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ous and older than her years。 she was less lordly in the kitchen； went in more for neck of mutton； worried over the price of coal； and began to use margarine； a thing which in the old days she’d never have allowed into the house。 after joe had gone father had to hire an errand boy again； but from then on he employed very young boys whom he only kept for a year or two and who couldn’t lift heavy weights。 i sometimes lent him a hand when i was at home。 i was too selfish to do it regularly。 i can still see him working his way slowly across the yard； bent double and almost hidden under an enormous sack； like a snail under its shell。 the huge； monstrous sack； weighing a hundred and fifty pounds； i suppose； pressing his neck and shoulders almost to the ground； and the anxious； spectacled face looking up from underneath it。 in 1911 he ruptured himself and had to spend weeks in hospital and hire a temporary manager for the shop； which ate another hole in his capital。 a small shopkeeper going down the hill is a dreadful thing to watch； but it isn’t sudden and obvious like the fate of a working man who gets the sack and promptly finds himself on the dole。 it’s just a gradual chipping away of trade； with little ups and downs； a few shillings to the bad here； a few sixpences to the good there。 somebody who’s dealt with you for years suddenly deserts and goes to sarazins’。 somebody else buys a dozen hens and gives you a weekly order for corn。 you can still keep going。 you’re still ‘your own master’； always a little more worried and a little shabbier； with your capital shrinking all the time。 you can go on like that for years； for a lifetime if you’re lucky。 uncle ezekiel died in 1911； leaving 120 pounds which must have made a lot of difference to father。 it wasn’t till 1913 that he had to mortgage his life…insurance policy。 that i didn’t hear about at the time； or i’d have understood what it meant。 as it was i don’t think i ever got further than realizing that father ‘wasn’t doing well’； trade was ‘slack’； there’d be a bit longer to wait before i had the money to ‘set up’。 like father himself； i looked on the shop as something permanent； and i was a bit inclined to be angry with him for not managing things better。 i wasn’t capable of seeing； and neither was he nor anyone else； that he was being slowly ruined； that his business would never pick up again and if he lived to be seventy he’d certainly end in the workhouse。 many a time i’ve passed sarazins’ shop in the market…place and merely thought how much i preferred their slick window…front to father’s dusty old shop； with the ‘s。 bowling’ which you could hardly read； the chipped white lettering； and the faded packets of bird…seed。 it didn’t occur to me that sarazins’ were tapeworms who were eating him alive。 sometimes i used to repeat to him some of the stuff i’d been reading in my correspondence…course textbooks； about salesmanship and modern methods。 he never paid much attention。 he’d inherited an old…established business； he’d always worked hard； done a fair trade； and supplied sound goods； and things would look up presently。 it’s a fact that very few shopkeepers in those days actually ended in the workhouse。 with any luck you died with a few pounds still your own。 it was a race between death and bankruptcy； and； thank god； death got father first； and mother too。
1911； 1912； 1913。 i tell you it was a good time to be alive。 it was late in 1912； through the vicar’s reading circle； that i first met elsie waters。 till then； although； like all the rest of the boys in the town； i’d gone out looking for girls and occasionally managed to connect up with this girl or that and ‘walk out’ a few sunday afternoons； i’d never really had a girl of my own。 it’s a queer business； that chasing of girls when you’re about sixteen。 at some recognized part of the town the boys stroll up and down in pairs； watching the girls； and the girls stroll up and down in pairs； pretending not to notice the boys； and presently some kind of contact is established and instead of twos they’re trailing along in fours； all four utterly speechless。 the chief feature of those walks—and it was worse the second time； when you went out with the girl alone—was the ghastly failure to make any kind of conversation。 but elsie waters seemed different。 the truth was that i was growing up。
i don’t want to tell the story of myself and elsie waters； even if there was any story to tell。 it’s merely that she’s part of the picture； part of ‘before the war’。 before the war it was always summer—a delusion； as i’ve remarked before； but that’s how i remember it。 the white dusty road stretching out between the chestnut trees； the smell of night…stocks； the green pools under the willows； the splash of burford weir—that’s what i see when i shut my eyes and think of ‘before the war’； and towards the end elsie waters is part of it。
i don’t know whether elsie would be considered pretty now。 she was then。 she was tall for a girl； about as tall as i am； with pale gold； heavy kind of hair which she wore somehow plaited and coiled round her head； and a delicate； curiously gentle face。 she was one of those girls that always look their best in black； especially the very plain black dresses they made them wear in the drapery—she worked at lilywhite’s； the drapers； though she came originally from london。 i suppose she would have been two years older than i was。
i’m grateful to elsie； because she was the first person who taught me to care about a woman。 i don’t mean women in general； i mean an individual woman。 i’d met her at the reading circle and hardly noticed her； and then one day i went into lilywhite’s during working hours； a thing i wouldn’t normally have been able to do； but as it happened we’d run out of butter muslin and old grimmett sent me to buy some。 you know the atmosphere of a draper’s shop。 it’s something peculiarly feminine。 there’s a hushed feeling； a subdued light； a cool smell of cloth； and a faint whirring from the wooden balls of change rolling to and fro。 elsie was leaning against the counter； cutting off a length of cloth with the big scissors。 there was something about her black dress and the curve of her breast against the counter—i can’t describe it； something curiously soft； curiously feminine。 as soon as you saw her you knew that you could take her in your arms and do what you wanted with her。 she was really deeply feminine； very gentle； very submissive； the kind that would always do what a man told her； though she wasn’t either small or weak。 she wasn’t even stupid； only rather silent and； at times； dreadfully refined。 but in those days i was rather refined myself。
we were living together for about a year。 of course in a town like lower binfield you could only live together in a figurative sense。 officially we were ‘walking out’； which was a recognized custom and not quite the same as being engaged。 there was a road that branched off from the road to upper binfield and ran along under the edge of the hills。 there was a long stretch of it； nearly a mile； that was quite straight and fringed with enormous horse… chestnut trees； and on the grass at the side there was a footpath under the boughs that was known as lovers’ lane。 we used to go there on the may evenings； when the chestnuts were in blossom。 then the short nights came on； and it was light for hours after we’d left the shop。 you know the feeling of a june evening。 the kind of blue twilight that goes on and on； and the air brushing against your face like silk。 sometimes on sunday afternoons we went over chamford hill and down to the water…meadows along the thames。 1913！ my god！ 1913！ the stillness； the green water； the rushing of the weir！ it’ll never e again。 i don’t mean that 1913 will never e again。 i mean the feeling inside you； the feeling of not being in a hurry and not being frightened； the feeling you’ve either had and don’t need to be told about； or haven’t had and won’t ever have the chance to learn。
it wasn’t till late summer that we began what’s called living together。 i’d been too shy and clumsy to begin； and too ignorant to realize that there’d been others before me。