Coming up for Air-第21章
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
e whole worked harder； lived less fortably； and died more painfully。 the farm hands worked frightful hours for fourteen shillings a week and ended up as worn…out cripples with a five…shilling old…age pension and an occasional half…crown from the parish。 and what was called ‘respectable’ poverty was even worse。 when little watson； a small draper at the other end of the high street； ‘failed’ after years of struggling； his personal assets were l2 9s。 6d。； and he died almost immediately of what was called ‘gastric trouble’； but the doctor let it out that it was starvation。 yet he’d clung to his frock coat to the last。 old crimp； the watchmaker’s assistant； a skilled workman who’d been at the job； man and boy； for fifty years； got cataract and had to go into the workhouse。 his grandchildren were howling in the street when they took him away。 his wife went out charing； and by desperate efforts managed to send him a shilling a week for pocket…money。 you saw ghastly things happening sometimes。 small businesses sliding down the hill； solid tradesmen turning gradually into broken…down bankrupts； people dying by inches of cancer and liver disease； drunken husbands signing the pledge every monday and breaking it every saturday； girls ruined for life by an illegitimate baby。 the houses had no bathrooms； you broke the ice in your basin on winter mornings； the back streets stank like the devil in hot weather； and the churchyard was bang in the middle of the town； so that you never went a day without remembering how you’d got to end。 and yet what was it that people had in those days？ a feeling of security； even when they weren’t secure。 more exactly； it was a feeling of continuity。 all of them knew they’d got to die； and i suppose a few of them knew they were going to go bankrupt； but what they didn’t know was that the order of things could change。 whatever might happen to themselves； things would go on as they’d known them。 i don’t believe it made very much difference that what’s called religious belief was still prevalent in those days。 it’s true that nearly everyone went to church； at any rate in the country—elsie and i still went to church as a matter of course； even when we were living in what the vicar would have called sin—and if you asked people whether they believed in a life after death they generally answered that they did。 but i’ve never met anyone who gave me the impression of really believing in a future life。 i think that； at most； people believe in that kind of thing in the same way as kids believe in father christmas。 but it’s precisely in a settled period； a period when civilization seems to stand on its four legs like an elephant； that such things as a future life don’t matter。 it’s easy enough to die if the things you care about are going to survive。 you’ve had your life； you’re getting tired； it’s time to go underground—that’s how people used to see it。 individually they were finished； but their way of life would continue。 their good and evil would remain good and evil。 they didn’t feel the ground they stood on shifting under their feet。
father was failing； and he didn’t know it。 it was merely that times were very bad； trade seemed to dwindle and dwindle； his bills were harder and harder to meet。 thank god； he never even knew that he was ruined； never actually went bankrupt； because he died very suddenly （it was influenza that turned into pneumonia） at the beginning of 1915。 to the end he believed that with thrift； hard work； and fair dealing a man can’t go wrong。 there must have been plenty of small shopkeepers who carried that belief not merely on to bankrupt deathbeds but even into the workhouse。 even lovegrove the saddler； with cars and motor…vans staring him in the face； didn’t realize that he was as out of date as the rhinoceros。 and mother too—mother never lived to know that the life she’d been brought up to； the life of a decent god…fearing shopkeeper’s daughter and a decent god…fearing shopkeeper’s wife in the reign of good queen vic； was finished for ever。 times were difficult and trade was bad； father was worried and this and that was ‘aggravating’； but you carried on much the same as usual。 the old english order of life couldn’t change。 for ever and ever decent god…fearing women would cook yorkshire pudding and apple dumplings on enormous coal ranges； wear woollen underclothes and sleep on feathers； make plum jam in july and pickles in october； and read hilda’s home panion in the afternoons； with the flies buzzing round； in a sort of cosy little underworld of stewed tea； bad legs； and happy endings。 i don’t say that either father or mother was quite the same to the end。 they were a bit shaken； and sometimes a little dispirited。 but at least they never lived to know that everything they’d believed in was just so much junk。 they lived at the end of an epoch； when everything was dissolving into a sort of ghastly flux； and they didn’t know it。 they thought it was eternity。 you couldn’t blame them。 that was what it felt like。
then came the end of july； and even lower binfield grasped that things were happening。 for days there was tremendous vague excitement and endless leading articles in the papers； which father actually brought in from the shop to read aloud to mother。 and then suddenly the posters everywhere：
german ultimatum。 france mobilizing
for several days （four days； wasn’t it？ i forget the exact dates） there was a strange stifled feeling； a kind of waiting hush； like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks； as though the whole of england was silent and listening。 it was very hot； i remember。 in the shop it was as though we couldn’t work； though already everyone in the neighbourhood who had five bob to spare was rushing in to buy quantities of tinned stuff and flour and oatmeal。 it was as if we were too feverish to work； we only sweated and waited。 in the evenings people went down to the railway station and fought like devils over the evening papers which arrived on the london train。 and then one afternoon a boy came rushing down the high street with an armful of papers； and people were ing into their doorways to shout across the street。 everyone was shouting ‘we’ve e in！ we’ve e in！’ the boy grabbed a poster from his bundle and stuck it on the shop…front opposite：
england declares war on germany
we rushed out on to the pavement； all three assistants； and cheered。 everybody was cheering。 yes； cheering。 but old grimmett； though he’d already done pretty well out of the war… scare； still held on to a little of his liberal principles； ‘didn’t hold’ with the war； and said it would be a bad business。
two months later i was in the army。 seven months later i was in france。
PART Ⅱ…8
（小//说；网/
i wasn’t wounded till late in 1916。
we’d just e out of the trenches and were marching over a bit of road a mile or so back which was supposed to be safe； but which the germans must have got the range of some time earlier。 suddenly they started putting a few shells over—it was heavy h。e。 stuff； and they were only firing about one a minute。 there was the usual zwee…e…e…e！ and then boom！ in a field somewhere over to the right。 i think it was the third shell that got me。 i knew as soon as i heard it ing that it had my name written on it。 they say you always know。 it didn’t say what an ordinary shell says。 it said ‘i’m after you； you b—； you； you b—； you！’—all this in the space of about three seconds。 and the last you was the explosion。
i felt as if an enormous hand made of air were sweeping me along。 and presently i came down with a sort of burst； shattered feeling among a lot of old tin cans； splinters of wood； rusty barbed wire； turds； empty cartridge cases； and other muck in the ditch at the side of the road。 when they’d hauled me out and cleaned some of the dirt off me they found that i wasn’t very badly hurt。 it was only a lot of small shell…splinters that had lodged in one side of my bottom and down the backs of my legs。 but luckily i’d broken a rib in falling； which made it just bad enough to get me back to england。 i spent that winter in a hospital camp on the downs near eastbourne。
do you remember those war…time hospital camps？ the long rows of wooden huts like chicken…houses stuck right on top of those beastly icy downs—the ‘south coast’； people used to call it； which made me wonder what the north coast could be like—where the wind seems to blow at you from all directions at once。 and the droves of blokes in their pale…blue flannel suits and red ties； wandering up and down looking for a place out of the wind and never finding one。 sometimes the kids from the slap…up boys’ schools in eastbourne used to be led round in crocodiles to hand out fags and peppermint creams to the ‘wounded tommies’； as they called us。 a pink…faced kid of about eight would walk up to a knot of wounded men sitting on the grass； split open a packet of woodbines and solemnly hand one fag to each man； just like feeding the monkeys at the zoo。 anyone who was strong enough used to wander for miles over the downs in hopes of meeting girls。 there were never enough girls to go round。 in the valley below the camp there was a bit of a spinney； and l
