Coming up for Air- 第40部分

then　i　shoved　my　teeth　in　and　went　to　the　window。　a　lovely　june　day；　again；　and　the　sun　was　just　beginning　to　slant　over　the　roofs　and　hit　the　house…fronts　on　the　other　side　of　the　street。　the　pink　geraniums　in　the　window…boxes　didn’t　look　half　bad。　although　it　was　only　about　half　past　eight　and　this　was　only　a　side…street　off　the　market…place　there　was　quite　a　crowd　of　people　ing　and　going。　a　stream　of　clerkly…looking　chaps　in　dark　suits　with　dispatch…cases　were　hurrying　along；　all　in　the　same　direction；　just　as　if　this　had　been　a　london　suburb　and　they　were　scooting　for　the　tube；　and　the　schoolkids　were　straggling　up　towards　the　market…　place　in　twos　and　threes。　i　had　the　same　feeling　that　i’d　had　the　day　before　when　i　saw　the　jungle　of　red　houses　that　had　swallowed　chamford　hill。　bloody　interlopers！　twenty　thousand　gate…crashers　who　didn’t　even　know　my　name。　and　here　was　all　this　new　life　swarming　to　and　fro；　and　here　was　i；　a　poor　old　fatty　with　false　teeth；　watching　them　from　a　window　and　mumbling　stuff　that　nobody　wanted　to　listen　to　about　things　that　happened　thirty　and　forty　years　ago。　christ！　i　thought；　i　was　wrong　to　think　that　i　was　seeing　ghosts。　i’m　the　ghost　myself。　i’m　dead　and　they’re　alive。

but　after　breakfast—haddock；　grilled　kidneys；　toast　and　marmalade；　and　a　pot　of　coffee—i　felt　better。　the　frozen　dame　wasn’t　breakfasting　in　the　dining…room；　there　was　a　nice　summery　feeling　in　the　air；　and　i　couldn’t　get　rid　of　the　feeling　that　in　that　blue　flannel　suit　of　mine　i　looked　just　a　little　bit　distingue。　by　god！　i　thought；　if　i’m　a　ghost；　i’ll　be　a　ghost！　i’ll　walk。　i’ll　haunt　the　old　places。　and　maybe　i　can　work　a　bit　of　black　magic　on　some　of　these　bastards　who’ve　stolen　my　home　town　from　me。

i　started　out；　but　i’d　got　no　farther　than　the　market…place　when　i　was　pulled　up　by　something　i　hadn’t　expected　to　see。　a　procession　of　about　fifty　school…kids　was　marching　down　the　street　in　column　of　fours—quite　military；　they　looked—with　a　grim…looking　woman　marching　alongside　of　them　like　a　sergeant…major。　the　leading　four　were　carrying　a　banner　with　a　red；　white；　and　blue　border　and　britons　prepare　on　it　in　huge　letters。　the　barber　on　the　corner　had　e　out　on　to　his　doorstep　to　have　a　look　at　them。　i　spoke　to　him。　he　was　a　chap　with　shiny　black　hair　and　a　dull　kind　of　face。

‘what　are　those　kids　doing？’

‘it’s　this　here　air…raid　practice；’　he　said　vaguely。　‘this　here　a。r。p。　kind　of　practising；　like。　that’s　miss　todgers；　that　is。’

i　might　have　guessed　it　was　miss　todgers。　you　could　see　it　in　her　eye。　you　know　the　kind　of　tough　old　devil　with　grey　hair　and　a　kippered　face　that’s　always　put　in　charge　of　girl　guide　detachments；　y。w。c。a。　hostels；　and　whatnot。　she　had　on　a　coat　and　skirt　that　somehow　looked　like　a　uniform　and　gave　you　a　strong　impression　that　she　was　wearing　a　sam　browne　belt；　though　actually　she　wasn’t。　i　knew　her　type。　been　in　the　w。a。a。c。s　in　the　war；　and　never　had　a　day’s　fun　since。　this　a。r。p。　was　jam　to　her。　as　the　kids　swung　past　i　heard　her　letting　out　at　them　with　the　real　sergeant…major　yell；　‘monica！　lift　your　feet　up！’　and　i　saw　that　the　rear　four　had　another　banner　with　a　red；　white；　and　blue　border；　and　in　the　middle

