavehad,Icouldhardlyrememberthemnow.TheoldlifeinLowerBihewaraer-war,Hitler,Stalin,bombs,mae-guns,food-queues,rubbertruns—itwasfadingout,allfadingout.Nothingremainedexceptavulgarloinasmellofoldmatoshes.
Otry:
‘Hilda!Justlistentomeaminute.Lookhere,youdon’tknowwhereI’vebeenallthisweek,doyou?’
‘Idon’twanttoknowwhereyou’vebeen.IknowWHATyou’vebeendoing.That’squiteenoughforme.’
‘Butdashit—’
Quiteuseless,ofcourse.She’dfoundmeguiltyandnowshewasgoingtotellmewhatshethoughtofme.Thatmighttakeacoupleofhours.Andafterthattherewasfurthertroubleloomingup,becausepresentlyitwouldoccurtohertowonderwhereI’dgotthemoneyforthistrip,andthenshe’ddiscoverthatI’dbeenholdingoutonherabouttheseventeenquid.Reallytherewasnoreasonwhythisrowshouldn’tgoontillthreeinthem.Nouseplayinginjuredinnoylonger.AllIwantedwasthelineofleastresistandinmymindIrahethreepossibilities,whichwere:
A.TotellherwhatI’dreallybeendoingandsomehowmakeherbelieveme.
B.Topulltheoldgagaboutlosingmymemory.
C.Tolethergoonthinkingitwasawoman,andtakemymedie.
But,damnit!Iknewwhichitwouldhavetobe.
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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