rise he stopped and spoke to me。
‘hullo； you！ i’ve seen you somewhere before。 what’s your name？ it’s on the tip of my tongue。’
‘bowling； sir。 used to be in the a。s。c。’
‘of course。 the boy that said he wasn’t a gentleman。 what are you doing here？’
i might have told him i was selling typewriter ribbons； and there perhaps the whole thing would have ended。 but i had one of those sudden inspirations that you get occasionally—a feeling that i might make something out of this if i handled it properly。 i said instead：
‘well； sir； as a matter of fact i’m looking for a job。’
‘a job； eh？ hm。 not so easy； nowadays。’
he looked me up and down for a second。 the two train…bearers had kind of wafted themselves a little distance away。 i saw his rather good…looking old face； with the heavy grey eyebrows and the intelligent nose； looking me over and realized that he’d decided to help me。 it’s queer； the power of these rich men。 he’d been marching past me in his power and glory； with his underlings after him； and then on some whim or other he’d turned aside like an emperor suddenly chucking a coin to a beggar。
‘so you want a job？ what can you do？’
again the inspiration。 no use； with a bloke like this； cracking up your own merits。 stick to the truth。 i said： ‘nothing； sir。 but i want a job as a travelling salesman。’
‘salesman？ hm。 not sure that i’ve got anything for you at present。 let’s see。’
he pursed his lips up。 for a moment； half a minute perhaps； he was thinking quite deeply。 it was curious。 even at the time i realized that it was curious。 this important old bloke； who was probably worth at least half a million； was actually taking thought on my behalf。 i’d deflected him from his path and wasted at least three minutes of his time； all because of a chance remark i’d happened to make years earlier。 i’d stuck in his memory and therefore he was willing to take the tiny bit of trouble that was needed to find me a job。 i dare say the same day he gave twenty clerks the sack。 finally he said：
‘how’d you like to go into an insurance firm？ always fairly safe； you know。 people have got to have insurance； same as they’ve got to eat。’
of course i jumped at the idea of going into an insurance firm。 sir joseph was ‘interested’ in the flying salamander。 god knows how many panies he was ‘interested’ in。 one of the underlings wafted himself forward with a scribbling…pad； and there and then； with the gold stylo out of his waistcoat pocket； sir joseph scribbled me a note to some higher…up in the flying salamander。 then i thanked him； and he marched on； and i sneaked off in the other direction； and we never saw one another again。
well； i got the job； and； as i said earlier； the job got me。 i’ve been with the flying salamander close on eighteen years。 i started off in the office； but now i’m what’s known as an inspector； or； when there’s reason to sound particularly impressive； a representative。 a couple of days a week i’m working in the district office； and the rest of the time i’m travelling around； interviewing clients whose names have been sent in by the local agents； making assessments of shops and other property； and now and again snapping up a few orders on my own account。 i earn round about seven quid a week。 and properly speaking that’s the end of my story。
when i look back i realize that my active life； if i ever had one； ended when i was sixteen。 everything that really matters to me had happened before that date。 but in a manner of speaking things were still happening—the war； for instance—up to the time when i got the job with the flying salamander。 after that—well； they say that happy people have no histories； and neither do the blokes who work in insurance offices。 from that day forward there was nothing in my life that you could properly describe as an event； except that about two and a half years later； at the beginning of ‘23； i got married。
x
PART Ⅱ…10
～
i was living in a boarding…house in ealing。 the years were rolling on； or crawling on。 lower binfield had passed almost out of my memory。 i was the usual young city worker who scoots for the 8。15 and intrigues for the other fellow’s job。 i was fairly well thought of in the firm and pretty satisfied with life。 the post… war success dope had caught me； more or less。 you remember the line of talk。 pep； punch； grit； sand。 get on or get out。 there’s plenty of room at the top。 you can’t keep a good man down。 and the ads in the magazines about the chap that the boss clapped on the shoulder； and the keen…jawed executive who’s pulling down the big dough and attributes his success to so and so’s correspondence course。 it’s funny how we all swallowed it； even blokes like me to whom it hadn’t the smallest application。 because i’m neither a go… getter nor a down…and…out； and i’m by nature incapable of being either。 but it was the spirit of the time。 get on！ make good！ if you see a man down； jump on his guts before he gets up again。 of course this was in the early twenties； when some of the effects of the war had worn off and the slump hadn’t yet arrived to knock the stuffing out of us。
