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lse； but i didn’t want to meet her。 otherwise； perhaps； when i got a bit of leave i’d have gone down and seen mother； who’d had fits when i joined the army but would have been proud of a son in uniform。
father died in 1915。 i was in france at the time。 i don’t exaggerate when i say that father’s death hurts me more now than it did then。 at the time it was just a bit of bad news which i accepted almost without interest； in the sort of empty…headed apathetic way in which one accepted everything in the trenches。 i remember crawling into the doorway of the dugout to get enough light to read the letter； and i remember mother’s tear…stains on the letter； and the aching feeling in my knees and the smell of mud。 father’s life…insurance policy had been mortgaged for most of its value； but there was a little money in the bank and sarazins’ were going to buy up the stock and even pay some tiny amount for the good…will。 anyway； mother had a bit over two hundred pounds； besides the furniture。 she went for the time being to lodge with her cousin； the wife of a small…holder who was doing pretty well out of the war； near doxley； a few miles the other side of walton。 it was only ‘for the time being’。 there was a temporary feeling about everything。 in the old days； which as a matter of fact were barely a year old； the whole thing would have been an appalling disaster。 with father dead； the shop sold and mother with two hundred pounds in the world； you’d have seen stretching out in front of you a kind of fifteen…act tragedy； the last act being a pauper’s funeral。 but now the war and the feeling of not being one’s own master overshadowed everything。 people hardly thought in terms of things like bankruptcy and the workhouse any longer。 this was the case even with mother； who； god knows； had only very dim notions about the war。 besides； she was already dying； though neither of us knew it。
she came across to see me in the hospital at eastbourne。 it was over two years since i’d seen her； and her appearance gave me a bit of a shock。 she seemed to have faded and somehow to have shrunken。 partly it was because by this time i was grown…up； i’d travelled； and everything looked smaller to me； but there was no question that she’d got thinner； and also yellower。 she talked in the old rambling way about aunt martha （that was the cousin she was staying with）； and the changes in lower binfield since the war； and all the boys who’d ‘gone’ （meaning joined the army）； and her indigestion which was ‘aggravating’； and poor father’s tombstone and what a lovely corpse he made。 it was the old talk； the talk i’d listened to for years； and yet somehow it was like a ghost talking。 it didn’t concern me any longer。 i’d known her as a great splendid protecting kind of creature； a bit like a ship’s figure…head and a bit like a broody hen； and after all she was only a little old woman in a black dress。 everything was changing and fading。 that was the last time i saw her alive。 i got the wire saying she was seriously ill when i was at the training school at colchester； and put in for a week’s urgent leave immediately。 but it was too late。 she was dead by the time i got to doxley。 what she and everyone else had imagined to be indigestion was some kind of internal growth； and a sudden chill on the stomach put the final touch。 the doctor tried to cheer me up by telling me that the growth was ‘benevolent’； which struck me as a queer thing to call it； seeing that it had killed her。
well； we buried her next to father； and that was my last glimpse of lower binfield。 it had changed a lot； even in three years。 some of the shops were shut； some had different names over them。 nearly all the men i’d known as boys were gone； and some of them were dead。 sid lovegrove was dead； killed on the somme。 ginger watson； the farm lad who’d belonged to the black hand years ago； the one who used to catch rabbits alive； was dead in egypt。 one of the chaps who’d worked with me at grimmett’s had lost both legs。 old lovegrove had shut up his shop and was living in a cottage near walton on a tiny annuity。 old grimmett； on the other hand； was doing well out of the war and had turned patriotic and was a member of the local board which tried conscientious objectors。 the thing which more than anything else gave the town an empty； forlorn kind of look was that there were practically no horses left。 every horse worth taking had been mandeered long ago。 the station fly still existed； but the brute that pulled it wouldn’t have been able to stand up if it hadn’t been for the shafts。 for the hour or so that i was there before the funeral i wandered round the town； saying how d’you do to people and showing off my uniform。 luckily i didn’t run into elsie。 i saw all the changes； and yet it was as though i didn’t see them。 my mind was on other things； chiefly the pleasure of being seen in my second…loot’s uniform； with my black armlet （a thing which looks rather smart on khaki） and my new whipcord breeches。 i distinctly remember that i was still thinking about those whipcord breeches when we stood at the graveside。 and then they chucked some earth on to the coffin and i suddenly realized what it means for your mother to be lying with seven feet of earth on top of her； and something kind of twitched behind my eyes and nose； but even then the whipcord breeches weren’t altogether out of my mind。
don’t think i didn’t feel for mother’s death。 i did。 i wasn’t in the trenches any longer； i could feel sorry for a death。 but the thing i didn’t care a damn about； didn’t even grasp to be happening； was the passing…away of the old life i’d known。 after the funeral； aunt martha； who was rather proud of having a ‘real officer’ for a nephew and would have made a splash of the funeral if i’d let her； went back to doxley on the bus and i took the fly down to the station； to get the train to london and then to colchester。 we drove past the shop。 no one had taken it since father died。 it was shut up and the window…pane was black with dust； and they’d burned the ‘s。 bowling’ off the signboard with a plumber’s blowflame。 well； there was the house where i’d been a child and a b