No More Learning

I don’t exaggerate when I say that
Father’s death hurts me more now than it did then. At the time it was just a bit of bad
news which I accepted almost without interest, in the sort of empty-headed apathetic way
in which one accepted everything in the trenches. I remember crawling into the doorway
of the dugout to get enough light to read the letter, and I remember Mother’s tear-stains
on the letter, and the aching feeling in my knees and the smell of mud. Father’s life-
insurance policy had been mortgaged for most of its value, but there was a little money in
the bank and Sarazins’ were going to buy up the stock and even pay some tiny amount
for the good-will. Anyway, Mother had a bit over two hundred pounds, besides the
furniture. She went for the time being to lodge with her cousin, the wife of a small-holder
who was doing pretty well out of the war, near Doxley, a few miles the other side of
Walton. It was only ‘for the time being’. There was a temporary feeling about everything.
In the old days, which as a matter of fact were barely a year old, the whole thing would
have been an appalling disaster. With Father dead, the shop sold and Mother with two
hundred pounds in the world, you’d have seen stretching out in front of you a kind of
fifteen-act tragedy, the last act being a pauper’s funeral. But now the war and the feeling
of not being one’s own master overshadowed everything. People hardly thought in terms
of things like bankruptcy and the workhouse any longer. This was the case even with
Mother, who, God knows, had only very dim notions about the war. Besides, she was
already dying, though neither of us knew it.

She came across to see me in the hospital at Eastbourne. It was over two years since I’d
seen her, and her appearance gave me a bit of a shock. She seemed to have faded and
somehow to have shrunken. Partly it was because by this time I was grown-up, I’d
travelled, and everything looked smaller to me, but there was no question that she’d got
thinner, and also yellower. She talked in the old rambling way about Aunt Martha (that
was the cousin she was staying with), and the changes in Fower Binfield since the war,



and all the boys who’d ‘gone’ (meaning joined the Anny), and her indigestion which was
‘aggravating’, and poor Father’s tombstone and what a lovely corpse he made. It was the
old talk, the talk I’d listened to for years, and yet somehow it was like a ghost talking. It
didn’t concern me any longer. I’d kn own her as a great splendid protecting kind of
creature, a bit like a ship’s figure-head and a bit like a broody hen, and after all she was
only a little old woman in a black dress. Everything was changing and fading. That was
the last time I saw her alive. I got the wire saying she was seriously ill when I was at the
training school at Colchester, and put in for a week’s urgent leave immediately. But it
was too late. She was dead by the time I got to Doxley. What she and everyone else had
imagined to be indigestion was some kind of internal growth, and a sudden chill on the
stomach put the final touch. The doctor tried to cheer me up by telling me that the growth
was ‘benevolent’, which struck me as a queer thing to call it, seeing that it had killed her.

Well, we buried her next to Father, and that was my last glimpse of Lower Binfield. It
had changed a lot, even in three years. Some of the shops were shut, some had different
names over them. Nearly all the men I’d known as boys were gone, and some of them
were dead. Sid Lovegrove was dead, killed on the Somme. Ginger Watson, the fann lad
who’d belonged to the Black Hand years ago, the one who used to catch rabbits alive,
was dead in Egypt. One of the chaps who’d worked with me at Grimmett’s had lost both
legs. Old Lovegrove had shut up his shop and was living in a cottage near Walton on a
tiny annuity. Old Grimmett, on the other hand, was doing well out of the war and had
turned patriotic and was a member of the local board which tried conscientious objectors.
The thing which more than anything else gave the town an empty, forlorn kind of look
was that there were practically no horses left. Every horse worth taking had been
commandeered long ago. The station fly still existed, but the brute that pulled it wouldn’t
have been able to stand up if it hadn’t been for the shafts. For the hour or so that I was
there before the funeral I wandered round the town, saying how d’you do to people and
showing off my uniform. Luckily I didn’t run into Elsie. I saw all the changes, and yet it
was as though I didn’t see them. My mind was on other things, chiefly the pleasure of
being seen in my second-loot’s unifonn, with my black armlet (a thing which looks rather
smart on khaki) and my new whipcord breeches. I distinctly remember that I was still
thinking about those whipcord breeches when we stood at the graveside. And then they
chucked some earth on to the coffin and I suddenly realized what it means for your
mother to be lying with seven feet of earth on top of her, and something kind of twitched



behind my eyes and nose, but even then the whipcord breeches weren’t altogether out of
my mind.


