Coming up for Air- 第36部分

the　kennels

pedigree　sealyham　pups

dogs　boarded

surely　that　usen’t　to　be　there？

i　thought　for　a　moment。　yes；　i　remembered！　where　those　houses　stood　there　used　to　be　a　little　oak　plantation；　and　the　trees　grew　too　close　together；　so　that　they　were　very　tall　and　thin；　and　in　spring　the　ground　underneath　them　used　to　be　smothered　in　anemones。　certainly　there　were　never　any　houses　as　far　out　of　the　town　as　this。

i　got　to　the　top　of　the　hill。　another　minute　and　lower　binfield　would　be　in　sight。　lower　binfield！　why　should　i　pretend　i　wasn’t　excited？　at　the　very　thought　of　seeing　it　again　an　extraordinary　feeling　that　started　in　my　guts　crept　upwards　and　did　something　to　my　heart。　five　seconds　more　and　i’d　be　seeing　it。　yes；　here　we　are！　i　declutched；　trod　on　the　foot…brake；　and—jesus！

oh；　yes；　i　know　you　knew　what　was　ing。　but　i　didn’t。　you　can　say　i　was　a　bloody　fool　not　to　expect　it；　and　so　i　was。　but　it　hadn’t　even　occurred　to　me。

the　first　question　was；　where　was　lower　binfield？

i　don’t　mean　that　it　had　been　demolished。　it　had　merely　been　swallowed。　the　thing　i　was　looking　down　at　was　a　good…sized　manufacturing　town。　i　remember—gosh；　how　i　remember！　and　in　this　case　i　don’t　think　my　memory　is　far　out—what　lower　binfield　used　to　look　like　from　the　top　of　chamford　hill。　i　suppose　the　high　street　was　about　a　quarter　of　a　mile　long；　and　except　for　a　few　outlying　houses　the　town　was　roughly　the　shape　of　a　cross。　the　chief　landmarks　were　the　church　tower　and　the　chimney　of　the　brewery。　at　this　moment　i　couldn’t　distinguish　either　of　them。　all　i　could　see　was　an　enormous　river　of　brand…new　houses　which　flowed　along　the　valley　in　both　directions　and　half…way　up　the　hills　on　either　side。　over　to　the　right　there　were　what　looked　like　several　acres　of　bright　red　roofs　all　exactly　alike。　a　big　council　housing　estate；　by　the　look　of　it。

but　where　was　lower　binfield？　where　was　the　town　i　used　to　know？　it　might　have　been　anywhere。　all　i　knew　was　that　it　was　buried　somewhere　in　the　middle　of　that　sea　of　bricks。　of　the　five　or　six　factory　chimneys　that　i　could　see；　i　couldn’t　even　make　a　guess　at　which　belonged　to　the　brewery。　towards　the　eastern　end　of　the　town　there　were　two　enormous　factories　of　glass　and　concrete。　that　accounts　for　the　growth　of　the　town；　i　thought；　as　i　began　to　take　it　in。　it　occurred　to　me　that　the　population　of　this　place　（it　used　to　be　about　two　thousand　in　the　old　days）　must　be　a　good　twenty…five　thousand。　the　only　thing　that　hadn’t　changed；　seemingly；　was　binfield　house。　it　wasn’t　much　more　than　a　dot　at　that　distance；　but　you　could　see　it　on　the　hillside　opposite；　with　the　beech　trees　round　it；　and　the　town　hadn’t　climbed　that　high。　as　i　looked　a　fleet　of　black　bombing　planes　came　over　the　hill　and　zoomed　across　the　town。

i　shoved　the　clutch　in　and　started　slowly　down　the　hill。　the　houses　had　climbed　half…way　up　it。　you　know　those　very　cheap　small　houses　which　run　up　a　hillside　in　one　continuous　row；　with　the　roofs　rising　one　above　the　other　like　a　flight　of　steps；　all　exactly　the　same。　but　a　little　before　i　got　to　the　houses　i　stopped　again。　on　the　left　of　the　road　there　was　something　else　that　was　quite　new。　the　cemetery。　i　stopped　opposite　the　lych…　gate　to　have　a　look　at　it。

