May: October
1 Thursday, May 1st
S
uddenly there were a lot of lights. And then I was in the town: my year’s stay there, more than half of which has now elapsed, began at that moment, while I gradually struggled free of drowsiness, sitting there alone in the corner of the compartment, facing the engine, beside the dark windowpane covered on the outside with raindrops, a myriad tiny mirrors each reflecting a quivering particle of the feeble light that drizzled down from the grimy ceiling, while the thick blanket of noise that for hours past, almost unremittingly, had enfolded me began to thin at last, to break up. Outside there were drifts of dark mist and cast iron pillars going by, slowing down, and between them lamps with enamelled reflectors dating, no doubt, from the days of paraffin lighting; and then white letters, regularly spaced, against tall red rectangles spelt out: BLESTON HAMILTON STATION. There were only three or four passengers in my coach, for this was not the fast through train which I ought to have taken and on which I was to have been met; I had missed that by a few minutes at Euston, which was why I’d had to wait indefinitely at some junction for this mail-train. If I had foreseen the extreme inconvenience of such a late arrival in a place like this I should have had no hesitation in putting off my journey ’til next day and sending apologies by telegram. I can remember everything quite clearly, I remember standing up and smoothing out the creases in my raincoat, which was then still sand-coloured. 3