Don’t think I didn’t feel for Mother’s death. I did. I wasn’t in the trenches any longer, I
could feel sorry for a death. But the thing I didn’t care a damn about, didn’t even grasp to
be happening, was the passing-away of the old life I’d known. After the funeral, Aunt
Martha, who was rather proud of having a ‘real officer’ for a nephew and would have
made a splash of the funeral if I’d let her, went back to Doxley on the bus and I took the
fly down to the station, to get the train to London and then to Colchester. We drove past
the shop. No one had taken it since Father died. It was shut up and the window-pane was
black with dust, and they’d burned the ‘S. Bowling’ off the signboard with a plumber’s
blowflame. Well, there was the house where I’d been a child and a boy and a young man,
where I’d crawled about the kitchen floor and smelt the sainfoin and read ‘Donovan the
Dauntless’, where I’d done my homework for the Grammar School, mixed bread paste,
mended bicycle punctures, and tried on my first high collar. It had been as permanent to
me as the Pyramids, and now it would be just an accident if I ever set foot in it again.
Father, Mother, Joe, the errand boys, old Nailer the terrier, Spot, the one that came after
Nailer, Jackie the bullfinch, the cats, the mice in the loft — all gone, nothing left but dust.
And I didn’t care a damn. I was sorry Mother was dead, I was even sorry Father was
dead, but all the time my mind was on other things. I was a bit proud of being seen riding
in a cab, a thing I hadn’t yet got used to, and I was thinking of the sit of my new
whipcord breeches, and my nice smooth officer’s putties, so different from the gritty stuff
the Tommies had to wear, and of the other chaps at Colchester and the sixty quid Mother
had left and the beanos we’d have with it. Also I was thanking God that I hadn’t
happened to run into Elsie.

The war did extraordinary things to people. And what was more extraordinary than the
way it killed people was the way it sometimes didn’t kill them. It was like a great flood
rushing you along to death, and suddenly it would shoot you up some backwater where
you’d find yourself doing incredible and pointless things and drawing extra pay for them.
There were labour battalions making roads across the desert that didn’t lead anywhere,
there were chaps marooned on oceanic islands to look out for German cruisers which had
been sunk years earlier, there were Ministries of this and that with armies of clerks and
typists which went on existing years after their function had ended, by a kind of inertia.



People were shoved into meaningless jobs and then forgotten by the authorities for years
on end. This was what happened to myself, or very likely I wouldn’t be here. The whole
sequence of events is rather interesting.

A little while after I was gazetted there was a call for officers of the A. S. C. As soon as
the O. C. of the training camp heard that I knew something about the grocery trade (I
didn’t let on that I’d actually been behind the counter) he told me to send my name in.
That went through all right, and I was just about to leave for another training-school for
A. S. C. officers somewhere in the Midlands when there was a demand for a young officer,
with knowledge of the grocery trade, to act as some kind of secretary to Sir Joseph
Cheam, who was a big noise in the A. S. C. God knows why they picked me out, but at
any rate they did so. I’ve since thought that they probably mixed my name up with
somebody else’s. Three days later I was saluting in Sir Joseph’s office. He was a lean,
upright, rather handsome old boy with grizzled hair and a grave-looking nose which
immediately impressed me. He looked the perfect professional soldier, the K. C. M. G. ,
D. S. O. with bar type, and might have been twin brother to the chap in the De Reszke
advert, though in private life he was chairman of one of the big chain groceries and
famous all over the world for something called the Cheam Wage-Cut System. He stopped
writing as I came in and looked me over.

