should feel that you’ve got rights over it for the rest of your life； but so you do。 the place lived up to its name； all right。 blue curtains in the window； and a cake or two standing about； the kind of cake that’s covered with chocolate and has just one walnut stuck somewhere on the top。 i went in。 i didn’t really want any tea； but i had to see the inside。
they’d evidently turned both the shop and what used to be the parlour into tea…rooms。 as for the yard at the back where the dustbin used to stand and father’s little patch of weeds used to grow； they’d paved it all over and dolled it up with rustic tables and hydrangeas and things。 i went through into the parlour。 more ghosts！ the piano and the texts on the wall； and the two lumpy old red armchairs where father and mother used to sit on opposite sides of the fireplace； reading the people and the news of the world on sunday afternoons！ they’d got the place up in an even more antique style than the george； with gateleg tables and a hammered…iron chandelier and pewter plates hanging on the wall and what…not。 do you notice how dark they always manage to make it in these arty tea…rooms？ it’s part of the antiqueness； i suppose。 and instead of an ordinary waitress there was a young woman in a kind of print wrapper who met me with a sour expression。 i asked her for tea； and she was ten minutes getting it。 you know the kind of tea— china tea； so weak that you could think it’s water till you put the milk in。 i was sitting almost exactly where father’s armchair used to stand。 i could almost hear his voice； reading out a ‘piece’； as he used to call it； from the people； about the new flying machines； or the chap who was swallowed by a whale； or something。 it gave me a most peculiar feeling that i was there on false pretences and they could kick me out if they discovered who i was； and yet simultaneously i had a kind of longing to tell somebody that i’d been born here； that i belonged to this house； or rather （what i really felt） that the house belonged to me。 there was nobody else having tea。 the girl in the print wrapper was hanging about by the window； and i could see that if i hadn’t been there she’d have been picking her teeth。 i bit into one of the slices of cake she’d brought me。 home…made cakes！ you bet they were。 home…made with margarine and egg…substitute。 but in the end i had to speak。 i said：
‘have you been in lower binfield long？’
she started； looked surprised； and didn’t answer。 i tried again：
‘i used to live in lower binfleld myself； a good while ago。’
again no answer； or only something that i couldn’t hear。 she gave me a kind of frigid look and then gazed out of the window again。 i saw how it was。 too much of a lady to go in for back…chat with customers。 besides； she probably thought i was trying to get off with her。 what was the good of telling her i’d been born in the house？ even if she believed it； it wouldn’t interest her。 she’d never heard of samuel bowling； corn & seed merchant。 i paid the bill and cleared out。
i wandered up to the church。 one thing that i’d been half afraid of； and half looking forward to； was being recognized by people i used to know。 but i needn’t have worried； there wasn’t a face i knew anywhere in the streets。 it seemed as if the whole town had got a new population。
when i got to the church i saw why they’d had to have a new cemetery。 the churchyard was full to the brim； and half the graves had names on them that i didn’t know。 but the names i did know were easy enough to find。 i wandered round among the graves。 the sexton had just scythed the grass and there was a smell of summer even there。 they were all alone； all the older folks i’d known。 gravitt the butcher； and winkle the other seedsman； and trew； who used to keep the george； and mrs wheeler from the sweet…shop—they were all lying there。 shooter and wetherall were opposite one another on either side of the path； just as if they were still singing at each other across the aisle。 so wetherall hadn’t got his hundred after all。 born in ‘43 and ‘departed his life’ in 1928。 but he’d beaten shooter； as usual。 shooter died in ‘26。 what a time old wetherall must have had those last two years when there was nobody to sing against him！ and old grimmett under a huge marble thing shaped rather like a veal…and…ham pie； with an iron railing round it； and in the corner a whole batch of simmonses under cheap little crosses。 all gone to dust。 old hodges with his tobacco…coloured teeth； and lovegrove with his big brown beard； and lady rampling with the coachman and the tiger； and harry barnes’s aunt who had a glass eye； and brewer of the mill farm with his wicked old face like something carved out of a nut—nothing left of any of them except a slab of stone and god knows what underneath。
