Common People by Philip Callow

Author:Philip Callow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2017-05-05T00:00:00+00:00

Six

i

The weather had changed now, and an Indian summer began which lasted for over a month, well into October. Every morning was misty, and ripened gradually into a mellow warmth, until by midday I felt the blue heat weighing on my head.

I always hung back until the others had gone off to work, so that I could dress in private and have the wash-­place to myself. On these fine days I got dressed quickly and often went out without breakfast, asking at the entrance if there were any letters. I had begun to hope for one from Cecil Luce, but it did not come. I would have been grateful for one from anybody.

There was a small area of garden at Millbank, with shrubs dotted about, rhododendron and privet, a rose tree, and a few seats, and I wandered towards it from the hostel, through the morning-­fresh streets. I did this daily, as a sort of discipline. It was comforting to have a fixed point to aim at.

Sitting there I would read a letter from my mother, perhaps an old one, and watch the clerks and shop assistants rushing to work, pouring thickly along pavements and roads and over bridges. They were like hordes of insects, not people. As I stared I tingled all over with a delicious exultation, rejoicing in my freedom, my miraculous escape. Only a week or two ago I would have looked like that, I kept telling myself in amazement. It was like watching scenes from my past life. The river fog made me chilly, but I sat there until the swarm of traffic had lessened, and a young blind man with leathery lips came tapping towards me along the wall. He always appeared at nine, as the clocks were striking.

For the first few days I had done everything too fast. I read a letter, or glanced at a book, then stuffed it into my pocket hastily and almost leapt to my feet, ready to rush off somewhere. Even though I knew I had nowhere to go, I found it hard to remember. And I had to force myself to walk slowly, adopting a deliberate measured stride, like a policeman’s, among all the fever and excitement of everything rushing past me. How difficult it was to do nothing!

From Millbank each morning I used to walk towards Whitehall and Trafalgar Square, travelling on slowly up Charing Cross Road past all the bookshops. At one of them I found an old copy of Browne’s Religio Medici buried in a heap of rubbish and bought it for sixpence. It was bound in tough, mustard-­coloured covers, the pages made of thick coarse paper, and the print was black and heavy and substantial. It fitted easily in my jacket pocket, so I carried it about with me everywhere. One day I found the sentence in it which I had seen quoted somewhere years before, and my heart swelled again with the same pride and recognition and kinship. I chanted the words over to myself: “I have shaked hands with delight in my warm blood and canicular days.

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