‘You a gentleman? ’

‘No, sir. ’

‘Good. Then perhaps we’ll get some work done. ’

In about three minutes he’d wormed out of me that I had no secretarial experience, didn’t
know shorthand, couldn’t use a typewriter, and had worked in a grocery at twenty-eight
shillings a week. However, he said that I’d do, there were too many gentlemen in this
damned Army and he’d been looking for somebody who could count beyond ten. I liked
him and looked forward to working for him, but just at this moment the mysterious
powers that seemed to be running the war drove us apart again. Something called the
West Coast Defence Force was being formed, or rather was being talked about, and there
was some vague idea of establishing dumps of rations and other stores at various points
along the coast. Sir Joseph was supposed to be responsible for the dumps in the south-



west comer of England. The day after I joined his office he sent me down to check over
the stores at a place called Twelve Mile Dump, on the North Cornish Coast. Or rather my
job was to find out whether any stores existed. Nobody seemed certain about this. I’d just
got there and discovered that the stores consisted of eleven tins of bully beef when a wire
arrived from the War Office telling me to take charge of the stores at Twelve Mile Dump
and remain there till further notice. I wired back ‘No stores at Twelve Mile Dump. ’ Too
late. Next day came the official letter informing me that I was O. C. Twelve Mile Dump.
And that’s really the end of the story. I remained O. C. Twelve Mile Dump for the rest of
the war.

God knows what it was all about. It’s no use asking me what the West Coast Defence
Force was or what it was supposed to do. Even at that time nobody pretended to know. In
any case it didn’t exist. It was just a scheme that had floated through somebody’s mind —
following on some vague rumour of a German invasion via Ireland, I suppose — and the
food dumps which were supposed to exist all along the coast were also imaginary. The
whole thing had existed for about three days, like a sort of bubble, and then had been
forgotten, and I’d been forgotten with it. My eleven tins of bully beef had been left
behind by some officers who had been there earlier on some other mysterious mission.
They’d also left behind a very deaf old man called Private Lidgebird. What Lidgebird
was supposed to be doing there I never discovered. I wonder whether you’ll believe that I
remained guarding those eleven tins of bully beef from half-way through 1917 to the
beginning of 1919? Probably you won’t, but it’s the truth. And at the time even that
didn’t seem particularly strange. By 1918 one had simply got out of the habit of
expecting things to happen in a reasonable manner.

Once a month they sent me an enormous official form calling upon me to state the
number and condition of pick-axes, entrenching tools, coils of barbed wire, blankets,
waterproof groundsheets, first-aid outfits, sheets of corrugated iron, and tins of plum and
apple jam under my care. I just entered ‘nil’ against everything and sent the form back.
Nothing ever happened. Up in London someone was quietly filing the forms, and sending
out more forms, and filing those, and so on. It was the way things were happening. The
mysterious higher-ups who were running the war had forgotten my existence. I didn’t jog
their memory. I was up a backwater that didn’t lead anywhere, and after two years in
France I wasn’t so burning with patriotism that I wanted to get out of it.



It was a lonely part of the coast where you never saw a soul except a few yokels who’d
barely heard there was a war on. A quarter of a mile away, down a little hill, the sea
boomed and surged over enormous flats of sand. Nine months of the year it rained, and
the other three a raging wind blew off the Atlantic. There was nothing there except
Private Lidgebird, myself, two Army huts — one of them a decentish two-roomed hut
which I inhabited — and the eleven tins of bully beef. Lidgebird was a surly old devil and
I could never get much out of him except the fact that he’d been a market gardener before
he joined the Army. It was interesting to see how rapidly he was reverting to type. Even
before I got to Twelve Mile Dump he’d dug a patch round one of the huts and started
planting spuds, in the autumn he dug another patch till he’d got about half an acre under
cultivation, at the beginning of 1918 he started keeping hens which had got to quite a
number by the end of the summer, and towards the end of the year he suddenly produced
a pig from God knows where. I don’t think it crossed his mind to wonder what the devil
we were doing there, or what the West Coast Defence Force was and whether it actually
existed. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he’s there still, raising pigs and potatoes on
the spot where Twelve Mile Dump used to be. I hope he is. Good luck to him.