we　are　ready。　are　you？

‘what　do　they　want　to　march　them　up　and　down　for？’　i　said　to　the　barber。

‘i　dunno。　i　s’pose　it’s　kind　of　propaganda；　like。’

i　knew；　of　course。　get　the　kids　war…minded。　give　us　all　the　feeling　that　there’s　no　way　out　of　it；　the　bombers　are　ing　as　sure　as　christmas；　so　down　to　the　cellar　you　go　and　don’t　argue。　two　of　the　great　black　planes　from　walton　were　zooming　over　the　eastern　end　of　the　town。　christ！　i　thought；　when　it　starts　it　won’t　surprise　us　any　more　than　a　shower　of　rain。　already　we’re　listening　for　the　first　bomb。　the　barber　went　on　to　tell　me　that　thanks　to　miss　todgers’s　efforts　the　school…kids　had　been　served　with　their　gas…masks　already。

well；　i　started　to　explore　the　town。　two　days　i　spent　just　wandering　round　the　old　landmarks；　such　of　them　as　i　could　identify。　and　all　that　time　i　never　ran　across　a　soul　that　knew　me。　i　was　a　ghost；　and　if　i　wasn’t　actually　invisible；　i　felt　like　it。

it　was　queer；　queerer　than　i　can　tell　you。　did　you　ever　read　a　story　of　h。g。　wells’s　about　a　chap　who　was　in　two　places　at　once—　that’s　to　say；　he　was　really　in　his　own　home；　but　he　had　a　kind　of　hallucination　that　he　was　at　the　bottom　of　the　sea？　he’d　been　walking　round　his　room；　but　instead　of　the　tables　and　chairs　he’d　see　the　wavy　waterweed　and　the　great　crabs　and　cuttlefish　reaching　out　to　get　him。　well；　it　was　just　like　that。　for　hours　on　end　i’d　be　walking　through　a　world　that　wasn’t　there。　i’d　count　my　paces　as　i　went　down　the　pavement　and　think；　‘yes；　here’s　where　so…and…　so’s　field　begins。　the　hedge　runs　across　the　street　and　slap　through　that　house。　that　petrol　pump　is　really　an　elm　tree。　and　here’s　the　edge　of　the　allotments。　and　this　street　（it　was　a　dismal　little　row　of　semi…detached　houses　called　cumberledge　road；　i　remember）　is　the　lane　where　we　used　to　go　with　katie　simmons；　and　the　nut…bushes　grew　on　both　sides。’　no　doubt　i　got　the　distances　wrong；　but　the　general　directions　were　right。　i　don’t　believe　anyone　who　hadn’t　happened　to　be　born　here　would　have　believed　that　these　streets　were　fields　as　little　as　twenty　years　ago。　it　was　as　though　the　countryside　had　been　buried　by　a　kind　of　volcanic　eruption　from　the　outer　suburbs。　nearly　the　whole　of　what　used　to　be　old　brewer’s　land　had　been　swallowed　up　in　the　council　housing　estate。　the　mill　farm　had　vanished；　the　cow…pond　where　i　caught　my　first　fish　had　been　drained　and　filled　up　and　built　over；　so　that　i　couldn’t　even　say　exactly　where　it　used　to　stand。　it　was　all　houses；　houses；　little　red　cubes　of　houses　all　alike；　with　privet　hedges　and　asphalt　paths　leading　up　to　the　front　door。　beyond　the　council　estate　the　town　thinned　out　a　bit；　but　the　jerry…builders　were　doing　their　best。　and　there　were　little　knots　of　houses　dumped　here　and　there；　wherever　anybody　had　been　able　to　buy　a　plot　of　land；　and　the　makeshift　roads　leading　up　to　the　houses；　and　empty　lots　with　builders’　boards；　and　bits　of　ruined　fields　covered　with　thistles　and　tin　cans。