i had an ‘a’ subscription at boots and went to half…crown dances and belonged to a local tennis club。 you know those tennis clubs in the genteel suburbs—little wooden pavilions and high wire… netting enclosures where young chaps in rather badly cut white flannels prance up and down； shouting ‘fifteen forty！’ and ‘vantage all！’ in voices which are a tolerable imitation of the upper crust。 i’d learned to play tennis； didn’t dance too badly； and got on well with the girls。 at nearly thirty i wasn’t a bad…looking chap； with my red face and butter…coloured hair； and in those days it was still a point in your favour to have fought in the war。 i never； then or at any other time； succeeded in looking like a gentleman； but on the other hand you probably wouldn’t have taken me for the son of a small shopkeeper in a country town。 i could keep my end up in the rather mixed society of a place like ealing； where the office…employee class overlaps with the middling…professional class。 it was at the tennis club that i first met hilda。
at that time hilda was twenty…four。 she was a small； slim； rather timid girl； with dark hair； beautiful movements； and—because of having very large eyes—a distinct resemblance to a hare。 she was one of those people who never say much； but remain on the edge of any conversation that’s going on； and give the impression that they’re listening。 if she said anything at all； it was usually ‘oh； yes； i think so too’； agreeing with whoever had spoken last。 at tennis she hopped about very gracefully； and didn’t play badly； but somehow had a helpless； childish air。 her surname was vincent。
if you’re married； there’ll have been times when you’ve said to yourself ‘why the hell did i do it？’ and god knows i’ve said it often enough about hilda。 and once again； looking at it across fifteen years； why did i marry hilda？
partly； of course； because she was young and in a way very pretty。 beyond that i can only say that because she came of totally different origins from myself it was very difficult for me to get any grasp of what she was really like。 i had to marry her first and find out about her afterwards； whereas if i’d married say； elsie waters； i’d have known what i was marrying。 hilda belonged to a class i only knew by hearsay； the poverty…stricken officer class。 for generations past her family had been soldiers； sailors； clergymen； anglo…indian officials； and that kind of thing。 they’d never had any money； but on the other hand none of them had ever done anything that i should recognize as work。 say what you will； there’s a kind of snob…appeal in that； if you belong as i do to the god…fearing shopkeeper class； the low church； and high…tea class。 it wouldn’t make any impression on me now； but it did then。 don’t mistake what i’m saying。 i don’t mean that i married hilda because she belonged to the class i’d once served across the counter； with some notion of jockeying myself up in the social scale。 it was merely that i couldn’t understand her and therefore was capable of being goofy about her。 and one thing i certainly didn’t grasp was that the girls in these penniless middle…class families will marry anything in trousers； just to get away from home。
it wasn’t long before hilda took me home to see her family。 i hadn’t known till then that there was a considerable anglo…indian colony in ealing。 talk about discovering a new world！ it was quite a revelation to me。
do you know these anglo…indian families？ it’s almost impossible； when you get inside these people’s houses； to remember that out in the street it’s england and the twentieth century。 as soon as you set foot inside the front door you’re in india in the eighties。 you know the kind of atmosphere。 the carved teak furniture； the brass trays； the dusty tiger…skulls on the wall； the trichinopoly cigars； the red…hot pickles； the yellow photographs of chaps in sun…helmets； the hindustani words that you’re expected to know the meaning of； the everlasting anecdotes about tiger…shoots and what smith said to jones