Meanwhile I was doing something I’d never before had the chance to do as a full-time
job — reading.

The officers who’d been there before had left a few books behind, mostly sevenpenny
editions and nearly all of them the kind of tripe that people were reading in those days.
Ian Hay and Sapper and the Craig Kennedy stories and so forth. But at some time or other
somebody had been there who knew what books are worth reading and what are not. I
myself, at the time, didn’t know anything of the kind. The only books I’d ever voluntarily
read were detective stories and once in a way a smutty sex book. God knows I don’t set
up to be a highbrow even now, but if you’d asked me THEN for the name of a ‘good’
book I’d have answered The Woman Thou Gavest Me, or (in memory of the vicar)
Sesame and Lilies. In any case a ‘good’ book was a book one didn’t have any intention of
reading. But there I was, in a job where there was less than nothing to do, with the sea
booming on the beach and the rain streaming down the window-panes — and a whole row
of books staring me in the face on the temporary shelf someone had rigged up against the
wall of the hut. Naturally I started to read them from end to end, with, at the beginning,
about as much attempt to discriminate as a pig working its way through a pail of garbage.



But in among them there were three or four books that were different from the others. No,
you’ve got it wrong! Don’t run away with the idea that I suddenly discovered Marcel
Proust or Henry James or somebody. I wouldn’t have read them even if I had. These
books I’m speaking of weren’t in the least highbrow. But now and again it so happens
that you strike a book which is exactly at the mental level you’ve reached at the moment,
so much so that it seems to have been written especially for you. One of them was H. G.
Wells’s The History of Mr Polly, in a cheap shilling edition which was falling to pieces. I
wonder if you can imagine the effect it had upon me, to be brought up as I’d been
brought up, the son of a shopkeeper in a country town, and then to come across a book
like that? Another was Compton Mackenzie’s Sinister Street. It had been the scandal of
the season a few years back, and I’d even heard vague rumours of it in Lower Binfield.
Another was Conrad’s Victory, parts of which bored me. But books like that started you
thinking. And there was a back number of some magazine with a blue cover which had a
short story of D. H. Lawrence’s in it. I don’t remember the name of it. It was a story
about a German conscript who shoves his sergeant-major over the edge of a fortification
and then does a bunk and gets caught in his girl’s bedroom. It puzzled me a lot. I couldn’t
make out what it was all about, and yet it left me with a vague feeling that I’d like to read
some others like it.

Well, for several months I had an appetite for books that was almost like physical thirst.
It was the first real go-in at reading that I’d had since my Dick Donovan days. At the
beginning I had no idea how to set about getting hold of books. I thought the only way
was to buy them. That’s interesting, I think. It shows you the difference upbringing
makes. I suppose the children of the middle classes, the 500 pounds a year middle
classes, know all about Mudie’s and the Times Book Club when they’re in their cradles.
A bit later I learned of the existence of lending libraries and took out a subscription at
Mudie’s and another at a library in Bristol. And what I read during the next year or so!
Wells, Conrad, Kipling, Galsworthy, Barry Pain, W. W. Jacobs, Pett Ridge, Oliver
Onions, Compton Mackenzie, H. Seton Merriman, Maurice Baring, Stephen McKenna,
May Sinclair, Arnold Bennett, Anthony Hope, Elinor Glyn, O. Henry, Stephen Leacock,
and even Silas Hocking and Jean Stratton Porter. How many of the names in that list are
kn own to you, I wonder? Half the books that people took seriously in those days are
forgotten now. But at the beginning I swallowed them all down like a whale that’s got in
among a shoal of shrimps. I just revelled in them. After a bit, of course, I grew more



highbrow and began to distinguish between tripe and not-tripe. I got hold of Lawrence’s
Sons and Lovers and sort of half-enjoyed it, and I got a lot of kick out of Oscar Wilde’s
Dorian Gray and Stevenson’s New Arabian Nights.
Wells was the author who made the
biggest impression on me. I read George Moore’s Esther Waters and liked it, and I tried
several of Hardy’s novels and always got stuck about half-way through. I even had a go
at Ibsen, who left me with a vague impression that in Norway it’s always raining.

