SEVEN

THAT’S ALL, really.

I’ve tried to tell you something about the world before the war, the world I got a sniff of when I saw King Zog’s name on the poster, and the chances are that I’ve told you nothing. Either you remember before the war and don’t need to be told about it, or you don’t remember, and it’s no use telling you. So far I’ve only spoken about the things that happened to me before I was sixteen. Up to that time things had gone pretty well with the family. It was a bit before my sixteenth birthday that I began to get glimpses of what people call “real life,” meaning unpleasantness.

About three days after I’d seen the big carp at Binfield House, Father came in to tea looking very worried and even more grey and mealy than usual. He ate his way solemnly through his tea and didn’t talk much. In those days he had a rather preoccupied way of eating, and his moustache used to work up and down with a sidelong movement, because he hadn’t many back teeth left. I was just getting up from the table when he called me back.

“Wait a minute, George, my boy. I got suthing to say to you. Sit down jest a minute. Mother, you heard what 1 got to say last night.”

Mother, behind the huge brown teapot, folded her hands in her lap and looked solemn. Father went on, speaking very seriously but rather spoiling the effect by trying to deal with a crumb that lodged somewhere in what was left of his back teeth:

“George, my boy, I got suthing to say to you. I been thinking it over, and it’s about time you left school. ‘Fraid you’ll have to get to work now and start earning a bit to bring home to your mother. I wrote to Mr. Wicksey last night and told him as I should have to take you away.”

Of course this was quite according to precedent—his writing to Mr. Wicksey before telling me, I mean. Parents in those days, as a matter of course, always arranged everything over their children’s heads.