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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。 one sunday afternoon we went into the beech woods round upper binfield。 up there you could always be alone。 i wanted her very badly； and i knew quite well that she was only waiting for me to begin。 something； i don’t know what； put it into my head to go into the grounds of binfield house。 old hodges； who was past seventy and getting very crusty； was capable of turning us out； but he’d probably be asleep on a sunday afternoon。 we slipped through a gap in the fence and down the footpath between the beeches to the big pool。 it was four years or more since i’d been that way。 nothing had changed。 still the utter solitude； the hidden feeling with the great trees all round you； the old boat…house rotting among the bulrushes。 we lay down in the little grass hollow beside the wild peppermint； and we were as much alone as if we’d been in central africa。 i’d kissed her god knows how many times； and then i’d got up and was wandering about again。 i wanted her very badly； and wanted to take the plunge； only i was half…frightened。 and curiously enough there was another thought in my mind at the same time。 it suddenly struck me that for years i’d meant to e back here and had never e。 now i was so near； it seemed a pity not to go down to the other pool and have a look at the big carp。 i felt i’d kick myself afterwards if i missed the chance； in fact i couldn’t think why i hadn’t been back before。 the carp were stored away in my mind； nobody knew about them except me； i was going to catch them some time。 practically they were my carp。 i actually started wandering along the bank in that direction； and then when i’d gone about ten yards i turned back。 it meant crashing your way through a kind of jungle of brambles and rotten brushwood； and i was dressed up in my sunday best。 dark…grey suit； bowler hat； button boots； and a collar that almost cut my ears off。 that was how people dressed for sunday afternoon walks in those days。 and i wanted elsie very badly。 i went back and stood over her for a moment。 she was lying on the grass with her arm over her face； and she didn’t stir when she heard me e。 in her black dress she looked—i don’t know how； kind of soft； kind of yielding； as though her body was a kind of malleable stuff that you could do what you liked with。 she was mine and i could have her； this minute if i wanted to。 suddenly i stopped being frightened； i chucked my hat on to the grass （it bounced； i remember）； knelt down； and took hold of her。 i can smell the wild peppermint yet。 it was my first time； but it wasn’t hers； and we didn’t make such a mess of it as you might expect。 so that was that。 the big carp faded out of my mind again； and in fact for years afterwards i hardly thought about them。
1913。 1914。 the spring of 1914。 first the blackthorn； then the hawthorn； then the chestnuts in blossom。 sunday afternoons along the towpath； and the wind rippling the beds of rushes so that they swayed all together in great thick masses and looked somehow like a woman’s hair。 the endless june evenings； the path under the chestnut trees； an owl hooting somewhere and elsie’s body against me。 it was a hot july that year。 how we sweated in the shop； and how the cheese and the ground coffee smelt！ and then the cool of the evening outside； the smell of night…stocks and pipe…tobacco in the lane behind the allotments； the soft dust underfoot； and the nightjars hawking after the cockchafers。
christ！ what’s the use of saying that one oughtn’t to be sentimental about ‘before the war’？ i am sentimental about it。 so are you if you remember it。 it’s quite true that if you look back on any special period of time you tend to remember the pleasant bits。 that’s true even of the war。 but it’s also true that people then had something that we haven’t got now。
what？ it was simply that they didn’t think of the future as something to be terrified of。 it isn’t that life was softer then than now。 actually it was harsher。 people on the whole worked harder； lived less fortably； and died more painfully。 the farm hands worked frightful hours for fourteen shillings a week and ended up as worn…out cripples with a five…shilling old…age pension and an occasional half…crown from the parish。 and what was called ‘respectable’ poverty was even worse。 when little watson； a small draper at the other end of the high street； ‘failed’ after years of struggling； his personal assets were l2 9s。 6d。； and he died almost immediately of what was called ‘gastric trouble’； but the doctor let it out that it was starvation。 yet he’d clung to his frock coat to the last。 old crimp； the watchmaker’s assistant； a skilled workman who’d been at the job； man and boy； for fifty years； got cataract and had to go into the workhouse。 his grandchildren were howling in the street when they took him away。 his wife went out charing； and by desperate efforts managed to send him a shilling a week for pocket…money。 you saw ghastly things happening sometimes。 small businesses sliding down the hill； solid tradesmen turning gradually into broken…down bankrupts； people dying by inches of cancer and liver disease； drunken husbands signing the pledge every monday and breaking it every saturday； girls ruined for life by an illegitimate baby。 the houses had no bathrooms； you broke the ice in your basin on winter mornings； the back streets stank like the devil in hot weather； and the churchyard was bang in the middle of the town； so that you never went a day without remembering how you’d got to end。 and yet what was it that people had in those days？ a feeling of security； even when they weren’t secure。 more exactly； it was a feeling of continuity。 all of them knew they’d got to die； and i suppose a few of them knew they were going to go bankrupt； but what they didn’t know was that the order of things could change。 whatever might happen to themselves； things would go on as they’d known them。 i don’t believe it made very much difference that what’s called religious belief was still prevalent in those days。 it’s true that nearly everyone went to church； at any rate in the country—elsie and i still went to church as a matter of course； even when we were living in what the vicar would have called sin—and if you asked people whether they believed in a life after death they generally answered that they did。 but i’ve never met anyone who gave me the impression of really believing in a future life。 i think that； at most； people believe in that kind of thing in the same way as kids believe in father christmas。 but it’s precisely in a settled period； a period when civilization seems to stand on its four legs like an elephant； that such things as a future life don’t matter。 it’s easy enough to die if the things you care about are going to survive。 you’ve had your life； you’re getting tired； it’s time to go underground—that’s how people used to see it。 individually they were finished； but their way of life would continue。 their good and evil would remain good and evil。 they didn’t feel the ground they stood on shifting under their feet。
father was failing； and he didn’t know it。 it was merely that times were very bad； trade seemed to dwindle and dwindle； his bills were harder and harder to meet。 thank god； he never even knew that he was ruined； never actually went bankrupt； because he died very suddenly （it was influenza that turned into pneumonia） at the beginning of 1915。 to the end he believed that with thrift； hard work； and fair dealing a man can’t go wrong。 there must have been plenty of small shopkeepers who carried that belief not merely on to bankrupt deathbeds but even into the workhouse。 even lovegrove the saddler； with cars and motor…vans staring him in the face； didn’t realize that he was as out of date as the rhinoceros。 and mother too—mother never lived to know that the life she’d been brought up to； the life of a decent god…fearing shopkeeper’s daughter and a decent god…fearing shopkeeper’s wife in the reign of good queen vic； was finished for ever。 times were difficult and trade w