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 coming 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 die Uxbridge Road as far as Southall. Miles and miles of ugly houses, with people living dull decent lives inside them. And beyond it London stretching on and on, streets, squares, back-alleys, tenements, blocks of flats, pubs, fried-fish shops, picture-houses, on and on for twenty miles, and all the eight million people with their little private lives which they don’t want to have altered. The bombs aren’t made that could smash it out of existence. And the chaos of it! The privateness of all those lives! John Smith cutting out the football coupons, Bill Williams swapping stories in the barber’s, Mrs. Jones coming home with the supper beer. Eight million of them! Surely they’ll manage somehow, bombs or no bombs, to keep on with the life that they’ve been used to?

Illusion! Baloney! It doesn’t matter how many of them there are, they’re all for it. The bad times are coming, and the stream-lined men are coming too. What’s coming afterwards I don’t know, it hardly even interests me. I only know that if there’s anything you care a curse about, better say good-bye to it now, because everything you’ve ever known is going down, down, into the muck; with the machine-guns rattling all the time.

SEVEN

BUT WHEN I got back to the suburb my mood suddenly changed.

It suddenly struck me—and it hadn’t even crossed my mind till that moment—that Hilda might really be ill after all.

That’s the effect of environment, you see. In Lower Binfield I’d taken it absolutely for granted that she wasn’t ill and was merely shamming in order to get me home. It had seemed natural at the time, I don’t know why. But as I drove into West Bletchley and the Hesperides Estate closed round me like a kind of red brick prison, which is what it is, the ordinary habits of thought came back. I had that kind of Monday morning feeling when everything seems bleak and sensible. I saw what bloody rot it was, this business that I’d wasted the last five days on. Sneaking off to Lower Binfield to try and recover the past, and then, in the car coming home, thinking a lot of prophetic baloney about the future. The future! What’s the future got to do with chaps like you and me? Holding down our jobs—that’s our future. As for Hilda, even when the bombs are dropping she’ll still be thinking about the price of butter.