ess and tended to get smaller； which didn’t matter greatly because uncle ezekiel wasn’t married。 he was only a half…brother and much older than father； twenty years older at least； and for the fifteen years or so that i knew him he always looked exactly the same。 he was a fine…looking old chap； rather tall； with white hair and the whitest whiskers i ever saw— white as thistledown。 he had a way of slapping his leather apron and standing up very straight—a reaction from bending over the last； i suppose—after which he’d bark his opinions straight in your face； ending up with a sort of ghostly cackle。 he was a real old nineteenth…century liberal； the kind that not only used to ask you what gladstone said in ‘78 but could tell you the answer； and one of the very few people in lower binfield who stuck to the same opinions all through the war。 he was always denouncing joe chamberlain and some gang of people that he referred to as ‘the park lane riff…raff’。 i can hear him now； having one of his arguments with father。 ‘them and their far…flung empire！ can’t fling it too far for me。 he…he…he！’ and then father’s voice； a quiet； worried； conscientious kind of voice； ing back at him with the white man’s burden and our dooty to the pore blacks whom these here boars treated something shameful。 for a week or so after uncle ezekiel gave it out that he was a pro…boer and a little englander they were hardly on speaking terms。 they had another row when the atrocity stories started。 father was very worried by the tales he’d heard； and he tackled uncle ezekiel about it。 little englander or no； surely he couldn’t think it right for these here boars to throw babies in the air and catch them on their bayonets； even if they were only nigger babies？ but uncle ezekiel just laughed in his face。 father had got it all wrong！ it wasn’t the boars who threw babies in the air； it was the british soldiers！ he kept grabbing hold of me—i must have been about five—to illustrate。 ‘throw them in the air and skewer them like frogs； i tell you！ same as i might throw this youngster here！’ and then he’d swing me up and almost let go of me； and i had a vivid picture of myself flying through the air and landing plonk on the end of a bayonet。
father was quite different from uncle ezekiel。 i don’t know much about my grandparents； they were dead before i was born； i only know that my grandfather had been a cobbler and late in life he married the widow of a seedsman； which was how we came to have the shop。 it was a job that didn’t really suit father； though he knew the business inside out and was everlastingly working。 except on sunday and very occasionally on week…day evenings i never remember him without meal on the backs of his hands and in the lines of his face and in what was left of his hair。 he’d married when he was in his thirties and must have been nearly forty when i first remember him。 he was a small man； a sort of grey； quiet little man； always in shirtsleeves and white apron and always dusty…looking because of the meal。 he had a round head； a blunt nose； a rather bushy moustache； spectacles； and butter…coloured hair； the same colour as mine； but he’d lost most of it and it was always mealy。 my grandfather had bettered himself a good deal by marrying the seedsman’s widow； and father had been educated at walton grammar school； where the farmers and the better…off tradesmen sent their sons； whereas uncle ezekiel liked to boast that he’d never been to school in his life and had taught himself to read by a tallow candle after working hours。 but he was a much quicker…witted man than father； he could argue with anybody； and he used to quote carlyle and spencer by the yard。 father had a slow sort of mind； he’d never taken to ‘book…learning’； as he called it； and his english wasn’t good。 on sunday afternoons； the only time when he really took things easy； he’d settle down by the parlour fireplace to have what he called a ‘good read’ at the sunday paper。 his favourite paper was the people—mother preferred the news of the world； which she considered had more murders in it。 i can see them now。 a sunday afternoon—summer； of course； always summer—a smell of roast pork and greens still floating in the air； and mother on one side of the fireplace； starting off to read the latest murder but gradually falling asleep with her mouth open； and father on the other； in slippers and spectacles； working his way slowly through the yards of smudgy print。 and the soft feeling of summer all round you； the geranium in the window； a starling cooing somewhere； and myself under the table with the b。o。p。； making believe that the tablecloth is a tent。 afterwards； at tea； as he chewed his way through the radishes and spring onions； father would talk in a ruminative kind of way about the stuff he’d been reading； the fires and shipwrecks and scandals in high society； and these here new flying machines and the chap （i notice that to this day he turns up in the sunday papers about once in three years） who was swallowed by a whale in the red sea and taken out three days later； alive but bleached white by the whale’s gastric juice。 father was always a bit sceptical of this story； and of the new flying machines； otherwise he believed everything he read。 until 1909 no one in lower binfield believed that human beings would ever learn to fly。 the official doctrine was that if god had meant us to fly he’d have given us wings。 uncle ezekiel couldn’t help retorting that if god had meant us to ride he’d have given us wheels； but even he didn’t believe in the new flying machines。
it was only on sunday afternoons； and perhaps on the one evening a week when he looked in at the george for a half…pint； that father turned his mind to such things。 at other times he was always more or less overwhelmed by business。 there wasn’t really such a lot to do； but he seemed to be always busy； either in the loft behind the yard； struggling about with sacks and bales； or in the kind of dusty little cubby…hole behind the counter in the shop； adding figures up in a notebook with a stump of pencil。 he was a very honest man and a very obliging man； very anxious to provide good stuff and swindle nobody； which even in those days wasn’t the best way to get on in business。 he would have been just the man for some small official job； a postmaster； for instance； or station… master of a country station。 but he hadn’t either the cheek and enterprise to borrow money and expand the business； or the imagination to think of new selling…lines。 it was characteristic of him that the only streak of imagination he ever showed； the invention of a new seed mixture for cage…birds （bowling’s mixture it was called； and it was famous over a radius of nearly five miles） was really due to uncle ezekiel。 uncle ezekiel was a bit of a bird…fancier and had quantities of goldfinches in his dark little shop。 it was his theory that cage…birds lose their colour because of lack of variation in their diet。 in the yard behind the shop father had a tiny plot of ground in which he used to grow about twenty kinds of weed under wire…netting； and he used to dry them and mix their seeds with ordinary canary seed。 jackie； the bullfinch who hung in the shop…window； was supposed to be an advertisement for bowling’s mixture。 certainly； unlike most bullfinches in cages； jackie never turned black。
mother was fat ever since i remember her。 no doubt it’s from her that i inherit my pituitary deficiency； or whatever it is that makes you get fat。
she was a largish woman； a bit taller than father； with hair a good deal fairer than his and a tendency to wear black dresses。 but except on sundays i never remember her without an apron。 it would be an exaggeration； but not a very big one； to say that i never remember her when she wasn’t cooking。 when you look back over a long period you seem to see human beings always fixed in some special place and some characteristic attitude。 it seems to you that they were always doing exactly the same thing。 well； just as when i think of father i remember him always behind the counter； with his hair all mealy； adding up figures with a stump of pencil which he moistens between his lips； and just as i remember uncle ezekiel； with his ghostly white whiskers； straightening himself out and slapping his leather apron； so when i think of mother i remember her at the kitchen table； with her forearms covered with flour； rolling out a lump of dough。
you know the kind of kitchen people had in those days。 a huge place； rather dark and low； with a great beam across the ceiling and a stone floor and cellars underneath。 everything enormous； or so it seemed to me when i was a kid。 a vast stone sink which didn’t have a tap but an iron pump； a dresser covering one wall and going right up to the ceiling； a gigantic range which burned half a ton a month and took god knows how long to blacklead。 mother at the table rolling out a huge flap of dough。 and myself crawling round； messing about with bundles of firewood and lumps of coal and tin beetle…traps （we had them in all the dark corners and they used to be baited with beer） and now and again ing up to the table to try and cadge a bit of food。 mother ‘didn’t hold with’