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or anything。 of course； in that kind of family； the lack of money is always at its worst when the kids are at the school…age。 consequently they grow up； especially the girls； with a fixed idea not only that one always is hard…up but that it’s one’s duty to be miserable about it。
at the beginning we lived in a poky little maisonette and had a job to get by on my wages。 later； when i was transferred to the west bletchley branch； things were better； but hilda’s attitude didn’t change。 always that ghastly glooming about money！ the milk bill！ the coal bill！ the rent！ the school fees！ we’ve lived all our life together to the tune of ‘next week we’ll be in the workhouse。’ it’s not that hilda’s mean； in the ordinary sense of the word； and still less that she’s selfish。 even when there happens to be a bit of spare cash knocking about i can hardly persuade her to buy herself any decent clothes。 but she’s got this feeling that you ought to be perpetually working yourself up into a stew about lack of money。 just working up an atmosphere of misery from a sense of duty。 i’m not like that。 i’ve got more the prole’s attitude towards money。 life’s here to be lived； and if we’re going to be in the soup next week—well； next week is a long way off。 what really shocks her is the fact that i refuse to worry。 she’s always going for me about it。 ‘but； george！ you don’t seem to realize！ we’ve simply got no money at all！ it’s very serious！’ she loves getting into a panic because something or other is ‘serious’。 and of late she’s got that trick； when she’s glooming about something； of kind of hunching her shoulders and folding her arms across her breast。 if you made a list of hilda’s remarks throughout the day； you’d find three bracketed together at the top—‘we can’t afford it’； ‘it’s a great saving’； and ‘i don’t know where the money’s to e from’。 she does everything for negative reasons。 when she makes a cake she’s not thinking about the cake； only about how to save butter and eggs。 when i’m in bed with her all she thinks about is how not to have a baby。 if she goes to the pictures she’s all the time writhing with indignation about the price of the seats。 her methods of housekeeping； with all the emphasis on ‘using things up’ and ‘making things do’； would have given mother convulsions。 on the other hand； hilda isn’t in the least a snob。 she’s never looked down on me because i’m not a gentleman。 on the contrary； from her point of view i’m much too lordly in my habits。 we never have a meal in a tea…shop without a frightful row in whispers because i’m tipping the waitress too much。 and it’s a curious thing that in the last few years she’s bee much more definitely lower…middle…class； in outlook and even in appearance； than i am。 of course all this ‘saving’ business has never led to anything。 it never does。 we live just about as well or as badly as the other people in ellesmere road。 but the everlasting stew about the gas bill and the milk bill and the awful price of butter and the kids’ boots and school…fees goes on and on。 it’s a kind of game with hilda。
we moved to west bletchley in ‘29 and started buying the house in ellesmere road the next year； a little before billy was born。 after i was made an inspector i was more away from home and had more opportunities with other women。 of course i was unfaithful— i won’t say all the time； but as often as i got the chance。 curiously enough； hilda was jealous。 in a way； considering how little that kind of thing means to her； i wouldn’t have expected her to mind。 and like all jealous women she’ll sometimes show a cunning you wouldn’t think her capable of。 sometimes the way she’s caught me out would have made me believe in telepathy； if it wasn’t that she’s often been equally suspicious when i didn’t happen to be guilty。 i’m more or less permanently under suspicion； though； god knows； in the last few years—the last five years； anyway—i’ve been innocent enough。 you have to be； when you’re as fat as i am。
taking it by and large； i suppose hilda and i don’t get on worse than about half the couples in ellesmere road。 there’ve been times when i’ve thought of separation or divorce； but in our walk of life you don’t do those things。 you can’t afford to。 and then time goes on； and you kind of give up struggling。 when you’ve lived with a woman for fifteen years； it’s difficult to imagine life without her。 she’s part of the order of things。 i dare say you might find things to object to in the sun and the moon； but do you really want to change them？ besides； there were the kids。 kids are a ‘link’； as they say。 or a ‘tie’。 not to say a ball and fetter。
of late years hilda has made two great friends called mrs wheeler and miss minns。 mrs wheeler is a widow； and i gather she’s got very bitter ideas about the male sex。 i can feel her kind of quivering with disapproval if i so much as e into the room。 she’s a faded little woman and gives you a curious impression that she’s the same colour all over； a kind of greyish dust…colour； but she’s full of energy。 she’s a bad influence on hilda； because she’s got the same passion for ‘saving’ and ‘making things do’； though in a slightly different form。 with her it takes the form of thinking that you can have a good time without paying for it。 she’s for ever nosing out bargains and amusements that don’t cost money。 with people like that it doesn’t matter a damn whether they want a thing or not； it’s merely a question of whether they can get it on the cheap。 when the big shops have their remnant sales mrs wheeler’s always at the head of the queue； and it’s her greatest pride； after a day’s hard fighting round the counter； to e out without having bought anything。 miss minns is quite a different sort。 she’s really a sad case； poor miss minns。 she’s a tall thin woman of about thirty…eight； with black patent…leather hair and a very good； trusting kind of face。 she lives on some kind of tiny fixed ine； an annuity or something； and i fancy she’s a left… over from the old society of west bletchley； when it was a little country town； before the suburb grew up。 it’s written all over h