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at it doesn’t look it。 from the moment that i set eyes on him i’d decided to let him think i was a stranger。 as soon as i decently could i dropped sixpence in the church expenses box and bunked。
but why？ why not make contact； now that at last i’d found somebody i knew？
because the change in his appearance after twenty years had actually frightened me。 i suppose you think i mean that he looked older。 but he didn’t！ he looked younger。 and it suddenly taught me something about the passage of time。
i suppose old betterton would be about sixty…five now； so that when i last saw him he’d have been about forty…five—my own present age。 his hair was white now； and the day he buried mother it was a kind of streaky grey； like a shaving…brush。 and yet as soon as i saw him the first thing that struck me was that he looked younger。 i’d thought of him as an old； old man； and after all he wasn’t so very old。 as a boy； it occurred to me； all people over forty had seemed to me just worn…out old wrecks； so old that there was hardly any difference between them。 a man of forty…five had seemed to me older than this old dodderer of sixty…five seemed now。 and christ！ i was forty…five myself。 it frightened me。
so that’s what i look like to chaps of twenty； i thought as i made off between the graves。 just a poor old hulk。 finished。 it was curious。 as a rule i don’t care a damn about my age。 why should i？ i’m fat； but i’m strong and healthy。 i can do everything i want to do。 a rose smells the same to me now as it did when i was twenty。 ah； but do i smell the same to the rose？ like an answer a girl； might have been eighteen； came up the churchyard lane。 she had to pass within a yard or two of me。 i saw the look she gave me； just a tiny momentary look。 no； not frightened； nor hostile。 only kind of wild； remote； like a wild animal when you catch its eye。 she’d been born and grown up in those twenty years while i was away from lower binfield。 all my memories would have been meaningless to her。 living in a different world from me； like an animal。
i went back to the george。 i wanted a drink； but the bar didn’t open for another half…hour。 i hung about for a bit； reading a sporting and dramatic of the year before； and presently the fair… haired dame； the one i thought might be a widow； came in。 i had a sudden desperate yearning to get off with her。 wanted to show myself that there’s life in the old dog yet； even if the old dog does have to wear false teeth。 after all； i thought； if she’s thirty and i’m forty…five； that’s fair enough。 i was standing in front of the empty fireplace； making believe to warm my bum； the way you do on a summer day。 in my blue suit i didn’t look so bad。 a bit fat； no doubt； but distingue。 a man of the world。 i could pass for a stockbroker。 i put on my toniest accent and said casually：
‘wonderful june weather we’re having。’
it was a pretty harmless remark； wasn’t it？ nor in the same class as ‘haven’t i met you somewhere before？’
but it wasn’t a success。 she didn’t answer； merely lowered for about half a second the paper she was reading and gave me a look that would have cracked a window。 it was awful。 she had one of those blue eyes that go into you like a bullet。 in that split second i saw how hopelessly i’d got her wrong。 she wasn’t the kind of widow with dyed hair who likes being taken out to dance…halls。 she was upper…middle…class； probably an admiral’s daughter； and been to one of those good schools where they play hockey。 and i’d got myself wrong too。 new suit or no new suit； i couldn’t pass for a stockbroker。 merely looked like a mercial traveller who’d happened to get hold of a bit of dough。 i sneaked off to the private bar to have a pint or two before dinner。
the beer wasn’t the same。 i remember the old beer； the good thames valley beer that used to have a bit of taste in it because it was made out of chalky water。 i asked the barmaid：
‘have bessemers’ still got the brewery？’
‘bessemers？ oo； no； sir！ they’ve gorn。 oo； years ago—long before we e ‘ere。’
she was a friendly sort； what i call the elder…sister type of barmaid； thirty…fivish； with a mild kind of face and the fat arms they develop from working the beer…handle。 she told me the name of the bine that had taken over the brewery。 i could have guessed it from the taste； as a matter of fact。 the different bars ran round in a circle with partments in between。 across in the public bar two chaps were playing a game of darts； and in the jug and bottle there was a chap i couldn’t see who occasionally put in a remark in a sepulchral kind of voice。 the barmaid leaned her fat elbows on the bar and had a talk with me。 i ran over the names of the people i used to know； and there wasn’t a single one of them that she’d heard of。 she said she’d only been in lower binfield five years。 she hadn’t even heard of old trew； who used to have the george in the old days。
‘i used to live in lower binfield myself；’ i told her。 ‘a good while back； it was； before the war。’
‘before the war？ well； now！ you don’t look that old。’
‘see some changes； i dessay；’ said the chap in the jug and bottle。
‘the town’s grown；’ i said。 ‘it’s the factories； i suppose。’
‘well； of course they mostly work at the factories。 there’s the gramophone works； and then there’s truefitt stockings。 but of course they’re making bombs nowadays。’
i didn’t altogether see why it was of course； but she began telling me about a young fellow who worked at truefitt’s factory and sometimes came to the george； and he’d told her that they were making bombs as well as stockings； the two； for some reason i didn’t understand； being easy to bine。 and then she told me about the big military aerodrome near walton—that accounted for the bombing planes i kept seeing—and the next moment we’d started talking about the war； as usual。 funny。 it was exactly to escape the thought of war that i’d e here。 but how can you； anyway？ it’s in the air you breathe。
i said it was ing in 1941。 the chap in the jug and bottle said he reckoned it was a bad job。 the barmaid said it gave her the creeps。 she said：
‘it doesn’t seem to do m