Carr Landscapes of the River Hull
Coming up for air
“Coming Up for Air” is the title of a novel written by George Orwell in 1939. It anticipates his masterpiece “1984”, published 11 years later and George Bowling, the insurance salesman narrator and hero of the book is a prototype Winston Smith. Below I have provided 3 extracts from the book. The first of these gives Bowling’s account of his childhood experience of a particular place and the second reflects his disappointment, years later, when he revisits it. The third extract provides a different perspective and hints (I think) at explanation for what has happened.
It was astonishing, and even at that age it astonished me, that there, a dozen miles from Reading and not fifty from London, you could have such solitude. You felt as much alone as if you’d been on the banks of the Amazon. The pool was ringed completely round by the enormous beech trees, which in one place came down to the edge and were reflected in the water. On the other side there was a patch of grass where there was a hollow with beds of wild peppermint, and up at one end of the pool an old wooden boathouse was rotting among the bulrushes. The pool was swarming with bream, small ones, about four to six inches long. Every now and again you’d see one of them turn half over and gleam reddy-brown under the water. There were pike there too, and they must have been big ones. You never saw them, but sometimes one that was basking among the weeds would turn over and plunge with a splash that was like a brick being bunged into the water.
If there are additional notes they will appear here
And Gosh! there was the pool. I stood for a moment, wondering what had happened to it Then I saw what it was – all the trees were gone from round its edge. It looked all bare and different, in fact it looked extraordinarily like the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. Kids were playing all round the edge, sailing boats and paddling, and a few rather older kids were rushing about in those little canoes which you work by turning a handle. Over to the left, where the old rotting boat-house used to stand among the reeds, there was a sort of pavilion and a sweet kiosk, and a huge white notice saying UPPER BINFIELD MODEL YACHT CLUB.
I wandered up to the edge of the pool. The kids were splashing about and making the devil of a noise. There seemed to be swarms of them. The water looked kind of dead. No fish in it now.
“Nature!” He waved a hand at what was left of the trees. “The primeval forest brooding round us. Our young people grow up amid surroundings of natural beauty. We are nearly all of us enlightened people, of course. Would you credit that three quarters of us up here are vegetarians? The local butchers don’t like us at all – te-hee!. And some quite eminent people live here. Miss Helena Thurloe, the novelist- you’ve heard of her, of course. And Professor Woad, the psychic research worker. Such a poetic character! He goes wandering out into the woods and the family can’t find him at mealtimes. He says he’s walking among the fairies. Do you believe in fairies? I admit – te-hee! – I am just a wee bit sceptical. But his photographs are most convincing.”
I began to wonder whether this was someone who’d escaped from Binfield House.