It was queer, really. Even at the time it struck me as queer. I was a second-loot with
hardly any Cockney accent left, I could already distinguish between Arnold Bennett and
Elinor Glyn, and yet it was only four years since I’d been slicing cheese behind the
counter in my white apron and looking forward to the days when I’d be a master-grocer.
If I tot up the account, I suppose I must admit that the war did me good as well as harm.
At any rate that year of reading novels was the only real education, in the sense of book-
learning, that I’ve ever had. It did certain things to my mind. It gave me an attitude, a
kind of questioning attitude, which I probably wouldn’t have had if I’d gone through life
in a nonnal sensible way. But — I wonder if you can understand this — the thing that really
changed me, really made an impression on me, wasn’t so much the books I read as the
rotten meaninglessness of the life I was leading.

It really was unspeakably meaningless, that time in 1918. Here I was, sitting beside the
stove in an Army hut, reading novels, and a few hundred miles away in France the guns
were roaring and droves of wretched children, wetting their bags with fright, were being
driven into the machine-gun barrage like you’d shoot small coke into a furnace. I was one
of the lucky ones. The higher-ups had taken their eye off me, and here I was in a snug
little bolt-hole, drawing pay for a job that didn’t exist. At times I got into a panic and
made sure they’d remember about me and dig me out, but it never happened. The official
forms, on gritty grey paper, came in once a month, and I filled them up and sent them
back, and more forms came in, and I filled them up and sent them back, and so it went
on. The whole thing had about as much sense in it as a lunatic’s dream. The effect of all
this, plus the books I was reading, was to leave me with a feeling of disbelief in
everything.


I wasn’t the only one. The war was full of loose ends and forgotten comers. By this time
literally millions of people were stuck up backwaters of one kind and another. Whole



armies were rotting away on fronts that people had forgotten the names of. There were
huge Ministries with hordes of clerks and typists all drawing two pounds a week and
upwards for piling up mounds of paper. Moreover they knew perfectly well that all they
were doing was to pile up mounds of paper. Nobody believed the atrocity stories and the
gallant little Belgium stuff any longer. The soldiers thought the Germans were good
fellows and hated the French like poison. Every junior officer looked on the General Staff
as mental defectives. A sort of wave of disbelief was moving across England, and it even
got as far as Twelve Mile Dump. It would be an exaggeration to say that the war turned
people into highbrows, but it did turn them into nihilists for the time being. People who in
a nonnal way would have gone through life with about as much tendency to think for
themselves as a suet pudding were turned into Bolshies just by the war. What should I be
now if it hadn’t been for the war? I don’t know, but something different from what I am.
If the war didn’t happen to kill you it was bound to start you thinking. After that
unspeakable idiotic mess you couldn’t go on regarding society as something eternal and
unquestionable, like a pyramid. You knew it was just a balls-up.


9

The war had jerked me out of the old life I’d known, but in the queer period that came
afterwards I forgot it almost completely.

I know that in a sense one never forgets anything. You remember that piece of orange-
peel you saw in the gutter thirteen years ago, and that coloured poster of Torquay that
you once got a glimpse of in a railway waiting-room. But I’m speaking of a different kind
of memory. In a sense I remembered the old life in Lower Binfield. I remembered my
fishing-rod and the smell of sainfoin and Mother behind the brown teapot and Jackie the
bullfinch and the horse- trough in the market-place. But none of it was alive in my mind
any longer. It was something far away, something that I’d finished with. It would never
have occurred to me that some day I might want to go back to it.



