1984

           ‘Yes,somethingofthatkind. Agreatmanyyounggirlsarelikethat,youknow.’ 

           ‘It’sthisbloodythingthatdoesit,’shesaid,rippingoffthescarletsashoftheJuniorAnti-SexLeagueandflingingitontoabough. Then,asthoughtouchingherwaisthadremindedherofsomething,shefeltinthepocketofheroverallsandproducedasmallslabofchocolate. ShebrokeitinhalfandgaveoneofthepiecestoWinston. Evenbeforehehadtakenitheknewbythesmellthatitwasveryunusualchocolate. Itwasdarkandshiny,andwaswrappedinsilverpaper. Chocolatenormallywasdull-browncrumblystuffthattasted,asnearlyasonecoulddescribeit,likethesmokeofarubbishfire. Butatsometimeoranotherhehadtastedchocolatelikethepieceshehadgivenhim. Thefirstwhiffofitsscenthadstirredupsomememorywhichhecouldnotpindown,butwhichwaspowerfulandtroubling. 

           ‘Wheredidyougetthisstuff?’hesaid. 

           ‘Blackmarket,’shesaidindifferently. ‘ActuallyIamthatsortofgirl,tolookat. I’mgoodatgames. Iwasatroop-leaderintheSpies. IdovoluntaryworkthreeeveningsaweekfortheJuniorAnti-SexLeague. HoursandhoursI’vespentpastingtheirbloodyrotalloverLondon. Ialwayscarryoneendofabannerintheprocessions. IalwayslookcheerfulandInevershirkanything. Alwaysyellwiththecrowd,that’swhatIsay. It’stheonlywaytobesafe.’ 

           ThefirstfragmentofchocolatehadmeltedonWinston’stongue. Thetastewasdelightful. Buttherewasstillthatmemorymovingroundtheedgesofhisconsciousness,somethingstronglyfeltbutnotreducibletodefiniteshape,likeanobjectseenoutofthecornerofone’seye. Hepusheditawayfromhim,awareonlythatitwasthememoryofsomeactionwhichhewouldhavelikedtoundobutcouldnot.