III
Michael Argyle lay sleepless¹, staring into darkness.
His mind went round and round like a squirrel in a cage, going over thepast. Why couldn’t he leave it behind him? Why did he have to drag thepast with him all through his life? What did it all matter anyway? Why didhe have to remember so clearly the frowsty cheerful room in the Londonslum, and he “our Micky.” The casual exciting atmosphere! Fun in thestreets! Ganging up on other boys! His mother with her bright golden head(cheap rinse², he thought, in his adult wisdom), her sudden furies when shewould turn and lambast him (gin, of course!) and the wild gaiety she hadwhen she was in a good mood. Lovely suppers of fish and chips, and she’dsing songs — sentimental³ ballads⁴. Sometimes they’d go to the pictures.
There were always the Uncles, of course—that’s what he always had to callthem. His own dad had walked out before he could remember him … Buthis mother wouldn’t stand for the Uncle of the day laying a hand on him.
“You leave our Micky alone,” she’d say.
And then there had come the excitement of the war. Expecting Hitler’sbombers—abortive sirens. Moaning Minnies. Going down into the Tubesand spending the nights there. The fun of it! The whole street was therewith their sandwiches and their bottles of pop. And trains rushing throughpractically all night. That had been life, that had! In the thick of things!
And then he’d come down here—to the country. A dead and alive placewhere nothing ever happened!
“You’ll come back, love, when it’s all over,” his mother had said, butlightly as though it wasn’t really true. She hadn’t seemed to care about hisgoing. And why didn’t she come too? Lots of the kids in the street had beenevacuated with their Mums. But his mother hadn’t wanted to go. She wasgoing to the North (with the current Uncle, Uncle Harry⁵!) to work in muni-tions.
He must have known then, in spite of her affectionate farewell. Shedidn’t really care … Gin, he thought, that was all she cared for, gin and theUncles….
And he’d been here, captured, a prisoner, eating tasteless, unfamiliarmeals; going to bed, incredibly, at six o’clock, after a silly supper of milkand biscuits (milk and biscuits!), lying awake, crying, his head pusheddown under the blankets, crying for Mom and home.

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