ed to know the meaning of； the everlasting anecdotes about tiger…shoots and what smith said to jones in poona in ‘87。 it’s a sort of little world of their own that they’ve created； like a kind of cyst。 to me； of course； it was all quite new and in some ways rather interesting。 old vincent； hilda’s father； had been not only in india but also in some even more outlandish place； borneo or sarawak； i forget which。 he was the usual type； pletely bald； almost invisible behind his moustache； and full of stories about cobras and cummerbunds and what the district collector said in ‘93。 hilda’s mother was so colourless that she was just like one of the faded photos on the wall。 there was also a son； harold； who had some official job in ceylon and was home on leave at the time when i first met hilda。 they had a little dark house in one of those buried back…streets that exist in ealing。 it smelt perpetually of trichinopoly cigars and it was so full of spears； blow…pipes； brass ornaments； and the heads of wild animals that you could hardly move about in it。
old vincent had retired in 1910； and since then he and his wife had shown about as much activity； mental or physical； as a couple of shellfish。 but at the time i was vaguely impressed by a family which had had majors； colonels； and once even an admiral in it。 my attitude towards the vincents； and theirs towards me； is an interesting illustration of what fools people can be when they get outside their own line。 put me among business people—whether they’re pany directors or mercial travellers—and i’m a fairly good judge of character。 but i had no experience whatever of the officer…rentier…clergyman class； and i was inclined to kow… tow to these decayed throw…outs。 i looked on them as my social and intellectual superiors； while they on the other hand mistook me for a rising young businessman who before long would be pulling down the big dough。 to people of that kind； ‘business’； whether it’s marine insurance or selling peanuts； is just a dark mystery。 all they know is that it’s something rather vulgar out of which you can make money。 old vincent used to talk impressively about my being ‘in business’—once； i remember； he had a slip of the tongue and said ‘in trade’—and obviously didn’t grasp the difference between being in business as an employee and being there on your own account。 he had some vague notion that as i was ‘in’ the flying salamander i should sooner or later rise to the top of it； by a process of promotion。 i think it’s possible that he also had pictures of himself touching me for fivers at some future date。 harold certainly had。 i could see it in his eye。 in fact； even with my ine being what it is； i’d probably be lending money to harold at this moment if he were alive。 luckily he died a few years after we were married； of enteric or something； and both the old vincents are dead too。
well； hilda and i were married； and right from the start it was a flop。 why did you marry her？ you say。 but why did you marry yours？ these things happen to us。 i wonder whether you’ll believe that during the first two or three years i had serious thoughts of killing hilda。 of course in practice one never does these things； they’re only a kind of fantasy that one enjoys thinking about。 besides； chaps who murder their wives always get copped。 however cleverly you’ve faked the alibi； they know perfectly well that it’s you who did it； and they’ll pin it on to you somehow。 when a woman’s bumped off； her husband is always the first suspect—which gives you a little side…glimpse of what people really think about marriage。
one gets used to everything in time。 after a year or two i stopped wanting to kill her and started wondering about her。 just wondering。 for hours； sometimes； on sunday afternoons or in the evening when i’ve e home from work； i’ve lain on my bed with all my clothes on except my shoes； wondering about women。 why they’re like that； how they get like that； whether they’re doing it on purpose。 it seems to be a most frightful thing； the suddenness with which some women go to pieces after they’re married。 it’s as if they were strung up to do just that one thing； and the instant they’ve done it they wither off like a flower that’s set its seed。 what really gets me down is the dreary attitude towards life that it implies。 if marriage was just an open swindle—if the woman trapped you into it and then turned round and said； ‘now； you bastard； i’ve caught you and you’re going to work for me while i have a good time！’—i wouldn’t mind so much。 but not a bit of it。 they don’t want to have a good time； they merely want to slump into middle age as quickly as possible。 after the frightful battle of getting her man to the altar； the woman kind of relaxes； and all her youth； looks； energy； and joy of life just vanish overnight。 it was like that with hilda。 here was this pretty； delicate girl； who’d seemed to me—and in fact when i first knew her she was—a finer type of animal than myself； and within only about three years she’d settled down into a depressed； lifeless； middle…aged frump。 i’m not denying that i was part of the reason。 but whoever she’d married it would have been much the same。
what hilda lacks—i discovered this about a week after we were married—is any kind of joy in life； any kind of interest in things for their own sake。 the idea of doing things because you enjoy them is something she can hardly understand。 it was through hilda that i first got a notion of what these decayed middle…class families are really like。 the essential fact about them is that all their vitality has been drained away by lack of money。 in families like that； which live on tiny pensions and annuities— that’s to say on ines which never get bigger and generally get smaller—there’s more sense of poverty； more crust…wiping； and looking twice at sixpence； than you’d find in any farm…labourer’s family； let alone a family like mine。 hilda’s often told me that almost the first thing she can remember is a ghastly feeling that there was never enough money for anything。 of course； in that kind of family； the lack of money is always at its worst when the kids are at the school…age。 consequently they grow up； especially the girls； with a fixed idea not only that one always is hard…up but that it’s one’s duty to be miserable about it。
at the beginning we lived in a poky little maisonette and had a job to get by on my wages。 later； when i was transferred to the west bletchley branch； things were better； but hilda’s attitude didn’t change。 always that ghastly glooming about money！ the milk bill！ the coal bill！ the rent！ the school fees！ we’ve lived all our life together to the tune of ‘next week we’ll be in the workhouse。’ it’s not that hilda’s mean； in the ordinary sense of the word； and still less that she’s selfish。 even when there happens to be a bit of spare cash knocking about i can hardly persuade her to buy herself any decent clothes。 but she’s got this feeling that you ought to be perpetually working yourself up into a stew about lack of money。 just working up an atmosphere of misery from a sense of duty。 i’m not like that。 i’ve got more the prole’s attitude towards money。 life’s here to be lived； and if we’re going to be in the soup next week—well； next week is a long way off。 what really shocks her is the fact that i refuse to worry。 she’s always going for me about it。 ‘but； george！ you don’t seem to realize！ we’ve simply got no money at all！ it’s very serious！’ she loves getting into a panic because something or other is ‘serious’。 and of late she’s got that trick； when she’s glooming about something； of kind of hunching her shoulders and folding her arms across her breast。 if you made a list of hilda’s remarks throughout the day； you’d find three bracketed together at the top—‘we can’t afford it’； ‘it’s a great saving’； and ‘i don’t know where the money’s to e from’。 she does everything for negative reasons。 when she makes a cake she’s not thinking about the cake； only about how to save butter and eggs。 when i’m in bed with her all she thinks about is how not to have a baby。 if she goes to the pictures she’s all the time writhing with indignation about the price of the seats。 her methods of housekeeping； with all the emphasis on ‘using things up’ and ‘making things do’； would have given mother convulsions。 on the other hand； hilda isn’t in the least a snob。 she’s never looked down on me because i’m not a gentleman。 on the contrary； from her point of view i’m much too lordly in my habits。 we never have a meal in a tea…shop without a frightful row in whispers because i’m tipping the waitress too much。 and it’s a curious thing that in the last few years she’s bee much more definitely lower…middle…class； in outlook and even in appearance； than i am。 of course all this ‘saving’ business has never led to anything。 it never does。 we live just about as well or as badly as the other people in ellesmere road。 but the everlasting stew about the gas bill and the milk bill and the awful price of butter and the kids’ boots and school…fees goes on and on。 it’s a kind of game with hilda。
we moved to west bletchl