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‘but dadda！ i wanna go somewhere！’
‘go somewhere else； then。 hop it。 i’m having my bath。’
‘dad…da！ i wanna go some—where！’
no use！ i knew the danger signal。 the w。c。 is in the bathroom—it would be； of course； in a house like ours。 i hooked the plug out of the bath and got partially dry as quickly as i could。 as i opened the door； little billy—my youngest； aged seven—shot past me； dodging the smack which i aimed at his head。 it was only when i was nearly dressed and looking for a tie that i discovered that my neck was still soapy。
it’s a rotten thing to have a soapy neck。 it gives you a disgusting sticky feeling； and the queer thing is that； however carefully you sponge it away； when you’ve once discovered that your neck is soapy you feel sticky for the rest of the day。 i went downstairs in a bad temper and ready to make myself disagreeable。
our dining…room； like the other dining…rooms in ellesmere road； is a poky little place； fourteen feet by twelve； or maybe it’s twelve by ten； and the japanese oak sideboard； with the two empty decanters and the silver egg…stand that hilda’s mother gave us for a wedding present； doesn’t leave much room。 old hilda was glooming behind the teapot； in her usual state of alarm and dismay because the news chronicle had announced that the price of butter was going up； or something。 she hadn’t lighted the gas…fire； and though the windows were shut it was beastly cold。 i bent down and put a match to the fire； breathing rather loudly through my nose （bending always makes me puff and blow） as a kind of hint to hilda。 she gave me the little sidelong glance that she always gives me when she thinks i’m doing something extravagant。
hilda is thirty…nine； and when i first knew her she looked just like a hare。 so she does still； but she’s got very thin and rather wizened； with a perpetual brooding； worried look in her eyes； and when she’s more upset than usual she’s got a trick of humping her shoulders and folding her arms across her breast； like an old gypsy woman over her fire。 she’s one of those people who get their main kick in life out of foreseeing disasters。 only petty disasters； of course。 as for wars； earthquakes； plagues； famines； and revolutions； she pays no attention to them。 butter is going up； and the gas…bill is enormous； and the kids’ boots are wearing out； and there’s another instalment due on the radio—that’s hilda’s litany。 she gets what i’ve finally decided is a definite pleasure out of rocking herself to and fro with her arms across her breast； and glooming at me； ‘but； george； it’s very serious！ i don’t know what we’re going to do！ i don’t know where the money’s ing from！ you don’t seem to realize how serious it is！’ and so on and so forth。 it’s fixed firmly in her head that we shall end up in the workhouse。 the funny thing is that if we ever do get to the workhouse hilda won’t mind it a quarter as much as i shall； in fact she’ll probably rather enjoy the feeling of security。
the kids were downstairs already； having washed and dressed at lightning speed； as they always do when there’s no chance to keep anyone else out of the bathroom。 when i got to the breakfast table they were having an argument which went to the tune of ‘yes； you did！’ ‘no； i didn’t！’ ‘yes； you did！’ ‘no； i didn’t！’ and looked like going on for the rest of the morning； until i told them to cheese it。 there are only the two of them； billy； aged seven； and lorna； aged eleven。 it’s a peculiar feeling that i have towards the kids。 a great deal of the time i can hardly stick the sight of them。 as for their conversation； it’s just unbearable。 they’re at that dreary bread…and…butter age when a kid’s mind revolves round things like rulers； pencil…boxes； and who got top marks in french。 at other times； especially when they’re asleep； i have quite a different feeling。 sometimes i’ve stood over their cots； on summer evenings when it’s light； and watched them sleeping； with their round faces and their tow…coloured hair； several shades lighter than mine； and it’s given me that feeling you read about in the bible when it says your bowels yearn。 at such times i feel that i’m just a kind of dried…up seed…pod that doesn’t matter twopence and that my sole importance has been to bring these creatures into the world and feed them while they’re growing。 but that’s only at moments。 most of the time my separate existence looks pretty important to me； i feel that there’s life in the old dog yet and plenty of good times ahead； and the notion of myself as a kind of tame dairy…cow for a lot of women and kids to chase up and down doesn’t appeal to me。
we didn’t talk much at breakfast。 hilda was in her ‘i don’t know what we’re going to do！’ mood； partly owing to the price of butter and partly because the christmas holidays were nearly over and there was still five pounds owing on the school fees for last term。 i ate my boiled egg and spread a piece of bread with golden crown marmalade。 hilda will persist in buying the stuff。 it’s fivepence…halfpenny a pound； and the label tells you； in the smallest print the law allows； that it contains ‘a certain proportion of neutral fruit…juice’。 this started me off； in the rather irritating way i have sometimes； talking about neutral fruit…trees； wondering what they looked like and what countries they grew in； until finally hilda got angry。 it’s not that she minds me chipping her； it’s only that in some obscure way she thinks it’s wicked to make jokes about anything you save money on。
i had a look at the paper； but there wasn’t much news。 down in spain and over in china they were murdering one another as usual； a woman’s legs had been found in a railway waiting…room； and king zog’s wedding was wavering in the balance。 finally； at about ten o’clock； rather earlier than i’d intended； i started out for town。 the kids had gone off to play in the public gardens。 it was a beastly raw morning。 as i stepped out of the front door a nasty little gust of wind caught the soapy patch on my neck and made me suddenly feel that my clothes didn’t fit and that i was sticky all over。
xs
PART Ⅰ…2
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do yo