1984

           Atthismomenttherewasaquicksteponthestairs. Juliaburstintotheroom. Shewascarryingatool-bagofcoarsebrowncanvas,suchashehadsometimesseenhercarryingtoandfroattheMinistry. Hestartedforwardtotakeherinhisarms,butshedisengagedherselfratherhurriedly,partlybecauseshewasstillholdingthetool-bag. 

           ‘Halfasecond,’shesaid. ‘JustletmeshowyouwhatI’vebrought. DidyoubringsomeofthatfilthyVictoryCoffee? Ithoughtyouwould. Youcanchuckitawayagain,becauseweshan’tbeneedingit. Lookhere.’ 

           Shefellonherknees,threwopenthebag,andtumbledoutsomespannersandascrewdriverthatfilledthetoppartofit. Underneathwereanumberofneatpaperpackets. ThefirstpacketthatshepassedtoWinstonhadastrangeandyetvaguelyfamiliarfeeling. Itwasfilledwithsomekindofheavy,sand-likestuffwhichyieldedwhereveryoutouchedit. 

           ‘Itisn’tsugar?’hesaid. 

           ‘Realsugar. Notsaccharine,sugar. Andhere’saloafofbread—properwhitebread,notourbloodystuff—andalittlepotofjam. Andhere’satinofmilk—butlook! ThisistheoneI’mreallyproudof. Ihadtowrapabitofsackingroundit,because——’ 

           Butshedidnotneedtotellhimwhyshehadwrappeditup. Thesmellwasalreadyfillingtheroom,arichhotsmellwhichseemedlikeanemanationfromhisearlychildhood,butwhichonedidoccasionallymeetwithevennow,blowingdownapassage-waybeforeadoorslammed,ordiffusingitselfmysteriouslyinacrowdedstreet,sniffedforaninstantandthenlostagain.