1984

           ‘Don’tworry,dear,we’renotgoingtohavethefilthybrutesinhere. I’llstufftheholewithabitofsackingbeforewego. AndnexttimewecomehereI’llbringsomeplasterandbungitupproperly.’ 

           Alreadytheblackinstantofpanicwashalf-forgotten. Feelingslightlyashamedofhimself,hesatupagainstthebedhead. Juliagotoutofbed,pulledonheroveralls,andmadethecoffee. Thesmellthatrosefromthesaucepanwassopowerfulandexcitingthattheyshutthewindowlestanybodyoutsideshouldnoticeitandbecomeinquisitive. Whatwasevenbetterthanthetasteofthecoffeewasthesilkytexturegiventoitbythesugar,athingWinstonhadalmostforgottenafteryearsofsaccharine. Withonehandinherpocketandapieceofbreadandjamintheother,Juliawanderedabouttheroom, glancingindifferentlyatthebookcase,pointingoutthebestwayofrepairingthegatelegtable,plumpingherselfdownintheraggedarm-chairtoseeifitwascomfortable,andexaminingtheabsurdtwelve-hourclockwithasortoftolerantamusement. Shebroughttheglasspaperweightovertothebedtohavealookatitinabetterlight. Hetookitoutofherhand,fascinated,asalways,bythesoft,rainwateryappearanceoftheglass. 

           ‘Whatisit,doyouthink?’saidJulia. 

           ‘Idon’tthinkit’sanything—Imean,Idon’tthinkitwaseverputtoanyuse.That’swhatIlikeaboutit. It’salittlechunkofhistorythatthey’veforgottentoalter. It’samessagefromahundredyearsago,ifoneknewhowtoreadit.’ 

           ‘Andthatpictureoverthere’—shenoddedattheengravingontheoppositewall—‘wouldthatbeahundredyearsold?’