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truncheons。 the secret cells where the electric light burns night and day； and the detectives watching you while you sleep。 and the processions and the posters with enormous faces； and the crowds of a million people all cheering for the leader till they deafen themselves into thinking that they really worship him； and all the time； underneath； they hate him so that they want to puke。 it’s all going to happen。 or isn’t it？ some days i know it’s impossible； other days i know it’s inevitable。 that night； at any rate； i knew it was going to happen。 it was all in the sound of the little lecturer’s voice。
so perhaps after all there is a significance in this mingy little crowd that’ll turn out on a winter night to listen to a lecture of this kind。 or at any rate in the five or six who can grasp what it’s all about。 they’re simply the outposts of an enormous army。 they’re the long…sighted ones； the first rats to spot that the ship is sinking。 quick； quick！ the fascists are ing！ spanners ready； boys！ smash others or they’ll smash you。 so terrified of the future that we’re jumping straight into it like a rabbit diving down a boa…constrictor’s throat。
and what’ll happen to chaps like me when we get fascism in england？ the truth is it probably won’t make the slightest difference。 as for the lecturer and those four munists in the audience； yes； it’ll make plenty of difference to them。 they’ll be smashing faces； or having their own smashed； according to who’s winning。 but the ordinary middling chaps like me will be carrying on just as usual。 and yet it frightens me—i tell you it frightens me。 i’d just started to wonder why when the lecturer stopped and sat down。
there was the usual hollow little sound of clapping that you get when there are only about fifteen people in the audience； and then old witchett said his piece； and before you could say jack robinson the four munists were on their feet together。 they had a good dog…fight that went on for about ten minutes； full of a lot of stuff that nobody else understood； such as dialectical materialism and the destiny of the proletariat and what lenin said in 1918。 then the lecturer； who’d had a drink of water； stood up and gave a summing…up that made the trotskyist wriggle about on his chair but pleased the other three； and the dog…fight went on unofficially for a bit longer。 nobody else did any talking。 hilda and the others had cleared off the moment the lecture ended。 probably they were afraid there was going to be a collection to pay for the hire of the hall。 the little woman with red hair was staying to finish her row。 you could hear her counting her stitches in a whisper while the others argued。 and witchett sat and beamed at whoever happened to be speaking； and you could see him thinking how interesting it all was and making mental notes； and the girl with black hair looked from one to the other with her mouth a little open； and the old labour man； looking rather like a seal with his droopy moustache and his overcoat up to his ears； sat looking up at them； wondering what the hell it was all about。 and finally i got up and began to put on my overcoat。
the dog…fight had turned into a private row between the little trotskyist and the boy with fair hair。 they were arguing about whether you ought to join the army if war broke out。 as i edged my way along the row of chairs to get out； the fair…haired one appealed to me。
‘mr bowling！ look here。 if war broke out and we had the chance to smash fascism once and for all； wouldn’t you fight？ if you were young； i mean。’
i suppose he thinks i’m about sixty。
‘you bet i wouldn’t；’ i said。 ‘i had enough to go on with last time。’
‘but to smash fascism！’
‘oh； b— fascism！ there’s been enough smashing done already； if you ask me。’
the little trotskyist chips in with social…patriotism and betrayal of the workers； but the others cut him short：
‘but you’re thinking of 1914。 that was just an ordinary imperialist war。 this time it’s different。 look here。 when you hear about what’s going on in germany； and the concentration camps and the nazis beating people up with rubber truncheons and making the jews spit in each other’s faces—doesn’t it make your blood boil？’
they’re always going on about your blood boiling。 just the same phrase during the war； i remember。
‘i went off the boil in 1916；’ i told him。 ‘and so’ll you when you know what a trench smells like。’
and then all of a sudden i seemed to see him。 it was as if i hadn’t properly seen him till that moment。
a very young eager face； might have belonged to a good…looking schoolboy； with blue eyes and tow…coloured hair； gazing into mine； and for a moment actually he’d got tears in his eyes！ felt as strongly as all that about the german jews！ but as a matter of fact i knew just what he felt。 he’s a hefty lad； probably plays rugger for the bank。 got brains； too。 and here he is； a bank clerk in a godless suburb； sitting behind the frosted window； entering figures in a ledger； counting piles of notes； bumsucking to the manager。 feels his life rotting away。 and all the while； over in europe； the big stuff’s happening。 shells bursting over the trenches and waves of infantry charging through the drifts of smoke。 probably some of his pals are fighting in spain。 of course he’s spoiling for a war。 how can you blame him？ for a moment i had a peculiar feeling that he was my son； which in point of years he might have been。 and i thought of that sweltering hot day in august when the newsboy stuck up the poster england declares war on germany； and we all rushed out on to the pavement in our white aprons and cheered。
‘listen son；’ i said； ‘you’ve got it all wrong。 in 1914 we thought it was going to be a glorious business。 well； it wasn’t。 it was just a bloody mess。 if it es again； you keep out of it。 why should you get your body plugged full of lead？ keep it for some girl。 you think war’s all heroism and v。c。 charges； but i tell you it isn’t like that。 you don’t have bayonet…charges nowadays； and when you do it isn’t like you imagine。 you don’t feel like a hero。 all you know is that you’ve had no sleep for three days； an