was going to put up at the george。 and every inch a memory！ i knew all the shops； though all the names had changed； and the stuff they dealt in had mostly changed as well。 there’s lovegrove’s！ and there’s todd’s！ and a big dark shop with beams and dormer windows。 used to be lilywhite’s the draper’s； where elsie used to work。 and grimmett’s！ still a grocer’s apparently。 now for the horse…trough in the market…place。 there was another car ahead of me and i couldn’t see。
it turned aside as we got into the market…place。 the horse…trough was gone。
there was an a。a。 man on traffic…duty where it used to stand。 he gave a glance at the car； saw that it hadn’t the a。a。 sign； and decided not to salute。
i turned the corner and ran down to the george。 the horse…trough being gone had thrown me out to such an extent that i hadn’t even looked to see whether the brewery chimney was still standing。 the george had altered too； all except the name。 the front had been dolled up till it looked like one of those riverside hotels； and the sign was different。 it was curious that although till that moment i hadn’t thought of it once in twenty years； i suddenly found that i could remember every detail of the old sign； which had swung there ever since i could remember。 it was a crude kind of picture； with st george on a very thin horse trampling on a very fat dragon； and in the corner； though it was cracked and faded； you could read the little signature； ‘wm。 sandford； painter & carpenter’。 the new sign was kind of artistic…looking。 you could see it had been painted by a real artist。 st george looked a regular pansy。 the cobbled yard； where the farmers’ traps used to stand and the drunks used to puke on saturday nights； had been enlarged to about three times its size and concreted over； with garages all round it。 i backed the car into one of the garages and got out。
one thing i’ve noticed about the human mind is that it goes in jerks。 there’s no emotion that stays by you for any length of time。 during the last quarter of an hour i’d had what you could fairly describe as a shock。 i’d felt it almost like a sock in the guts when i stopped at the top of chamford hill and suddenly realized that lower binfield had vanished； and there’d been another little stab when i saw the horse…trough was gone。 i’d driven through the streets with a gloomy； ichabod kind of feeling。 but as i stepped out of the car and hitched my trilby hat on to my head i suddenly felt that it didn’t matter a damn。 it was such a lovely sunny day； and the hotel yard had a kind of summery look； with its flowers in green tubs and what…not。 besides； i was hungry and looking forward to a spot of lunch。
i strolled into the hotel with a consequential kind of air； with the boots； who’d already nipped out to meet me； following with the suitcase。 i felt pretty prosperous； and probably i looked it。 a solid business man； you’d have said； at any rate if you hadn’t seen the car。 i was glad i’d e in my new suit—blue flannel with a thin white stripe； which suits my style。 it has what the tailor calls a ‘reducing effect’。 i believe that day i could have passed for a stockbroker。 and say what you like it’s a very pleasant thing； on a june day when the sun’s shining on the pink geraniums in the window…boxes； to walk into a nice country hotel with roast lamb and mint sauce ahead of you。 not that it’s any treat to me to stay in hotels； lord knows i see all too much of them—but ninety… nine times out of a hundred it’s those godless ‘family and mercial’ hotels； like rowbottom’s； where i was supposed to be staying at present； the kind of places where you pay five bob for bed and breakfast； and the sheets are always damp and the bath taps never work。 the george had got so smart i wouldn’t have known it。 in the old days it had hardly been a hotel； only a pub； though it had a room or two to let and used to do a farmers’ lunch （roast beef and yorkshire； suet dumpling and stilton cheese） on market days。 it all seemed different except for the public bar； which i got a glimpse of as i went past； and which looked the same as ever。 i went up a passage with a soft carpet； and hunting prints and copper warming…pans and such…like junk hanging on the walls。 and dimly i could remember the passage as it used to be； the hollowed… out flags underfoot； and the smell of plaster mixed up with the smell of beer。 a smart…looking young woman； with frizzed hair and a black dress； who i suppose was the clerk or something； took my name at the office。
‘you wish for a room； sir？ certainly； sir。 what name shall i put down； sir？’