i found mother’s grave； and father’s beside it。 both of them in pretty good repair。 the sexton had kept the grass clipped。 uncle ezekiel’s was a little way away。 they’d levelled a lot of the older graves； and the old wooden head…pieces； the ones that used to look like the end of a bedstead； had all been cleared away。 what do you feel when you see your parents’ graves after twenty years？ i don’t know what you ought to feel； but i’ll tell you what i did feel； and that was nothing。 father and mother have never faded out of my mind。 it’s as if they existed somewhere or other in a kind of eternity； mother behind the brown teapot； father with his bald head a little mealy； and his spectacles and his grey moustache； fixed for ever like people in a picture； and yet in some way alive。 those boxes of bones lying in the ground there didn’t seem to have anything to do with them。 merely； as i stood there； i began to wonder what you feel like when you’re underground； whether you care much and how soon you cease to care； when suddenly a heavy shadow swept across me and gave me a bit of a start。
i looked over my shoulder。 it was only a bombing plane which had flown between me and the sun。 the place seemed to be creeping with them。
i strolled into the church。 for almost the first time since i got back to lower binfield i didn’t have the ghostly feeling； or rather i had it in a different form。 because nothing had changed。 nothing； except that all the people were gone。 even the hassocks looked the same。 the same dusty； sweetish corpse…smell。 and by god！ the same hole in the window； though； as it was evening and the sun was round the other side； the spot of light wasn’t creeping up the aisle。 they’d still got pews—hadn’t changed over to chairs。 there was our pew； and there was the one in front where wetherall used to bellow against shooter。 sihon king of the amorites and og the king of bashan！ and the worn stones in the aisle where you could still half…read the epitaphs of the blokes who lay beneath them。 i squatted down to have a look at the one opposite our pew。 i still knew the readable bits of it by heart。 even the pattern they made seemed to have stuck in my memory。 lord knows how often i’d read them during the sermon。
here。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。fon； gent。；
of this parif h。。。。。。。。。。his juft &
upright。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。
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to his。。。。。。。。manifold private bene
volences he added a diligent。。。。。。。
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。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。beloved wife
amelia； by。。。。。。。。。。。。。。iffue feven
daughters。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。
i remembered how the long s’s used to puzzle me as a kid。 used to wonder whether in the old days they pronounced their s’s as f’s； and if so； why。
there was a step behind me。 i looked up。 a chap in a cassock was standing over me。 it was the vicar。
but i mean the vicar！ it was old betterton； who’d been vicar in the old days—not； as a matter of fact； ever since i could remember； but since 1904 or thereabouts。 i recognized him at once； though his hair was quite white。
he didn’t recognize me。 i was only a fat tripper in a blue suit doing a bit of sightseeing。 he said good evening and promptly started on the usual line of talk—was i interested in architecture； remarkable old building this； foundations go back to saxon times and so on and so forth。 and soon he was doddering round； showing me the sights； such as they were—norman arch leading into the vestry； brass effigy of sir roderick bone who was killed at the battle of newbury。 and i followed him with the kind of whipped…dog air that middle…aged businessmen always have when they’re being shown round a church or a picture…gallery。 but did i tell him that i knew it all already？ did i tell him that i was georgie bowling； son of samuel bowling—he’d have remembered my father even if he didn’t remember me—and that i’d not only listened to his sermons for ten years and gone to his confirmation classes； but even belonged to the lower binfield reading circle and had a go at sesame and lilies just to please him？ no； i didn’t。 i merely followed him round； making the kind of mumble that you make when somebody tells you that this or that is five hundred years old and you can’t think what the hell to say except that it doesn’t look it。 from the moment that i set eyes on him i’d decided to let him think i was a