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i was walking westward up the strand； and though it was coldish i went slowly to get the pleasure of my cigar。 the usual crowd that you can hardly fight your way through was streaming up the pavement； all of them with that insane fixed expression on their faces that people have in london streets； and there was the usual jam of traffic with the great red buses nosing their way between the cars； and the engines roaring and horns tooting。 enough noise to waken the dead； but not to waken this lot； i thought。 i felt as if i was the only person awake in a city of sleep…walkers。 that’s an illusion； of course。 when you walk through a crowd of strangers it’s next door to impossible not to imagine that they’re all waxworks； but probably they’re thinking just the same about you。 and this kind of prophetic feeling that keeps ing over me nowadays； the feeling that war’s just round the corner and that war’s the end of all things； isn’t peculiar to me。 we’ve all got it； more or less。 i suppose even among the people passing at that moment there must have been chaps who were seeing mental pictures of the shellbursts and the mud。 whatever thought you think there’s always a million people thinking it at the same moment。 but that was how i felt。 we’re all on the burning deck and nobody knows it except me。 i looked at the dumb…bell faces streaming past。 like turkeys in november； i thought。 not a notion of what’s ing to them。 it was as if i’d got x…rays in my eyes and could see the skeletons walking。
i looked forward a few years。 i saw this street as it’ll be in five years’ time； say； or three years’ time （1941 they say it’s booked for）； after the fighting’s started。
no； not all smashed to pieces。 only a little altered； kind of chipped and dirty…looking； the shop…windows almost empty and so dusty that you can’t see into them。 down a side street there’s an enormous bomb…crater and a block of buildings burnt out so that it looks like a hollow tooth。 thermite。 it’s all curiously quiet； and everyone’s very thin。 a platoon of soldiers es marching up the street。 they’re all as thin as rakes and their boots are dragging。 the sergeant’s got corkscrew moustaches and holds himself like a ramrod； but he’s thin too and he’s got a cough that almost tears him open。 between his coughs he’s trying to bawl at them in the old parade…ground style。 ‘nah then； jones！ lift yer ‘ed up！ what yer keep starin’ at the ground for？ all them fag… ends was picked up years ago。’ suddenly a fit of coughing catches him。 he tries to stop it； can’t； doubles up like a ruler； and almost coughs his guts out。 his face turns pink and purple； his moustache goes limp； and the water runs out of his eyes。
i can hear the air…raid sirens blowing and the loud…speakers bellowing that our glorious troops have taken a hundred thousand prisoners。 i see a top…floor…back in birmingham and a child of five howling and howling for a bit of bread。 and suddenly the mother can’t stand it any longer； and she yells at it； ‘shut your trap； you little bastard！’ and then she ups the child’s frock and smacks its bottom hard； because there isn’t any bread and isn’t going to be any bread。 i see it all。 i see the posters and the food…queues； and the castor oil and the rubber truncheons and the machine…guns squirting out of bedroom windows。
is it going to happen？ no knowing。 some days it’s impossible to believe it。 some days i say to myself that it’s just a scare got up by the newspapers。 some days i know in my bones there’s no escaping it。
when i got down near charing cross the boys were yelling a later edition of the evening papers。 there was some more drivel about the murder。 legs。 famous surgeon’s statement。 then another poster caught my eye： king zog’s wedding postponed。 king zog！ what a name！ it’s next door to impossible to believe a chap with a name like that isn’t a jet…black negro。
but just at that moment a queer thing happened。 king zog’s name— but i suppose； as i’d already seen the name several times that day； it was mixed up with some sound in the traffic or the smell of horse…dung or something—had started memories in me。
the past is a curious thing。 it’s with you all the time。 i suppose an hour never passes without your thinking of things that happened ten or twenty years ago； and yet most of the time it’s got no reality； it’s just a set of facts that you’ve learned； like a lot of stuff in a history book。 then some chance sight or sound or smell； especially smell； sets you going； and the past doesn’t merely e back to you； you’re actually in the past。 it was like that at this moment。
i was back in the parish church at lower binfield； and it was thirty…eight years ago。 to outward appearances； i suppose； i was still walking down the strand； fat and forty…five； with false teeth and a bowler hat； but inside me i was georgie bowling； aged seven； younger son of samuel bowling； corn and seed merchant； of 57 high street； lower binfield。 and it was sunday morning； and i could smell the church。 how i could smell it！ you know the smell churches have； a peculiar； dank； dusty； decaying； sweetish sort of smell。 there’s a touch of candle…grease in it； and perhaps a whiff of incense and a suspicion of mice； and on sunday mornings it’s a bit overlaid by yellow soap and serge dresses； but predominantly it’s that sweet； dusty； musty smell that’s like the smell of death and life mixed up together。 it’s powdered corpses； really。
in those days i was about four feet high。 i was standing on the hassock so as to see over the pew in front； and i could feel mother’s black serge dress under my hand。 i could also feel my stockings pulled up over my knees—we used to wear them like that then—and the saw edge of the eton collar they used to buckle me into on sunday mornings。 and i could hear the organ wheezing and two enormous voices bellowing out the psalm。 in our church there were two men who led the singing； in fact they did so much of the singing that nobody else got much of a chance。 one was shooter； the fishmonger； and the other was old wetherall； the joiner and undertaker。 they used to sit opposite one another on either side of the nave； in