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…place。 i wanted to get back there； just for a week； and let the feeling of it soak into me。 it was a bit like one of these eastern sages retiring into a desert。 and i should think； the way things are going； there’ll be a good many people retiring into the desert during the next few years。 it’ll be like the time in ancient rome that old porteous was telling me about； when there were so many hermits that there was a waiting list for every cave。
but it wasn’t that i wanted to watch my navel。 i only wanted to get my nerve back before the bad times begin。 because does anyone who isn’t dead from the neck up doubt that there’s a bad time ing？ we don’t even know what it’ll be； and yet we know it’s ing。 perhaps a war； perhaps a slump—no knowing； except that it’ll be something bad。 wherever we’re going； we’re going downwards。 into the grave； into the cesspool—no knowing。 and you can’t face that kind of thing unless you’ve got the right feeling inside you。 there’s something that’s gone out of us in these twenty years since the war。 it’s a kind of vital juice that we’ve squirted away until there’s nothing left。 all this rushing to and fro！ everlasting scramble for a bit of cash。 everlasting din of buses； bombs； radios； telephone bells。 nerves worn all to bits； empty places in our bones where the marrow ought to be。
i shoved my foot down on the accelerator。 the very thought of going back to lower binfield had done me good already。 you know the feeling i had。 ing up for air！ like the big sea…turtles when they e paddling up to the surface； stick their noses out and fill their lungs with a great gulp before they sink down again among the seaweed and the octopuses。 we’re all stifling at the bottom of a dustbin； but i’d found the way to the top。 back to lower binfield！ i kept my foot on the accelerator until the old car worked up to her maximum speed of nearly forty miles an hour。 she was rattling like a tin tray full of crockery； and under cover of the noise i nearly started singing。
of course the fly in the milk…jug was hilda。 that thought pulled me up a bit。 i slowed down to about twenty to think it over。
there wasn’t much doubt hilda would find out sooner or later。 as to getting only a week’s holiday in august； i might be able to pass that off all right。 i could tell her the firm were only giving me a week this year。 probably she wouldn’t ask too many questions about that； because she’d jump at the chance of cutting down the holiday expenses。 the kids； in any case； always stay at the seaside for a month。 where the difficulty came in was finding an alibi for that week in may。 i couldn’t just clear off without notice。 best thing； i thought； would be to tell her a good while ahead that i was being sent on some special job to nottingham； or derby； or bristol； or some other place a good long way away。 if i told her about it two months ahead it would look as if i hadn’t anything to hide。
but of course she’d find out sooner or later。 trust hilda！ she’d start off by pretending to believe it； and then； in that quiet； obstinate way she has； she’d nose out the fact that i’d never been to nottingham or derby or bristol or wherever it might be。 it’s astonishing how she does it。 such perseverance！ she lies low till she’s found out all the weak points in your alibi； and then suddenly； when you’ve put your foot in it by some careless remark； she starts on you。 suddenly es out with the whole dossier of the case。 ‘where did you spend saturday night？ that’s a lie！ you’ve been off with a woman。 look at these hairs i found when i was brushing your waistcoat。 look at them！ is my hair that colour？’ and then the fun begins。 lord knows how many times it’s happened。 sometimes she’s been right about the woman and sometimes she’s been wrong； but the after…effects are always the same。 nagging for weeks on end！ never a meal without a row—and the kids can’t make out what it’s all about。 the one pletely hopeless thing would be to tell her just where i’d spent that week； and why。 if i explained till the day of judgment she’d never believe that。
but； hell！ i thought； why bother？ it was a long way off。 you know how different these things seem before and after。 i shoved my foot down on the accelerator again。 i’d had another idea； almost bigger than the first。 i wouldn’t go in may。 i’d go in the second half of june； when the coarse…fishing season had started； and i’d go fishing！
why not； after all？ i wanted peace； and fishing is peace。 and then the biggest idea of all came into my head and very nearly made me swing the car off the road。
i’d go and catch those big carp in the pool at binfield house！
and once again； why not？ isn’t it queer how we go through life； always thinking that the things we want to do are the things that can’t be done？ why shouldn’t i catch those carp？ and yet； as soon as the idea’s mentioned； doesn’t it sound to you like something impossible； something that just couldn’t happen？ it seemed so to me； even at that moment。 it seemed to me a kind of dope…dream； like the ones you have of sleeping with film stars or winning the heavyweight championship。 and yet it wasn’t in the least impossible； it wasn’t even improbable。 fishing can be rented。 whoever owned binfield house now would probably let the pool if they got enough for it。 and gosh！ i’d be glad to pay five pounds for a day’s fishing in that pool。 for that matter it was quite likely that the house was still empty and nobody even knew that the pool existed。
i thought of it in the dark place among the trees； waiting for me all those years。 and the huge black fish still gliding round it。 jesus！ if they were that size thirty years ago； what would they be like now？
．。
PART Ⅲ…3
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it was june the seventeenth； friday； the second day of the coarse… fishing season。
i hadn’t had any difficulty in fixing things with the firm。 as for hilda； i’d fitted her up with a story that was all shipshape and watertight。 i’d fixed on birmingham for my alibi； and at the last moment i’d even told her the name of the hotel i was going to stay at； rowbottom’s family and mercial。 i happened to know the address because