The dining-room had ged, too.
I could remember the old room, though I』d never had a meal there, with its brown mantelpied its bronzy-yelloaper—I never knew whether it was meant to be that colour, or had just got like that from age and smoke—and the oil-painting, also by Wm. Sandford, Painter & Carpenter, of the battle of Tel-el-Kebir. Now they』d got the place up in a kind of medieval style. Brick fireplace with inglenooks, a huge beam across the ceiling, oak panelling on the walls, and every bit of it a fake that you could have spotted fifty yards away. The beam was genuine oak, came out of some old sailing-ship, probably, but it didn』t hold anything up, and I had my suspis of the panels as soon as I set eyes on them. As I sat down at my table, and the slick young waiter came towards me fiddling with his napkin, I tapped the wall behind me. Yes! Thought so! Not even wood. They fake it up with some kind of position and then paint it over.
But the lunch wasn』t bad. I had my lamb and mint sauce, and I had a bottle of some white wine or other with a Frename which made me belch a bit but made me feel happy. There was oher person lung there, a woman of about thirty with fair hair, looked like a widow. I wondered whether she was staying at the Gee, and made vague plans to get off with her. It』s funny how your feelings get mixed up. Half the time I was seeing ghosts. The past was stig out into the present, Market day, and the great solid farmers throwing their legs uhe long table, with their hobnails grating oone floor, and w their way through a quantity of beef and dumpling you wouldn』t believe the human frame could hold. And thetle tables with their shiny white cloths and wine-glasses and folded napkins, and the faked-up decorations and the general expensiveness would blot it out again. And I』d think, 『I』ve got twelve quid and a new suit. I』m little Geie Bowling, and who』d have believed I』d ever e back to Lower Binfield in my own motorcar?』 And then the wine would send a kind of warm feeling upwards from my stomach, and I』d run an eye over the woman with fair hair aally take her clothes off.
It was the same iernoon as I lay about in the lounge— fake-medieval again, but it had streamlined leather armchairs and glass-topped tables—with some brandy and a cigar. I was seeing ghosts, but on the whole I was enjoying it. As a matter of fact I was a tiny bit boozed and hoping that the woman with fair hair would e in so that I could scrape acquaintance. She never showed up, however. It wasn』t till nearly tea-time that I went out.
I strolled up to the market-plad turo the left. The shop! It was funny. Twenty-one years ago, the day of Mother』s funeral, I』d passed it iation fly, and seen it all shut up and dusty, with the sign burnt off with a plumber』s blowflame, and I hadn』t cared a damn. And now, when I was so much further away from it, when there were actually details about the inside of the house that I couldn』t remember, the thought of seeing it again did things to my heart and guts. I passed the barber』s shop. Still a barber』s, though the name was different. A warm, soapy, almondy smell came out of the door. Not quite so good as the old smell of bay rum and latakia. The shop—our shop—was twenty yards farther down. Ah!
An arty-looking sign—painted by the same chap as did the o the Gee, I shouldn』t wonder—hanging out over the pavement:
WENDY』S TEASHOP
M COFFEE
HOME-MADE CAKES
A tea-shop!