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efore i got to the houses i stopped again。 on the left of the road there was something else that was quite new。 the cemetery。 i stopped opposite the lych… gate to have a look at it。
it was enormous； twenty acres； i should think。 there’s always a kind of jumped…up unhomelike look about a new cemetery； with its raw gravel paths and its rough green sods； and the machine…made marble angels that look like something off a wedding…cake。 but what chiefly struck me at the moment was that in the old days this place hadn’t existed。 there was no separate cemetery then； only the churchyard。 i could vaguely remember the farmer these fields used to belong to—blackett； his name was； and he was a dairy… farmer。 and somehow the raw look of the place brought it home to me how things have changed。 it wasn’t only that the town had grown so vast that they needed twenty acres to dump their corpses in。 it was their putting the cemetery out here； on the edge of the town。 have you noticed that they always do that nowadays？ every new town puts its cemetery on the outskirts。 shove it away—keep it out of sight！ can’t bear to be reminded of death。 even the tombstones tell you the same story。 they never say that the chap underneath them ‘died’； it’s always ‘passed away’ or ‘fell asleep’。 it wasn’t so in the old days。 we had our churchyard plumb in the middle of the town； you passed it every day； you saw the spot where your grandfather was lying and where some day you were going to lie yourself。 we didn’t mind looking at the dead。 in hot weather； i admit； we also had to smell them； because some of the family vaults weren’t too well sealed。
i let the car run down the hill slowly。 queer！ you can’t imagine how queer！ all the way down the hill i was seeing ghosts； chiefly the ghosts of hedges and trees and cows。 it was as if i was looking at two worlds at once； a kind of thin bubble of the thing that used to be； with the thing that actually existed shining through it。 there’s the field where the bull chased ginger rodgers！ and there’s the place where the horse…mushrooms used to grow！ but there weren’t any fields or any bulls or any mushrooms。 it was houses； houses everywhere； little raw red houses with their grubby window…curtains and their scraps of back…garden that hadn’t anything in them except a patch of rank grass or a few larkspurs struggling among the weeds。 and blokes walking up and down； and women shaking out mats； and snotty…nosed kids playing along the pavement。 all strangers！ they’d all e crowding in while my back was turned。 and yet it was they who’d have looked on me as a stranger； they didn’t know anything about the old lower binfield； they’d never heard of shooter and wetherall； or mr grimmett and uncle ezekiel； and cared less； you bet。
it’s funny how quickly one adjusts。 i suppose it was five minutes since i’d halted at the top of the hill； actually a bit out of breath at the thought of seeing lower binfield again。 and already i’d got used to the idea that lower binfield had been swallowed up and buried like the lost cities of peru。 i braced up and faced it。 after all； what else do you expect？ towns have got to grow； people have got to live somewhere。 besides； the old town hadn’t been annihilated。 somewhere or other it still existed； though it had houses round it instead of fields。 in a few minutes i’d be seeing it again； the church and the brewery chimney and father’s shop… window and the horse…trough in the market…place。 i got to the bottom of the hill； and the road forked。 i took the left…hand turning； and a minute later i was lost。
i could remember nothing。 i couldn’t even remember whether it was hereabouts that the town used to begin。 all i knew was that in the old days this street hadn’t existed。 for hundreds of yards i was running along it—a rather mean； shabby kind of street； with the houses giving straight on the pavement and here and there a corner grocery or a dingy little pub—and wondering where the hell it led to。 finally i pulled up beside a woman in a dirty apron and no hat who was walking down the pavement。 i stuck my head out of the window。
‘beg pardon—can you tell me the way to the market…place？’
she ‘couldn’t tell’。 answered in an accent you could cut with a spade。 lancashire。 there’s lots of them in the south of england now。 overflow from the distressed areas。 then i saw a bloke in overalls with a bag of tools ing along and tried again。 this time i got the answer in cockney； but he had to think for a moment。
‘market…place？ market…place？ lessee； now。 oh—you mean the ole market？’
i supposed i did mean the old market。
‘oh； well—you take the right ‘and turning—’
it was a long way。 miles； it seemed to me； though really it wasn’t a mile。 houses； shops； cinemas； chapels； football grounds—new； all new。 again i had that feeling of a kind of enemy invasion having happened behind my back。 all these people flooding in from lancashire and the london suburbs； planting themselves down in this beastly chaos； not even bothering to know the chief landmarks of the town by name。 but i grasped presently why what we used to call the market…place was now known as the old market。 there was a big square； though you couldn’t properly call it a square； because it was no particular shape； in the middle of the new town； with traffic…lights and a huge bronze statue of a lion worrying an eagle—the war…memorial； i suppose。 and the newness of everything！ the raw； mean look！ do you know the look of these new towns that have suddenly swelled up like balloons in the last few years； hayes； slough； dagenham； and so forth？ the kind of chilliness； the bright red brick everywhere； the temporary…looking shop…windows full of cut…price chocolates and radio parts。 it was just like that。 but suddenly i swung into a street with older houses。 gosh！ the high street！
after all my memory hadn’t played tricks on me。 i knew every inch of it now。 another couple of hundred yards and i’d be in the market…place。 the old shop was down the other end of the high street。 i’d go there after lunch—i was going to put up at the george。 and every inch a memory！ i knew all the shops； though all the nam