1984

           PerhapsitwasthetimewhentheatomicbombhadfallenonColchester. Hedidnotremembertheraiditself, buthedidrememberhisfather’shandclutchinghisownastheyhurrieddown,down,downintosomeplacedeepintheearth,roundandroundaspiralstaircasewhichrangunderhisfeet andwhichfinallysoweariedhislegsthathebeganwhimperingandtheyhadtostopandrest. Hismother,inherslow,dreamyway,wasfollowingalongwaybehindthem. Shewascarryinghisbabysister—orperhapsitwasonlyabundleofblanketsthatshewascarrying: hewasnotcertainwhetherhissisterhadbeenbornthen. Finallytheyhademergedintoanoisy,crowdedplacewhichhehadrealizedtobeaTubestation. 

           Therewerepeoplesittingalloverthestone-flaggedfloor,andotherpeople,packedtightlytogether,weresittingonmetalbunks,oneabovetheother. Winstonandhismotherandfatherfoundthemselvesaplaceonthefloor,andnearthemanoldmanandanoldwomanweresittingsidebysideonabunk. Theoldmanhadonadecentdarksuitandablackclothcappushedbackfromverywhitehair: hisfacewasscarletandhiseyeswereblueandfulloftears. Hereekedofgin. Itseemedtobreatheoutofhisskininplaceofsweat,andonecouldhavefanciedthatthetearswellingfromhiseyeswerepuregin. Butthoughslightlydrunkhewasalsosufferingundersomegriefthatwasgenuineandunbearable. InhischildishwayWinstongrasped thatsometerriblething,somethingthatwasbeyondforgivenessandcouldneverberemedied,hadjusthappened. 

           Italsoseemedtohimthatheknewwhatitwas. Someonewhomtheoldmanloved—alittlegranddaughter,perhaps—hadbeenkilled. Everyfewminutestheoldmankeptrepeating: