eeling that jack the ripper was hiding in lower binfield。 the crippen case—but that was years later； when i was almost grown up—upset her badly。 i can hear her voice now。 ‘gutting his poor wife up and burying her in the coal cellar！ the idea！ what i’d do to that man if i got hold of him！’ and curiously enough； when she thought of the dreadful wickedness of that little american doctor who dismembered his wife （and made a very neat job of it by taking all the bones out and chucking the head into the sea； if i remember rightly） the tears actually came into her eyes。
but what she mostly read on week…days was hilda’s home panion。 in those days it was part of the regular furnishing of any home like ours； and as a matter of fact it still exists； though it’s been a bit crowded out by the more streamlined women’s papers that have e up since the war。 i had a look at a copy only the other day。 it’s changed； but less than most things。 there are still the same enormous serial stories that go on for six months （and it all es right in the end with orange blossoms to follow）； and the same household hints； and the same ads for sewing…machines and remedies for bad legs。 it’s chiefly the print and the illustrations that have changed。 in those days the heroine had to look like an egg…timer and now she has to look like a cylinder。 mother was a slow reader and believed in getting her threepennyworth out of hilda’s home panion。 sitting in the old yellow armchair beside the hearth； with her feet on the iron fender and the little pot of strong tea stewing on the hob； she’d work her way steadily from cover to cover； right through the serial； the two short stories； the household hints； the ads for zam…buk； and the answers to correspondents。 hilda’s home panion generally lasted her the week out； and some weeks she didn’t even finish it。 sometimes the heat of the fire； or the buzzing of the bluebottles on summer afternoons； would send her off into a doze； and at about a quarter to sihe’d wake up with a tremendous start； glance at the clock on the mantelpiece； and then get into a stew because tea was going to be late。 but tea was never late。
in those days—till 1909； to be exact—father could still afford an errand boy； and he used to leave the shop to him and e in to tea with the backs of his hands all mealy。 then mother would stop cutting slices of bread for a moment and say； ‘if you’ll give us grace； father’； and father； while we all bent our heads on our chests； would mumble reverently； ‘fwat we bout to receive—lord make us truly thankful—amen。’ later on； when joe was a bit older； it would be ‘you give us grace today； joe’； and joe would pipe it out。 mother never said grace： it had to be someone of the male sex。
there were always bluebottles buzzing on summer afternoons。 ours wasn’t a sanitary house； precious few houses in lower binfield were。 i suppose the town must have contained five hundred houses and there certainly can’t have been more than ten with bathrooms or fifty with what we should now describe as a w。c。 in summer our backyard always smelt of dustbins。 and all houses had insects in them。 we had blackbeetles in the wainscoting and crickets somewhere behind the kitchen range； besides； of course； the meal… worms in the shop。 in those days even a house…proud woman like mother didn’t see anything to object to in blackbeetles。 they were as much a part of the kitchen as the dresser or the rolling…pin。 but there were insects and insects。 the houses in the bad street behind the brewery； where katie simmons lived； were overrun by bugs。 mother or any of the shopkeepers’ wives would have died of shame if they’d had bugs in the house。 in fact it was considered proper to say that you didn’t even know a bug by sight。
the great blue flies used to e sailing into the larder and sit longingly on the wire covers over the meat。 ‘drat the flies！’ people used to say； but the flies were an act of god and apart from meat…covers and fly…papers you couldn’t do much about them。 i said a little while back that the first thing i remember is the smell of sainfoin； but the smell of dustbins is also a pretty early memory。 when i think of mother’s kitchen； with the stone floor and the beetle…traps and the steel fender and the blackleaded range； i always seem to hear the bluebottles buzzing and smell the dustbin； and also old nailer； who carried a pretty powerful smell of dog。 and god knows there are worse smells and sounds。 which would you sooner listen to； a bluebottle or a bombing plane？
PART Ⅱ…3
…。网
