because there isn’t any bread and isn’t going to be any bread。 i see it all。 i see the posters and the food…queues； and the castor oil and the rubber truncheons and the machine…guns squirting out of bedroom windows。
is it going to happen？ no knowing。 some days it’s impossible to believe it。 some days i say to myself that it’s just a scare got up by the newspapers。 some days i know in my bones there’s no escaping it。
when i got down near charing cross the boys were yelling a later edition of the evening papers。 there was some more drivel about the murder。 legs。 famous surgeon’s statement。 then another poster caught my eye： king zog’s wedding postponed。 king zog！ what a name！ it’s next door to impossible to believe a chap with a name like that isn’t a jet…black negro。
but just at that moment a queer thing happened。 king zog’s name— but i suppose； as i’d already seen the name several times that day； it was mixed up with some sound in the traffic or the smell of horse…dung or something—had started memories in me。
the past is a curious thing。 it’s with you all the time。 i suppose an hour never passes without your thinking of things that happened ten or twenty years ago； and yet most of the time it’s got no reality； it’s just a set of facts that you’ve learned； like a lot of stuff in a history book。 then some chance sight or sound or smell； especially smell； sets you going； and the past doesn’t merely e back to you； you’re actually in the past。 it was like that at this moment。
i was back in the parish church at lower binfield； and it was thirty…eight years ago。 to outward appearances； i suppose； i was still walking down the strand； fat and forty…five； with false teeth and a bowler hat； but inside me i was georgie bowling； aged seven； younger son of samuel bowling； corn and seed merchant； of 57 high street； lower binfield。 and it was sunday morning； and i could smell the church。 how i could smell it！ you know the smell churches have； a peculiar； dank； dusty； decaying； sweetish sort of smell。 there’s a touch of candle…grease in it； and perhaps a whiff of incense and a suspicion of mice； and on sunday mornings it’s a bit overlaid by yellow soap and serge dresses； but predominantly it’s that sweet； dusty； musty smell that’s like the smell of death and life mixed up together。 it’s powdered corpses； really。
in those days i was about four feet high。 i was standing on the hassock so as to see over the pew in front； and i could feel mother’s black serge dress under my hand。 i could also feel my stockings pulled up over my knees—we used to wear them like that then—and the saw edge of the eton collar they used to buckle me into on sunday mornings。 and i could hear the organ wheezing and two enormous voices bellowing out the psalm。 in our church there were two men who led the singing； in fact they did so much of the singing that nobody else got much of a chance。 one was shooter； the fishmonger； and the other was old wetherall； the joiner and undertaker。 they used to sit opposite one another on either side of the nave； in the pews nearest the pulpit。 shooter was a short fat man with a very pink； smooth face； a big nose； drooping moustache； and a chin that kind of fell away beneath his mouth。 wetherall was quite different。 he was a great； gaunt； powerful old devil of about sixty； with a face like a death’s…head and stiff grey hair half an inch long all over his head。 i’ve never seen a living man who looked so exactly like a skeleton。 you could see every line of the skull in his face； his skin was like parchment； and his great lantern jaw full of yellow teeth worked up and down just like the jaw of a skeleton in an anatomical museum。 and yet with all his leanness he looked as strong as iron； as though he’d live to be a hundred and make coffins for everyone in that church before he’d finished。 their voices were quite different； too。 shooter had a kind of desperate； agonized bellow； as though someone had a knife at his throat and he was just letting out his last yell for help。 but wetherall had a tremendous； churning； rumbling noise that happened deep down inside him； like enormous barrels being rolled to and fro underground。 however much noise he let out； you always knew he’d got plenty more in reserve。 the kids nicknamed him rumbletummy。