in　the　centre　of　the　old　town；　on　the　other　hand；　things　hadn’t　changed　much；　so　far　as　buildings　went。　a　lot　of　the　shops　were　still　doing　the　same　line　of　trade；　although　the　names　were　different。　lillywhite’s　was　still　a　draper’s；　but　it　didn’t　look　too　prosperous。　what　used　to　be　gravitt’s；　the　butcher’s；　was　now　a　shop　that　sold　radio　parts。　mother　wheeler’s　little　window　had　been　bricked　over。　grimmett’s　was　still　a　grocer’s；　but　it　had　been　taken　over　by　the　international。　it　gives　you　an　idea　of　the　power　of　these　big　bines　that　they　could　even　swallow　up　a　cute　old　skinflint　like　grimmett。　but　from　what　i　know　of　him—not　to　mention　that　slap…up　tombstone　in　the　churchyard—i　bet　he　got　out　while　the　going　was　good　and　had　ten　to　fifteen　thousand　quid　to　take　to　heaven　with　him。　the　only　shop　that　was　still　in　the　same　hands　was　sarazins’；　the　people　who’d　ruined　father。　they’d　swollen　to　enormous　dimensions；　and　they　had　another　huge　branch　in　the　new　part　of　the　town。　but　they’d　turned　into　a　kind　of　general　store　and　sold　furniture；　drugs；　hardware；　and　ironmongery　as　well　as　the　old　garden　stuff。

for　the　best　part　of　two　days　i　was　wandering　round；　not　actually　groaning　and　rattling　a　chain；　but　sometimes　feeling　that　i’d　like　to。　also　i　was　drinking　more　than　was　good　for　me。　almost　as　soon　as　i　got　to　lower　binfield　i’d　started　on　the　booze；　and　after　that　the　pubs　never　seemed　to　open　quite　early　enough。　my　tongue　was　always　hanging　out　of　my　mouth　for　the　last　half…hour　before　opening　time。

mind　you；　i　wasn’t　in　the　same　mood　all　the　time。　sometimes　it　seemed　to　me　that　it　didn’t　matter　a　damn　if　lower　binfield　had　been　obliterated。　after　all；　what　had　i　e　here　for；　except　to　get　away　from　the　family？　there　was　no　reason　why　i　shouldn’t　do　all　the　things　i　wanted　to　do；　even　go　fishing　if　i　felt　like　it。　on　the　saturday　afternoon　i　even　went　to　the　fishing…tackle　shop　in　the　high　street　and　bought　a　split…cane　rod　（i’d　always　pined　for　a　split…cane　rod　as　a　boy—it’s　a　little　bit　dearer　than　a　green…　heart）　and　hooks　and　gut　and　so　forth。　the　atmosphere　of　the　shop　cheered　me　up。　whatever　else　changes；　fishing…tackle　doesn’t—　because；　of　course；　fish　don’t　change　either。　and　the　shopman　didn’t　see　anything　funny　in　a　fat　middle…aged　man　buying　a　fishing…rod。　on　the　contrary；　we　had　a　little　talk　about　the　fishing　in　the　thames　and　the　big　chub　somebody　had　landed　the　year　before　last　on　a　paste　made　of　brown　bread；　honey；　and　minced　boiled　rabbit。　i　even—though　i　didn’t　tell　him　what　i　wanted　them　for；　and　hardly　even　admitted　it　to　myself—bought　the　strongest　salmon　trace　he’d　got；　and　some　no。　5　roach…hooks；　with　an　eye　to　those　big　carp　at　binfield　house；　in　case　they　still　existed。

most　of　sunday　morning　i　was　kind　of　debating　it　in　my　mind—should　i　go　fishing；　or　shouldn’t　i？　one　moment　i’d　think；　why　the　hell　not；　and　the　next　moment　it　would　seem　to　me　that　it　was　just　one　of　those　things　that　you　dream　about