rd； done a fair trade； and supplied sound goods； and things would look up presently。 it’s a fact that very few shopkeepers in those days actually ended in the workhouse。 with any luck you died with a few pounds still your own。 it was a race between death and bankruptcy； and； thank god； death got father first； and mother too。
1911； 1912； 1913。 i tell you it was a good time to be alive。 it was late in 1912； through the vicar’s reading circle； that i first met elsie waters。 till then； although； like all the rest of the boys in the town； i’d gone out looking for girls and occasionally managed to connect up with this girl or that and ‘walk out’ a few sunday afternoons； i’d never really had a girl of my own。 it’s a queer business； that chasing of girls when you’re about sixteen。 at some recognized part of the town the boys stroll up and down in pairs； watching the girls； and the girls stroll up and down in pairs； pretending not to notice the boys； and presently some kind of contact is established and instead of twos they’re trailing along in fours； all four utterly speechless。 the chief feature of those walks—and it was worse the second time； when you went out with the girl alone—was the ghastly failure to make any kind of conversation。 but elsie waters seemed different。 the truth was that i was growing up。
i don’t want to tell the story of myself and elsie waters； even if there was any story to tell。 it’s merely that she’s part of the picture； part of ‘before the war’。 before the war it was always summer—a delusion； as i’ve remarked before； but that’s how i remember it。 the white dusty road stretching out between the chestnut trees； the smell of night…stocks； the green pools under the willows； the splash of burford weir—that’s what i see when i shut my eyes and think of ‘before the war’； and towards the end elsie waters is part of it。
i don’t know whether elsie would be considered pretty now。 she was then。 she was tall for a girl； about as tall as i am； with pale gold； heavy kind of hair which she wore somehow plaited and coiled round her head； and a delicate； curiously gentle face。 she was one of those girls that always look their best in black； especially the very plain black dresses they made them wear in the drapery—she worked at lilywhite’s； the drapers； though she came originally from london。 i suppose she would have been two years older than i was。
i’m grateful to elsie； because she was the first person who taught me to care about a woman。 i don’t mean women in general； i mean an individual woman。 i’d met her at the reading circle and hardly noticed her； and then one day i went into lilywhite’s during working hours； a thing i wouldn’t normally have been able to do； but as it happened we’d run out of butter muslin and old grimmett sent me to buy some。 you know the atmosphere of a draper’s shop。 it’s something peculiarly feminine。 there’s a hushed feeling； a subdued light； a cool smell of cloth； and a faint whirring from the wooden balls of change rolling to and fro。 elsie was leaning against the counter； cutting off a length of cloth with the big scissors。 there was something about her black dress and the curve of her breast against the counter—i can’t describe it； something curiously soft； curiously feminine。 as soon as you saw her you knew that you could take her in your arms and do what you wanted with her。 she was really deeply feminine； very gentle； very submissive； the kind that would always do what a man told her； though she wasn’t either small or weak。 she wasn’t even stupid； only rather silent and； at times； dreadfully refined。 but in those days i was rather refined myself。
we were living together for about a year。 of course in a town like lower binfield you could only live together in a figurative sense。 officially we were ‘walking out’； which was a recognized custom and not quite the same as being engaged。 there was a road that branched off from the road to upper binfield and ran along under the edge of the hills。 there was a long stretch of it； nearly a mile； that was quite straight and fringed with enormous horse… chestnut trees； and on the grass at the side there was a footpath under the boughs that was known as lovers’ lane。 we used to go there on the may evenings； when the chestnuts were in blossom。 then the short nights came on； and it was light for hours after we’d left the shop。 you know the feeling of a june evening。 the kind of blue twilight that goes on and on； and the air brushing against your face like silk。 sometimes on sunday afternoons we went over chamford hill and down to the water…meadows along the thames。 1913！ my god！ 1913！ the stillness； the green water； the rushing of the weir！ it’ll never e again。 i don’t mean that 1913 will never e again。 i mean the feeling inside you； the feeling of not being in a hurry and not being frightened； the feeling you’ve either had and don’t need to be told about； or haven’t had and won’t ever have the chance to learn。
it wasn’t till late summer that we began what’s called living together。 i’d been too shy and clumsy to begin； and too ignorant to realize that there’d been others before me。 one sunday afternoon we went into the beech woods round upper binfield。 up there you could always be alone。 i wanted her very badly； and i knew quite well that she was only waiting for me to begin。 something； i don’t know what； put it into my head to go into the grounds of binfield house。 old hodges； who was past seventy and getting very crusty； was capable of turning us out； but he’d probably be asleep on a sunday afternoon。 we slipped through a gap in the fence and down the footpath between the beeches to the big pool。 it was four years or more since i’d been that way。 nothing had changed。 still the utter solitude； the hidden feeling with the great trees all round you； the old boat…house rotting among the bulrushes。 we lay down in the little grass hollow beside the wild peppermint； and we were as much alone as if we’d been in central africa。 i’d kissed her god knows how many times； and then i’d got up and was wandering about again。 i wanted her very badly； and wanted to take the plunge； only i was half…frightened。 and curiously enough there was another thought in my mind at the same time。 it suddenly struck me that for years i’d meant to e back here and had never e。 now i was so near； it seemed a pity not to go down to the other pool and have a look at the big carp。 i felt i’d kick myself afterwards if i missed the chance； in fact i couldn’t think why i hadn’t been back before。 the carp were stored away in my mind； nobody knew about them except me； i was going to catch them some time。 practically they were my carp。 i actually started wandering along the bank in that direction； and then when i’d gone about ten yards i turned back。 it meant crashing your way through a kind of jungle of brambles and rotten brushwood； and i was dressed up in my sunday best。 dark…grey suit； bowler hat； button boots； and a collar that almost cut my ears off。 that was how people dressed for sunday afternoon walks in those days。 and i wanted elsie very badly。 i went back and stood over her for a moment。 she was lying on the grass with her arm over her face； and she didn’t stir when she heard me e。 in her black dress she looked—i don’t know how； kind of soft； kind of yielding； as though her body was a kind of malleable stuff that you could do what you liked with。 she was mine and i could have her； this minute if i wanted to。 suddenly i stopped being frightened； i chucked my hat on to the grass （it bounced； i remember）； knelt down； and took hold of her。 i can smell the wild peppermint yet。 it was my first time； but it wasn’t hers； and we didn’t make such a mess of it as you might expect。 so that was that。 the big carp faded out of my mind again； and in fact for years afterwards i hardly thought about them。
1913。 1914。 the spring of 1914。 first the blackthorn； then the hawthorn； then the chestnuts in blossom。 sunday afternoons along the towpath； and the wind rippling the beds of rushes so that they swayed all together in great thick masses and looked somehow like a woman’s hair。 the endless june evenings； the path under the chestnut trees； an owl hooting somewhere and elsie’s body against me。 it was a hot july that year。 how we sweated in the shop； and how the cheese and the ground coffee smelt！ and then the cool of the evening outside； the smell of night…stocks and pipe…tobacco in the lane behind the allotments； the soft dust underfoot； and the nightjars hawking after the cockchafers。
christ！ what’s the use of saying that one oughtn’t to be sentimental about ‘before the war’？ i am sentimental about it。 so are you if you remember it。 it’s quite true that if you look back on any special period of time you tend to remember the pleasant bits。 that’s true even of the war。 but it’s also true that people then had something that we haven’t got now。
what？ it was simply that they didn’t think of the future as something to be terrified of。 it isn’t that life was softer then than now。 actually it was harsher。 people on the whole worked harder； lived less fortably； and died more painfully。 the farm hands worked frightful