It was a queer time, those years just after the war, almost queerer than the war itself,
though people don’t remember it so vividly. In a rather different form the sense of
disbelieving in everything was stronger than ever. Millions of men had suddenly been
kicked out of the Army to find that the country they’d fought for didn’t want them, and
Lloyd George and his pals were giving the works to any illusions that still existed. Bands
of ex-service men marched up and down rattling collection boxes, masked women were
singing in the streets, and chaps in officers’ tunics were grinding barrel- organs.
Everybody in England seemed to be scrambling for jobs, myself included. But I came off
luckier than most. I got a small wound-gratuity, and what with that and the bit of money
I’d put aside during the last year of war (not having had much opportunity to spend it), I
came out of the Anny with no less than three hundred and fifty quid. It’s rather
interesting, I think, to notice my reaction. Here I was, with quite enough money to do the
thing I’d been brought up to do and the thing I’d dreamed of for years — that is, start a
shop. I had plenty of capital. If you bide your time and keep your eyes open you can run
across quite nice little businesses for three hundred and fifty quid. And yet, if you’ll
believe me, the idea never occurred to me. I not only didn’t make any move towards
starting a shop, but it wasn’t till years later, about 1925 in fact, that it even crossed my
mind that I might have done so. The fact was that I’d passed right out of the shopkeeping
orbit. That was what the Army did to you. It turned you into an imitation gentleman and
gave you a fixed idea that there’d always be a bit of money coming from somewhere. If
you’d suggested to me then, in 1919, that I ought to start a shop — a tobacco and sweet
shop, say, or a general store in some god- forsaken village — I’d just have laughed. I’d
worn pips on my shoulder, and my social standards had risen. At the same time I didn’t
share the delusion, which was pretty common among ex- officers, that I could spend the
rest of my life drinking pink gin. I knew I’d got to have a job. And the job, of course,
would be ‘in business’ — just what kind of job I didn’t know, but something high- up and
important, something with a car and a telephone and if possible a secretary with a
pennanent wave. During the last year or so of war a lot of us had had visions like that.
The chap who’d been a shop walker saw himself as a travelling salesman, and the chap
who’d been a travelling salesman saw himself as a managing director. It was the effect of
Army life, the effect of wearing pips and having a cheque-book and calling the evening
meal dinner. All the while there’d been an idea floating round — and this applied to the
men in the ranks as well as the officers — that when we came out of the Army there’d be



jobs waiting for us that would bring in at least as much as our Anny pay. Of course, if
ideas like that didn’t circulate, no war would ever be fought.

Well, I didn’t get that job. It seemed that nobody was anxious to pay me 2,000 pounds a
year for sitting among streamlined office furniture and dictating letters to a platinum
blonde. I was discovering what three-quarters of the blokes who’d been officers were
discovering — that from a financial point of view we’d been better off in the Army than
we were ever likely to be again. We’d suddenly changed from gentlemen holding His
Majesty’s commission into miserable out-of-works whom nobody wanted. My ideas soon
sank from two thousand a year to three or four pounds a week. But even jobs of the three
or four pounds a week kind didn’t seem to exist. Every mortal job was filled already,
either by men who’d been a few years too old to fight, or by boys who’d been a few
months too young. The poor bastards who’d happened to be born between 1890 and 1900
were left out in the cold. And still it never occurred to me to go back to the grocering
business. Probably I could have got a job as a grocer’s assistant; old Grimmett, if he was
still alive and in business (I wasn’t in touch with Lower Binfield and didn’t know), would
have given me good refs. But I’d passed into a different orbit. Even if my social ideas
hadn’t risen, I could hardly have imagined, after what I’d seen and learned, going back to
the old safe existence behind the counter. I wanted to be travelling about and pulling
down the big dough. Chiefly I wanted to be a travelling salesman, which I knew would
suit me.