i paused。 after all； this was my big moment。 she’d be pretty sure to know the name。 it isn’t mon； and there are a lot of us in the churchyard。 we were one of the old lower binfield families； the bowlings of lower binfield。 and though in a way it’s painful to be recognized； i’d been rather looking forward to it。
‘bowling；’ i said very distinctly。 ‘mr george bowling。’
‘bowling； sir。 b…o…a—oh！ b…o…w？ yes； sir。 and you are ing from london； sir？’
no response。 nothing registered。 she’d never heard of me。 never heard of george bowling； son of samuel bowling—samuel bowling who； damn it！ had had his half…pint in this same pub every saturday for over thirty years。
……
PART Ⅳ…2
小说
the dining…room had changed； too。
i could remember the old room； though i’d never had a meal there； with its brown mantelpiece and its bronzy…yellow wallpaper—i never knew whether it was meant to be that colour； or had just got like that from age and smoke—and the oil…painting； also by wm。 sandford； painter & carpenter； of the battle of tel…el…kebir。 now they’d got the place up in a kind of medieval style。 brick fireplace with inglenooks； a huge beam across the ceiling； oak panelling on the walls； and every bit of it a fake that you could have spotted fifty yards away。 the beam was genuine oak； came out of some old sailing…ship； probably； but it didn’t hold anything up； and i had my suspicions of the panels as soon as i set eyes on them。 as i sat down at my table； and the slick young waiter came towards me fiddling with his napkin； i tapped the wall behind me。 yes！ thought so！ not even wood。 they fake it up with some kind of position and then paint it over。
but the lunch wasn’t bad。 i had my lamb and mint sauce； and i had a bottle of some white wine or other with a french name which made me belch a bit but made me feel happy。 there was one other person lunching there； a woman of about thirty with fair hair； looked like a widow。 i wondered whether she was staying at the george； and made vague plans to get off with her。 it’s funny how your feelings get mixed up。 half the time i was seeing ghosts。 the past was sticking out into the present； market day； and the great solid farmers throwing their legs under the long table； with their hobnails grating on the stone floor； and working their way through a quantity of beef and dumpling you wouldn’t believe the human frame could hold。 and then the little tables with their shiny white cloths and wine…glasses and folded napkins； and the faked…up decorations and the general expensiveness would blot it out again。 and i’d think； ‘i’ve got twelve quid and a new suit。 i’m little georgie bowling； and who’d have believed i’d ever e back to lower binfield in my own motorcar？’ and then the wine would send a kind of warm feeling upwards from my stomach； and i’d run an eye over the woman with fair hair and mentally take her clothes off。
it was the same in the afternoon as i lay about in the lounge— fake…medieval again； but it had streamlined leather armchairs and glass…topped tables—with some brandy and a cigar。 i was seeing ghosts； but on the whole i was enjoying it。 as a matter of fact i was a tiny bit boozed and hoping that the woman with fair hair would e in so that i could scrape acquaintance。 she never showed up； however。 it wasn’t till nearly tea…time that i went out。
i strolled up to the market…place and turned to the left。 the shop！ it was funny。 twenty…one years ago； the day of mother’s funeral； i’d passed it in the station fly； and seen it all shut up and dusty； with the sign burnt off with a plumber’s blowflame； and i hadn’t cared a damn。 and now； when i was so much further away from it； when there were actually details about the inside of the house that i couldn’t remember； the thought of seeing it again did things to my heart and guts。 i passed the barber’s shop。 still a barber’s； though the name was different。 a warm； soapy； almondy smell came out of the door。 not quite so good as the old smell of bay rum and latakia。 the shop—our shop—was twenty yards farther down。 ah！
an arty…looking sign—painted by the same chap as did the one at the george； i shouldn’t wonder—hanging out over the pavement：
wendy’s teashop
morning coffee
home…made cakes
a tea…shop！
i suppose if it had been a butcher’s or an ironmonger’s； or anything else except a seedsman’s； it would have given me the same kind of jolt。 it’s absurd that because you happen to have been born in a certain house you should feel that you’ve got rights over it for the rest of your life； but so you do。 the place liv