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was what people were oo…ing and ah…ing at。
i had a good look at it and took it in。 the blood was beginning to get mixed up with the marmalade。 when the fire…engine arrived i cleared off to the george to pack my bag。
this finishes me with lower binfield； i thought。 i’m going home。 but as a matter of fact i didn’t shake the dust off my shoes and leave immediately。 one never does。 when anything like that happens； people always stand about and discuss it for hours。 there wasn’t much work done in the old part of lower binfield that day； everyone was too busy talking about the bomb； what it sounded like and what they thought when they heard it。 the barmaid at the george said it fair gave her the shudders。 she said she’d never sleep sound in her bed again； and what did you expect； it just showed that with these here bombs you never knew。 a woman had bitten off part of her tongue owing to the jump the explosion gave her。 it turned out that whereas at our end of the town everyone had imagined it was a german air…raid； everyone at the other end had taken it for granted that it was an explosion at the stocking factory。 afterwards （i got this out of the newspaper） the air ministry sent a chap to inspect the damage； and issued a report saying that the effects of the bomb were ‘disappointing’。 as a matter of fact it only killed three people； the greengrocer； perrott his name was； and an old couple who lived next door。 the woman wasn’t much smashed about； and they identified the old man by his boots； but they never found a trace of perrott。 not even a trouser…button to read the burial service over。
in the afternoon i paid my bill and hooked it。 i didn’t have much more than three quid left after i’d paid the bill。 they know how to cut it out of you these dolled…up country hotels； and what with drinks and other odds and ends i’d been shying money about pretty freely。 i left my new rod and the rest of the fishing tackle in my bedroom。 let ‘em keep it。 no use to me。 it was merely a quid that i’d chucked down the drain to teach myself a lesson。 and i’d learnt the lesson all right。 fat men of forty…five can’t go fishing。 that kind of thing doesn’t happen any longer； it’s just a dream； there’ll be no more fishing this side of the grave。
it’s funny how things sink into you by degrees。 what had i really felt when the bomb exploded？ at the actual moment； of course； it scared the wits out of me； and when i saw the smashed…up house and the old man’s leg i’d had the kind of mild kick that you get from seeing a street…accident。 disgusting； of course。 quite enough to make me fed…up with this so…called holiday。 but it hadn’t really made much impression。
but as i got clear of the outskirts of lower binfield and turned the car eastward； it all came back to me。 you know how it is when you’re in a car alone。 there’s something either in the hedges flying past you； or in the throb of the engine； that gets your thoughts running in a certain rhythm。 you have the same feeling sometimes when you’re in the train。 it’s a feeling of being able to see things in better perspective than usual。 all kinds of things that i’d been doubtful about i felt certain about now。 to begin with； i’d e to lower binfield with a question in my mind。 what’s ahead of us？ is the game really up？ can we get back to the life we used to live； or is it gone for ever？ well； i’d had my answer。 the old life’s finished； and to go back to lower binfield； you can’t put jonah back into the whale。 i knew； though i don’t expect you to follow my train of thought。 and it was a queer thing i’d done ing here。 all those years lower binfield had been tucked away somewhere or other in my mind； a sort of quiet corner that i could step back into when i felt like it； and finally i’d stepped back into it and found that it didn’t exist。 i’d chucked a pineapple into my dreams； and lest there should be any mistake the royal air force had followed up with five hundred pounds of t。n。t。
war is ing。 1941； they say。 and there’ll be plenty of broken crockery； and little houses ripped open like packing…cases； and the guts of the chartered accountant’s clerk plastered over the piano that he’s buying on the never…never。 but what does that kind of thing matter； anyway？ i’ll tell you what my stay in lower binfield had taught me； and it was this。 it’s all going to happen。 all the things you’ve got at the back of your mind； the things you’re terrified of； the things that you tell yourself are just a nightmare or only happen in foreign countries。 the bombs； the food…queues； the rubber truncheons； the barbed wire； the coloured shirts； the slogans； the enormous faces； the machine…guns squirting out of bedroom windows。 it’s all going to happen。 i know it—at any rate； i knew it then。 there’s no escape。 fight against it if you like； or look the other way and pretend not to notice； or grab your spanner and rush out to do a bit of face…smashing along with the others。 but there’s no way out。 it’s just something that’s got to happen。
i trod on the gas； and the old car whizzed up and down the little hills； and the cows and elm trees and fields of wheat rushed past till the engine was pretty nearly red…hot。 i felt in much the same mood as i’d felt that day in january when i was ing down the strand； the day i got my new false teeth。 it was as though the power of prophecy had been given me。 it seemed to me that i could see the whole of england； and all the people in it； and all the things that’ll happen to all of them。 sometimes； of course； even then； i had a doubt or two。 the world is very large； that’s a thing you notice when you’re driving about in a car； and in a way it’s reassuring。 think of the enormous stretches of land you pass over when you cross a corner of a single english county。 it’s like siberia。 and the fields and beech spinneys and farmhouses and churches； and the villages with their little grocers’ shops and the parish hall and the ducks walking across the green。 surely it’s too big to be changed？ bound to remain more or less the same。 and presently i struck into outer london and followed the uxbridge road as far as southall。 miles and miles of ugly ho