had been。 but it was a very beautiful house； especially from a distance。 it was a great white place with colonnades and long…shaped windows； which had been built； i suppose； about queen anne’s time by someone who’d travelled in italy。 if i went there now i’d probably get a certain kick out of wandering round the general desolation and thinking about the life that used to go on there； and the people who built such places because they imagined that the good days would last for ever。 as a boy i didn’t give either the house or the grounds a second look。 i dug out old hodges； who’d just finished his dinner and was a bit surly； and got him to show me the way down to the pool。 it was several hundred yards behind the house and pletely hidden in the beech woods； but it was a good…sized pool； almost a lake； about a hundred and fifty yards across。 it was astonishing； and even at that age it astonished me； that there； a dozen miles from reading and not fifty from london； you could have such solitude。 you felt as much alone as if you’d been on the banks of the amazon。 the pool was ringed pletely round by the enormous beech trees； which in one place came down to the edge and were reflected in the water。 on the other side there was a patch of grass where there was a hollow with beds of wild peppermint； and up at one end of the pool an old wooden boathouse was rotting among the bulrushes。
the pool was swarming with bream； small ones； about four to six inches long。 every now and again you’d see one of them turn half over and gleam reddy brown under the water。 there were pike there too； and they must have been big ones。 you never saw them； but sometimes one that was basking among the weeds would turn over and plunge with a splash that was like a brick being bunged into the water。 it was no use trying to catch them； though of course i always tried every time i went there。 i tried them with dace and minnows i’d caught in the thames and kept alive in a jam…jar； and even with a spinner made out of a bit of tin。 but they were gorged with fish and wouldn’t bite； and in any case they’d have broken any tackle i possessed。 i never came back from the pool without at least a dozen small bream。 sometimes in the summer holidays i went there for a whole day； with my fishing…rod and a copy of chums or the union jack or something； and a hunk of bread and cheese which mother had wrapped up for me。 and i’ve fished for hours and then lain in the grass hollow and read the union jack； and then the smell of my bread paste and the plop of a fish jumping somewhere would send me wild again； and i’d go back to the water and have another go； and so on all through a summer’s day。 and the best of all was to be alone； utterly alone； though the road wasn’t a quarter of a mile away。 i was just old enough to know that it’s good to be alone occasionally。 with the trees all round you it was as though the pool belonged to you； and nothing ever stirred except the fish ringing the water and the pigeons passing overhead。 and yet； in the two years or so that i went fishing there； how many times did i really go； i wonder？ not more than a dozen。 it was a three…mile bike ride from home and took up a whole afternoon at least。 and sometimes other things turned up； and sometimes when i’d meant to go it rained。 you know the way things happen。
one afternoon the fish weren’t biting and i began to explore at the end of the pool farthest from binfield house。 there was a bit of an overflow of water and the ground was boggy； and you had to fight your way through a sort of jungle of blackberry bushes and rotten boughs that had fallen off the trees。 i struggled through it for about fifty yards； and then suddenly there was a clearing and i came to another pool which i had never known existed。 it was a small pool not more than twenty yards wide； and rather dark because of the boughs that overhung it。 but it was very clear water and immensely deep。 i could see ten or fifteen feet down into it。 i hung about for a bit； enjoying the dampness and the rotten boggy smell； the way a boy does。 and then i saw something that almost made me jump out of my skin。
it was an enormous fish。 i don’t exaggerate when i say it was enormous。 it was almost the length of my arm。 it glided across the pool； deep under water； and then became a shadow and disappeared into the darker water on the other side。 i felt as if a sword had gone through me。 it was far the biggest fish i’d ever seen； dead or alive。 i stood there without breathing； and in a moment another huge thick shape glided through the water； and then another and then two more close together。 the pool was full of them。 they were carp； i suppose。 just possibly they were bream or tench； but more probably carp。 bream or tench wouldn’t grow so huge。 i knew what had happened。 at some time this pool had been connected with the other； and then the stream had dried up and the woods had closed round the small pool and it had just been forgotten。 it’s a thing that happens occasionally。 a pool gets forgotten somehow； nobody fishes in it for years and decades and the fish grow to monstrous sizes。 the brutes that i was watching might be a hundred years old。 and not a soul in the world knew about them except me。 very likely it was twenty years since anyone had so much as looked at the pool； and probably even old hodges and mr farrel’s bailiff had forgotten its existence。
well； you can imagine what i felt。 after a bit i couldn’t even bear the tantalization of watching。 i hurried back to the other pool and got my fishing things together。 it was no use trying for those colossal brutes with the tackle i had。 they’d snap it as if it had been a hair。 and i couldn’t go on fishing any longer for the tiny bream。 the sight of the big carp had given me a feeling in my stomach almost as if i was going to be sick。 i got on to my bike and whizzed down the hill and home。 it was a wonderful secret for a boy to have。 there was the dark pool hidden away in the woods and the monstrous fish sailing round it—fish that had never been fished for and would grab the first bait you offered them。 it was only a question of getting hold of a line strong enough to hold them。 already i’d made all the arrangements。 i’d buy the tackle that would hold them if i had to steal the money out of the till。 somehow； god knew how； i’d get hold of half a crown and buy a length of silk salmon line and some thick gut or gimp and number 5 hooks； and e back with cheese and gentles and paste and mealworms and brandlings and grasshoppers and every mortal bait a carp might look at。 the very next saturday afternoon i’d e back and try for them。
but as it happened i never went back。 one never does go back。 i never stole the money out of the till or bought the bit of salmon line or had a try for those carp。 almost immediately afterwards something turned up to prevent me； but if it hadn’t been that it would have been something else。 it’s the way things happen。
i know； of course； that you think i’m exaggerating about the size of those fish。 you think； probably； that they were just medium… sized fish （a foot long； say） and that they’ve swollen gradually in my memory。 but it isn’t so。 people tell lies about the fish they’ve caught and still more about the fish that are hooked and get away； but i never caught any of these or even tried to catch them； and i’ve no motive for lying。 i tell you they were enormous。
。。
PART Ⅱ…6
and besides fishing there was reading。
i’ve exaggerated if i’ve given the impression that fishing was the only thing i cared about。 fishing certainly came first； but reading was a good second。 i must have been either ten or eleven when i started reading—reading voluntarily； i mean。 at that age it’s like discovering a new world。 i’m a considerable reader even now； in fact there aren’t many weeks in which i don’t get through a couple of novels。 i’m what you might call the typical boots library subscriber； i always fall for the best…seller of the moment （the good panions； bengal lancer； hatter’s castle—i fell for every one of them）； and i’ve been a member of the left book club for a year or more。 and in 1918； when i was twenty…five； i had a sort of debauch of reading that made a certain difference to my outlook。 but nothing is ever like those first years when you suddenly discover that you can open a penny weekly paper and plunge straight into thieves’ kitchens and chinese opium dens and polynesian islands and the forests of brazil。
it was from when i was eleven to when i was about sixteen that i got my biggest kick out of reading。 at first it was always the boys’ penny weeklies—little thin papers with vile print and an illustration in three colours on the cover—and a bit later it was books。 sherlock holmes； dr nikola； the iron pirate； dracula； raffles。 and nat gould and ranger gull and a chap whose name i forget who wrote boxing stories almost as rapidly as nat gould wrote racing ones。 i suppose if my parents had been a little better educated i’d have had ‘good’ books shoved down my throat； dickens and thackeray and so forth； and in fact they did drive us through quentin durward at school and uncle ezekiel sometimes tried to incite me to r