it　was　enormous；　twenty　acres；　i　should　think。　there’s　always　a　kind　of　jumped…up　unhomelike　look　about　a　new　cemetery；　with　its　raw　gravel　paths　and　its　rough　green　sods；　and　the　machine…made　marble　angels　that　look　like　something　off　a　wedding…cake。　but　what　chiefly　struck　me　at　the　moment　was　that　in　the　old　days　this　place　hadn’t　existed。　there　was　no　separate　cemetery　then；　only　the　churchyard。　i　could　vaguely　remember　the　farmer　these　fields　used　to　belong　to—blackett；　his　name　was；　and　he　was　a　dairy…　farmer。　and　somehow　the　raw　look　of　the　place　brought　it　home　to　me　how　things　have　changed。　it　wasn’t　only　that　the　town　had　grown　so　vast　that　they　needed　twenty　acres　to　dump　their　corpses　in。　it　was　their　putting　the　cemetery　out　here；　on　the　edge　of　the　town。　have　you　noticed　that　they　always　do　that　nowadays？　every　new　town　puts　its　cemetery　on　the　outskirts。　shove　it　away—keep　it　out　of　sight！　can’t　bear　to　be　reminded　of　death。　even　the　tombstones　tell　you　the　same　story。　they　never　say　that　the　chap　underneath　them　‘died’；　it’s　always　‘passed　away’　or　‘fell　asleep’。　it　wasn’t　so　in　the　old　days。　we　had　our　churchyard　plumb　in　the　middle　of　the　town；　you　passed　it　every　day；　you　saw　the　spot　where　your　grandfather　was　lying　and　where　some　day　you　were　going　to　lie　yourself。　we　didn’t　mind　looking　at　the　dead。　in　hot　weather；　i　admit；　we　also　had　to　smell　them；　because　some　of　the　family　vaults　weren’t　too　well　sealed。

i　let　the　car　run　down　the　hill　slowly。　queer！　you　can’t　imagine　how　queer！　all　the　way　down　the　hill　i　was　seeing　ghosts；　chiefly　the　ghosts　of　hedges　and　trees　and　cows。　it　was　as　if　i　was　looking　at　two　worlds　at　once；　a　kind　of　thin　bubble　of　the　thing　that　used　to　be；　with　the　thing　that　actually　existed　shining　through　it。　there’s　the　field　where　the　bull　chased　ginger　rodgers！　and　there’s　the　place　where　the　horse…mushrooms　used　to　grow！　but　there　weren’t　any　fields　or　any　bulls　or　any　mushrooms。　it　was　houses；　houses　everywhere；　little　raw　red　houses　with　their　grubby　window…curtains　and　their　scraps　of　back…garden　that　hadn’t　anything　in　them　except　a　patch　of　rank　grass　or　a　few　larkspurs　struggling　among　the　weeds。　and　blokes　walking　up　and　down；　and　women　shaking　out　mats；　and　snotty…nosed　kids　playing　along　the　pavement。　all　strangers！　they’d　all　e　crowding　in　while　my　back　was　turned。　and　yet　it　was　they　who’d　have　looked　on　me　as　a　stranger；　they　didn’t　know　anything　about　the　old　lower　binfield；　they’d　never　heard　of　shooter　and　wetherall；　or　mr　grimmett　and　uncle　ezekiel；　and　cared　less；　you　bet。

