1984

           Buthelingeredforsomeminutesmore,talkingtotheoldman,whosename,hediscovered,wasnotWeeks—asonemighthavegatheredfromtheinscriptionovertheshop-front—butCharrington. MrCharrington,itseemed,wasawidoweragedsixty-threeandhadinhabitedthisshopforthirtyyears. Throughoutthattimehehadbeenintendingtoalterthenameoverthewindow,buthadneverquitegottothepointofdoingit. Allthewhilethattheyweretalkingthehalf-rememberedrhymekeptrunningthroughWinston’shead. OrangesandlemonssaythebellsofStClement’s. Youowemethreefarthings,saythebellsofStMartin’s! Itwascurious,butwhenyousaidittoyourselfyouhadtheillusionofactuallyhearingbells,thebellsofalostLondonthatstillexistedsomewhereorother,disguisedandforgotten. Fromoneghostlysteepleafteranotherheseemedtohearthempealingforth. Yetsofarashecouldrememberhehadneverinreallifeheardchurchbellsringing. 

           HegotawayfromMrCharringtonandwentdownthestairsalone,soasnottolettheoldmanseehimreconnoitringthestreetbeforesteppingoutofthedoor. Hehadalreadymadeuphismindthatafterasuitableinterval—amonth,say—hewouldtaketheriskofvisitingtheshopagain. ItwasperhapsnotmoredangerousthanshirkinganeveningattheCentre. Theseriouspieceoffollyhadbeentocomebackhereinthefirstplace,afterbuyingthediaryandwithoutknowingwhethertheproprietoroftheshopcouldbetrusted. However—— 

           Yes,hethoughtagain,hewouldcomeback. Hewouldbuyfurtherscrapsofbeautifulrubbish. HewouldbuytheengravingofStClementDanes,takeitoutofitsframe,andcarryithomeconcealedunderthejacketofhisoveralls. HewoulddragtherestofthatpoemoutofMrCharrington’smemory.