But there were no jobs for travelling salesmen — that’s to say, jobs with a salary attached.
What there were, however, were on- commission jobs. That racket was just beginning on
a big, scale. It’s a beautifully simple method of increasing your sales and advertising your
stuff without taking any risks, and it always flourishes when times are bad. They keep
you on a string by hinting that perhaps there’ll be a salaried job going in three months’
time, and when you get fed up there’s always some other poor devil ready to take over.
Naturally it wasn’t long before I had an on-commission job, in fact I had quite a number
in rapid succession. Thank God, I never came down to peddling vacuum- cleaners, or
dictionaries. But I travelled in cutlery, in soap- powder, in a line of patent corkscrews,
tin-openers, and similar gadgets, and finally in a line of office accessories — paper-clips,
carbon paper, typewriter ribbons, and so forth. I didn’t do so badly either. I’m the type
that CAN sell things on commission. I’ve got the temperament and I’ve got the manner.



But I never came anywhere near making a decent living. You can’t, in jobs like that-
and, of course, you aren’t meant to.


I had about a year of it altogether. It was a queer time. The cross-country journeys, the
godless places you fetched up in, suburbs of Midland towns that you’d never hear of in a
hundred normal lifetimes. The ghastly bed-and -breakfast houses where the sheets always
smell faintly of slops and the fried egg at breakfast has a yolk paler than a lemon. And the
other poor devils of salesmen that you’re always meeting, middle-aged fathers of families
in moth-eaten overcoats and bowler hats, who honestly believe that sooner or later trade
will turn the comer and they’ll jack their earnings up to five quid a week. And the
traipsing from shop to shop, and the arguments with shopkeepers who don’t want to
listen, and the standing back and making yourself small when a customer comes in. Don’t
think that it worried me particularly. To some chaps that kind of life is torture. There are
chaps who can’t even walk into a shop and open their bag of samples without screwing
themselves up as though they were going over the top. But I’m not like that. I’m tough, I
can talk people into buying things they don’t want, and even if they slam the door in my
face it doesn’t bother me. Selling things on commission is actually what I like doing,
provided I can see my way to making a bit of dough out of it. I don’t kn ow whether I
learned much in that year, but I unlearned a good deal. It knocked the Army nonsense out
of me, and it drove into the back of my head the notions that I’d picked up during the idle
year when I was reading novels. I don’t think I read a single book, barring detective
stories, all the time I was on the road. I wasn’t a highbrow any longer. I was down among
the realities of modern life. And what are the realities of modern life? Well, the chief one
is an everlasting, frantic struggle to sell things. With most people it takes the fonn of
selling themselves — that’s to say, getting a job and keeping it. I suppose there hasn’t been
a single month since the war, in any trade you care to name, in which there weren’t more
men than jobs. It’s brought a peculiar, ghastly feeling into life. It’s like on a sinking ship
when there are nineteen survivors and fourteen lifebelts. But is there anything particularly
modem in that, you say? Has it anything to do with the war? Well, it feels as if it had.
That feeling that you’ve got to be everlastingly fighting and hustling, that you’ll never get
anything unless you grab it from somebody else, that there’s always somebody after your
job, the next month or the month after they’ll be reducing staff and it’s you that’ll get the
bird — THAT, I swear, didn’t exist in the old life before the war.



But meanwhile I wasn’t badly off. I was earning a bit and I’d still got plenty of money in
the bank, nearly two hundred quid, and I wasn’t frightened for the future. I knew that
sooner or later I’d get a regular job. And sure enough, after about a year, by a stroke of
luck it happened. I say by a stroke of luck, but the fact is that I was bound to fall on my
feet. I’m not the type that starves. I’m about as likely to end up in the workhouse as to
end up in the House of Lords. I’m the middling type, the type that gravitates by a kind of
natural law towards the five-pound-a-week level. So long as there are any jobs at all I’ll
back myself to get one.

