1984

           Winstonlookedoutintothefieldbeyond,andunderwentacurious,slowshockofrecognition. Heknewitbysight. Anold,close-bittenpasture,withafootpathwanderingacrossitandamolehillhereandthere. Intheraggedhedgeontheoppositesidetheboughsoftheelmtreesswayedjustperceptiblyinthebreeze,andtheirleavesstirredfaintlyindensemasseslikewomen’shair. Surelysomewherenearby,butoutofsight,theremustbeastreamwithgreenpoolswheredacewereswimming? 

           ‘Isn’tthereastreamsomewherenearhere?’hewhispered. 

           ‘That’sright,thereisastream. It’sattheedgeofthenextfield,actually. Therearefishinit,greatbigones. Youcanwatchthemlyinginthepoolsunderthewillowtrees,wavingtheirtails.’ 

           ‘It’stheGoldenCountry—almost,’hemurmured. 

           ‘TheGoldenCountry?’ 

           ‘It’snothing,really.AlandscapeI’veseensometimesinadream.’ 

           ‘Look!’whisperedJulia. 

           Athrushhadalightedonaboughnotfivemetresaway,almostattheleveloftheirfaces. Perhapsithadnotseenthem. Itwasinthesun,theyintheshade. Itspreadoutitswings,fittedthemcarefullyintoplaceagain,duckeditsheadforamoment,asthoughmakingasortofobeisancetothesun,andthenbegantopourforthatorrentofsong. Intheafternoonhushthevolumeofsoundwasstartling. WinstonandJuliaclungtogether,fascinated.