it’s　funny　how　quickly　one　adjusts。　i　suppose　it　was　five　minutes　since　i’d　halted　at　the　top　of　the　hill；　actually　a　bit　out　of　breath　at　the　thought　of　seeing　lower　binfield　again。　and　already　i’d　got　used　to　the　idea　that　lower　binfield　had　been　swallowed　up　and　buried　like　the　lost　cities　of　peru。　i　braced　up　and　faced　it。　after　all；　what　else　do　you　expect？　towns　have　got　to　grow；　people　have　got　to　live　somewhere。　besides；　the　old　town　hadn’t　been　annihilated。　somewhere　or　other　it　still　existed；　though　it　had　houses　round　it　instead　of　fields。　in　a　few　minutes　i’d　be　seeing　it　again；　the　church　and　the　brewery　chimney　and　father’s　shop…　window　and　the　horse…trough　in　the　market…place。　i　got　to　the　bottom　of　the　hill；　and　the　road　forked。　i　took　the　left…hand　turning；　and　a　minute　later　i　was　lost。

i　could　remember　nothing。　i　couldn’t　even　remember　whether　it　was　hereabouts　that　the　town　used　to　begin。　all　i　knew　was　that　in　the　old　days　this　street　hadn’t　existed。　for　hundreds　of　yards　i　was　running　along　it—a　rather　mean；　shabby　kind　of　street；　with　the　houses　giving　straight　on　the　pavement　and　here　and　there　a　corner　grocery　or　a　dingy　little　pub—and　wondering　where　the　hell　it　led　to。　finally　i　pulled　up　beside　a　woman　in　a　dirty　apron　and　no　hat　who　was　walking　down　the　pavement。　i　stuck　my　head　out　of　the　window。

‘beg　pardon—can　you　tell　me　the　way　to　the　market…place？’

she　‘couldn’t　tell’。　answered　in　an　accent　you　could　cut　with　a　spade。　lancashire。　there’s　lots　of　them　in　the　south　of　england　now。　overflow　from　the　distressed　areas。　then　i　saw　a　bloke　in　overalls　with　a　bag　of　tools　ing　along　and　tried　again。　this　time　i　got　the　answer　in　cockney；　but　he　had　to　think　for　a　moment。

‘market…place？　market…place？　lessee；　now。　oh—you　mean　the　ole　market？’

i　supposed　i　did　mean　the　old　market。

‘oh；　well—you　take　the　right　‘and　turning—’

it　was　a　long　way。　miles；　it　seemed　to　me；　though　really　it　wasn’t　a　mile。　houses；　shops；　cinemas；　chapels；　football　grounds—new；　all　new。　again　i　had　that　feeling　of　a　kind　of　enemy　invasion　having　happened　behind　my　back。　all　these　people　flooding　in　from　lancashire　and　the　london　suburbs；　planting　themselves　down　in　this　beastly　chaos；　not　even　bothering　to　know　the　chief　landmarks　of　the　town　by　name。　but　i　grasped　presently　why　what　we　used　to　call　the　market…place　was　now　known　as　the　old　market。　there　was　a　big　square；　though　you　couldn’t　properly　call　it　a　square；　because　it　was　no　particular　shape；　in　the　middle　of　the　new　town；　with　traffic…lights　and　a　huge　bronze　statue　of　a　lion　worrying　an　eagle—the　war…memorial；　i　suppose。　and　the　newness　of　everything！　the　raw；　mean　look！　do　you　know　the　look　of　these　new　towns　that　have　suddenly　swelled　up　like　balloons　in　the　last　few　years；　hayes；　slough；　dagenham；　and　so　forth？　the　kind　of　chilliness；　the　bright　red　brick　everywhere；　the　temporary…looking　shop…windows　full　of　cut…price　chocolates　and　radio　parts。　it　was　just　like　that。　but　suddenly　i　swung　into　a　street　with　older　houses。　gosh！　the　high　street！

after　all　my　memory　hadn’t　played　tricks　on　me。　i　knew　every　inch　of　it　now。　another　couple　of　hundred　yards　and　i’d　be　in　the　market…place。　the　old　shop　was　down　the　other　end　of　the　high　street。　i’d　go　there　after　lunch—i　was　going　to　put　up　at　the　george。　and　every　inch　a　memory！