It happened when I was peddling paper-clips and typewriter ribbons. I’d just dodged into
a huge block of offices in Fleet Street, a building which canvassers weren’t allowed into,
as a matter of fact, but I’d managed to give the lift attendant the impression that my bag
of samples was merely an attache case. I was walking along one of the corridors looking
for the offices of a small toothpaste firm that I’d been recommended to try, when I saw
that some very big bug was coming down the corridor in the other direction. I knew
immediately that it was a big bug. You know how it is with these big business men, they
seem to take up more room and walk more loudly than any ordinary person, and they
give off a kind of wave of money that you can feel fifty yards away. When he got nearly
up to me I saw that it was Sir Joseph Cheam. He was in civvies, of course, but I had no
difficulty in recognizing him. I suppose he’d been there for some business conference or
other. A couple of clerks, or secretaries, or something, were following after him, not
actually holding up his train, because he wasn’t wearing one, but you somehow felt that
that was what they were doing. Of course I dodged aside instantly. But curiously enough
he recognized me, though he hadn’t seen me for years. To my surprise he stopped and
spoke to me.

‘Hullo, you! I’ve seen you somewhere before. What’s your name? It’s on the tip of my
tongue. ’

‘Bowling, sir. Used to be in the A. S. C. ’


‘Of course. The boy that said he wasn’t a gentleman. What are you doing here? ’



I might have told him I was selling typewriter ribbons, and there perhaps the whole thing
would have ended. But I had one of those sudden inspirations that you get occasionally —
a feeling that I might make something out of this if I handled it properly. I said instead:

‘Well, sir, as a matter of fact I’m looking for a job. ’

‘A job, eh? Hm. Not so easy, nowadays. ’

He looked me up and down for a second. The two train-bearers had kind of wafted
themselves a little distance away. I saw his rather good-looking old face, with the heavy
grey eyebrows and the intelligent nose, looking me over and realized that he’d decided to
help me. It’s queer, the power of these rich men. He’d been marching past me in his
power and glory, with his underlings after him, and then on some whim or other he’d
turned aside like an emperor suddenly chucking a coin to a beggar.

‘So you want a job? What can you do? ’

Again the inspiration. No use, with a bloke like this, cracking up your own merits. Stick
to the truth. I said: ‘Nothing, sir. But I want a job as a travelling salesman. ’

‘Salesman? Hm. Not sure that I’ve got anything for you at present. Let’s see. ’

He pursed his lips up. For a moment, half a minute perhaps, he was thinking quite deeply.
It was curious. Even at the time I realized that it was curious. This important old bloke,
who was probably worth at least half a million, was actually taking thought on my behalf.
I’d deflected him from his path and wasted at least three minutes of his time, all because
of a chance remark I’d happened to make years earlier. I’d stuck in his memory and
therefore he was willing to take the tiny bit of trouble that was needed to find me a job. I
dare say the same day he gave twenty clerks the sack. Finally he said:

‘How’d you like to go into an insurance firm? Always fairly safe, you know. People have
got to have insurance, same as they’ve got to eat. ’

Of course I jumped at the idea of going into an insurance firm. Sir Joseph was
‘interested’ in the Flying Salamander. God knows how many companies he was
‘interested’ in. One of the underlings wafted himself forward with a scribbling-pad, and



there and then, with the gold stylo out of his waistcoat pocket, Sir Joseph scribbled me a
note to some higher-up in the Flying Salamander. Then I thanked him, and he marched
on, and I sneaked off in the other direction, and we never saw one another again.

Well, I got the job, and, as I said earlier, the job got me. I’ve been with the Flying
Salamander close on eighteen years. I started off in the office, but now I’m what’s known
as an Inspector, or, when there’s reason to sound particularly impressive, a
Representative. A couple of days a week I’m working in the district office, and the rest of
the time I’m travelling around, interviewing clients whose names have been sent in by the
local agents, making assessments of shops and other property, and now and again
snapping up a few orders on my own account. I earn round about seven quid a week. And
properly speaking that’s the end of my story.