they used to get up a kind of antiphonal effect； especially in the psalms。 it was always wetherall who had the last word。 i suppose really they were friends in private life； but in my kid’s way i used to imagine that they were deadly enemies and trying to shout one another down。 shooter would roar out ‘the lord is my shepherd’； and then wetherall would e in with ‘therefore can i lack nothing’； drowning him pletely。 you always knew which of the two was master。 i used especially to look forward to that psalm that has the bit about sihon king of the amorites and og the king of bashan （this was what king zog’s name had reminded me of）。 shooter would start off with ‘sihon king of the amorites’； then perhaps for half a second you could hear the rest of the congregation singing the ‘and’； and then wetherall’s enormous bass would e in like a tidal wave and swallow everybody up with ‘og the king of bashan’。 i wish i could make you hear the tremendous； rumbling； subterranean barrel…noise that he could get into that word ‘og’。 he even used to clip off the end of the ‘and’； so that when i was a very small kid i used to think it was dog the king of bashan。 but later； when i got the names right； i formed a picture in my mind’s eye of sihon and og。 i saw them as a couple of those great egyptian statues that i’d seen pictures of in the penny encyclopedia； enormous stone statues thirty feet high； sitting on their thrones opposite one another； with their hands on their knees and a faint mysterious smile on their faces。
how it came back to me！ that peculiar feeling—it was only a feeling； you couldn’t describe it as an activity—that we used to call ‘church’。 the sweet corpsy smell； the rustle of sunday dresses； the wheeze of the organ and the roaring voices； the spot of light from the hole in the window creeping slowly up the nave。 in some way the grown…ups could put it across that this extraordinary performance was necessary。 you took it for granted； just as you took the bible； which you got in big doses in those days。 there were texts on every wall and you knew whole chapters of the o。t。 by heart。 even now my head’s stuffed full of bits out of the bible。 and the children of israel did evil again in the sight of the lord。 and asher abode in his breeches。 followed them from dan until thou e unto beersheba。 smote him under the fifth rib； so that he died。 you never understood it； you didn’t try to or want to； it was just a kind of medicine； a queer…tasting stuff that you had to swallow and knew to be in some way necessary。 an extraordinary rigmarole about people with names like shimei and nebuchadnezzar and ahithophel and hashbadada； people with long stiff garments and assyrian beards； riding up and down on camels among temples and cedar trees and doing extraordinary things。 sacrificing burnt offerings； walking about in fiery furnaces； getting nailed on crosses； getting swallowed by whales。 and all mixed up with the sweet graveyard smell and the serge dresses and the wheeze of the organ。
that was the world i went back to when i saw the poster about king zog。 for a moment i didn’t merely remember it； i was in it。 of course such impressions don’t last more than a few seconds。 a moment later it was as though i’d opened my eyes again； and i was forty…five and there was a traffic jam in the strand。 but it had left a kind of after…effect behind。 sometimes when you e out of a train of thought you feel as if you were ing up from deep water； but this time it was the other way about； it was as though it was back in 1900 that i’d been breathing real air。 even now； with my eyes open； so to speak； all those bloody fools hustling to and fro； and the posters and the petrol…stink and the roar of the engines； seemed to me less real than sunday morning in lower binfield thirty…eight years ago。
i chucked away my cigar and walked on slowly。 i could smell the corpse…smell。 in a manner of speaking i can smell it now。 i’m back in lower binfield； and the year’s 1900。 beside the horse… trough in the market…place the carrier’s horse is having its nose… bag。 at the sweet…shop on the corner mother wheeler is weighing out a ha’porth of brandy balls。 lady rampling’s carriage is driving by； with the tiger sitting behind in his pipeclayed breeches with his arms folded。 uncle ezekiel is cursing joe chamberlain。 the recruiting…sergeant in his scarlet jacket； tight blue overalls； and pillbox hat； is strutting up and down twisting his moustache。 the drunks are puking in the yard behind the george。 vicky’s at windsor； god’s in heaven； christ’s on the cross； jonah’s in the whale； shadrach； meshach； and abednego are in the fiery furnace； and sihon king of the amorites and og the king of bashan are sitting on their thrones looking at one another—not doing anything exactly； just existing； keeping their appointed place； like a couple of fire…dogs； or the lion and the unicorn。
is it go