joe started going to walton grammar school two years before i did。 neither us went there till we were nine。 it meant a four…mile bike ride morning and evening； and mother was scared of allowing us among the traffic； which by that time included a very few motor… cars。
for several years we went to the dame…school kept by old mrs howlett。 most of the shopkeepers’ children went there； to save them from the shame and e…down of going to the board school； though everyone knew that mother howlett was an old imposter and worse than useless as a teacher。 she was over seventy； she was very deaf； she could hardly see through her spectacles； and all she owned in the way of equipment was a cane； a blackboard； a few dog… eared grammar books； and a couple of dozen smelly slates。 she could just manage the girls； but the boys simply laughed at her and played truant as often as they felt like it。 once there was a frightful scandal cause a boy put his hand up a girl’s dress； a thing i didn’t understand at the time。 mother howlett succeeded in hushing it up。 when you did something particularly bad her formula was ‘i’ll tell your father’； and on very rare occasions she did so。 but we were quite sharp enough to see that she daren’t do it too often； and even when she let out at you with the cane she was so old and clumsy that it was easy to dodge。
joe was only eight when he got in with a tough gang of boys who called themselves the black hand。 the leader was sid lovegrove； the saddler’s younger son； who was about thirteen； and there were two other shopkeepers’ sons； an errand boy from the brewery； and two farm lads who sometimes managed to cut work and go off with the gang for a couple of hours。 the farm lads were great lumps bursting out of corduroy breeches； with very broad accents and rather looked down on by the rest of the gang； but they were tolerated because they knew twice as much about animals as any of the others。 one of them； nicknamed ginger； would even catch a rabbit in his hands occasionally。 if he saw one lying in the grass he used to fling himself on it like a spread…eagle。 there was a big social distinction between the shopkeepers’ sons and the sons of labourers and farm…hands； but the local boys didn’t usually pay much attention to it till they were about sixteen。 the gang had a secret password and an ‘ordeal’ which included cutting your finger and eating an earthworm； and they gave themselves out to be frightful desperadoes。 certainly they managed to make a nuisance of themselves； broke windows chased cows； tore the knockers off doors； and stole fruit by the hundredweight。 sometimes in winter they managed to borrow a couple of ferrets and go ratting； when the farmers would let them。 they all had catapults and squailers； and they were always saving up to buy a saloon pistol； which in those days cost five shillings； but the savings never amounted to more than about threepence。 in summer they used to go fishing and bird… nesting。 when joe was at mrs howlett’s he used to cut school at least once a week； and even at the grammar school he managed it about once a fortnight。 there was a boy at the grammar school； an auctioneer’s son； who could copy any handwriting and for a penny he’d forge a letter from your mother saying you’d been ill yesterday。 of course i was wild to join the black hand； but joe always choked me off and said they didn’t want any blasted kids hanging round。
it was the thought of going fishing that really appealed to me。 at eight years old i hadn’t yet been fishing； except with a penny net； with which you can sometimes catch a stickleback。 mother was always terrified of letting us go anywhere near water。 she ‘forbade’ fishing； in the way in which parents in those days ‘forbade’ almost everything； and i hadn’t yet grasped that grownups can’t see round corners。 but the thought of fishing sent me wild with excitement。 many a time i’d been past the pool at the mill farm and watched the small carp basking on the surface； and sometimes under the willow tree at the corner a great diamond… shaped carp that to my eyes looked enormous—six inches long； i suppose—would suddenly rise to the surface； gulp down a grub； and sink again。 i’d spent hours gluing my nose against the window of wallace’s in the high street； where fishing tackle and guns and bicycles were sold。 i used to lie awake on summer mornings thinking of the tales joe had told me about fishing； how you mixed bread paste； how your float gives a bob and plunges under and you feel the rod bending and the fish tugging at the line。 is it any use talking about it； i wonder—the sort of fairy light that fish and fishing tackle have in