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else understood； such as dialectical materialism and the destiny of the proletariat and what lenin said in 1918。 then the lecturer； who’d had a drink of water； stood up and gave a summing…up that made the trotskyist wriggle about on his chair but pleased the other three； and the dog…fight went on unofficially for a bit longer。 nobody else did any talking。 hilda and the others had cleared off the moment the lecture ended。 probably they were afraid there was going to be a collection to pay for the hire of the hall。 the little woman with red hair was staying to finish her row。 you could hear her counting her stitches in a whisper while the others argued。 and witchett sat and beamed at whoever happened to be speaking； and you could see him thinking how interesting it all was and making mental notes； and the girl with black hair looked from one to the other with her mouth a little open； and the old labour man； looking rather like a seal with his droopy moustache and his overcoat up to his ears； sat looking up at them； wondering what the hell it was all about。 and finally i got up and began to put on my overcoat。
the dog…fight had turned into a private row between the little trotskyist and the boy with fair hair。 they were arguing about whether you ought to join the army if war broke out。 as i edged my way along the row of chairs to get out； the fair…haired one appealed to me。
‘mr bowling！ look here。 if war broke out and we had the chance to smash fascism once and for all； wouldn’t you fight？ if you were young； i mean。’
i suppose he thinks i’m about sixty。
‘you bet i wouldn’t；’ i said。 ‘i had enough to go on with last time。’
‘but to smash fascism！’
‘oh； b— fascism！ there’s been enough smashing done already； if you ask me。’
the little trotskyist chips in with social…patriotism and betrayal of the workers； but the others cut him short：
‘but you’re thinking of 1914。 that was just an ordinary imperialist war。 this time it’s different。 look here。 when you hear about what’s going on in germany； and the concentration camps and the nazis beating people up with rubber truncheons and making the jews spit in each other’s faces—doesn’t it make your blood boil？’
they’re always going on about your blood boiling。 just the same phrase during the war； i remember。
‘i went off the boil in 1916；’ i told him。 ‘and so’ll you when you know what a trench smells like。’
and then all of a sudden i seemed to see him。 it was as if i hadn’t properly seen him till that moment。
a very young eager face； might have belonged to a good…looking schoolboy； with blue eyes and tow…coloured hair； gazing into mine； and for a moment actually he’d got tears in his eyes！ felt as strongly as all that about the german jews！ but as a matter of fact i knew just what he felt。 he’s a hefty lad； probably plays rugger for the bank。 got brains； too。 and here he is； a bank clerk in a godless suburb； sitting behind the frosted window； entering figures in a ledger； counting piles of notes； bumsucking to the manager。 feels his life rotting away。 and all the while； over in europe； the big stuff’s happening。 shells bursting over the trenches and waves of infantry charging through the drifts of smoke。 probably some of his pals are fighting in spain。 of course he’s spoiling for a war。 how can you blame him？ for a moment i had a peculiar feeling that he was my son； which in point of years he might have been。 and i thought of that sweltering hot day in august when the newsboy stuck up the poster england declares war on germany； and we all rushed out on to the pavement in our white aprons and cheered。
‘listen son；’ i said； ‘you’ve got it all wrong。 in 1914 we thought it was going to be a glorious business。 well； it wasn’t。 it was just a bloody mess。 if it es again； you keep out of it。 why should you get your body plugged full of lead？ keep it for some girl。 you think war’s all heroism and v。c。 charges； but i tell you it isn’t like that。 you don’t have bayonet…charges nowadays； and when you do it isn’t like you imagine。 you don’t feel like a hero。 all you know is that you’ve had no sleep for three days； and stink like a polecat； you’re pissing your bags with fright； and your hands are so cold you can’t hold your rifle。 but that doesn’t matter a damn； either。 it’s the things that happen afterwards。’
makes no impression of course。 they just think you’re out of date。 might as well stand at the door of a knocking…shop handing out tracts。
the people were beginning to clear off。 witchett was taking the lecturer home。 the three munists and the little jew went up the road together； and they were going at it again with proletarian solidarity and dialectic of the dialectic and what trotsky said in 1917。 they’re all the same； really。 it was a damp； still； very black night。 the lamps seemed to hang in the darkness like stars and didn’t light the road。 in the distance you could hear the trains booming along the high street。 i wanted a drink； but it was nearly ten and the nearest pub was half a mile away。 besides； i wanted somebody to talk to； the way you can’t talk in a pub。 it was funny how my brain had been on the go all day。 partly the result of not working； of course； and partly of the new false teeth； which had kind of freshened me up。 all day i’d been brooding on the future and the past。 i wanted to talk about the bad time that’s either ing or isn’t ing； the slogans and the coloured shirts and the streamlined men from eastern europe who are going to knock old england cock…eyed。 hopeless trying to talk to hilda。 suddenly it occurred to me to go and look up old porteous； who’s a pal of mine and keeps late hours。
porteous is a retired public…school master。 he lives in rooms； which luckily are in the lower half of the house； in the old part of the town； near the church。 he’s a bachelor； of course。 you can’t imagine that kind married。 lives all alone with his books and his pipe and has a woman in to do for him。 he’s a learned kind of chap； with his greek and latin and poetry and all that。 i suppose that if the local left book club branch represents progress； old porteous stands for culture。 neither of them cuts much ice in west bletchley。
the light was burning in the little room where old porteous sits reading till all hours of the night。 as i tapped on the front door he came strolling out as usual； with his pipe between his teeth and his fingers in a book to keep the place。 he’s rather a striking looking chap； very tall； with curly grey hair and a thin； dreamy kind of face that’s a bit discoloured but might almost belong to a boy； though he must be nearly sixty。 it’s funny how some of these public…school and university chaps manage to look like boys till their dying day。 it’s something in their movements。 old porteous has got a way of strolling up and down； with that handsome head of his； with the grey curls； held a little back that makes you feel that all the while he’s dreaming about some poem or other and isn’t conscious of what’s going on round him。 you can’t look at him without seeing the way he’s lived written all over him。 public school； oxford； and then back to his old school as a mas