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“One of ’em pushed me once,” said the old man. “I recollect it as if it was yesterday. It was Boat Race night --terribly rowdy they used to get on Boat Race night --and I bumps into a young bloke on Shaftesbury Avenue. Quite a gent, ’e was -- dress shirt, top ’at, black overcoat. ’E was kind of zig-zagging across the pavement, and I bumps into ’im accidental-like. ’E says, ‘Why can’t you look where you’re going?’ ’e says. I say, ‘Ju think you’ve bought the bleeding pavement?’ ’E says, ‘I’ll twist your bloody ’ead off if you get fresh with me.’ I says, ‘You’re drunk. I’ll give you in charge in ’alf a minute,’ I says. An’ if you’ll believe me, ’e puts ’is ’and on my chest and gives me a shove as pretty near sent me under the wheels of a bus. Well, I was young in them days, and I was going to ’ave fetched ’im one, only--”

A sense of helplessness took hold of Winston. The old man’s memory was nothing but arubbish-heap of details. One could question him all day without getting any real information. The party histories might still be true, after a fashion: they might even be completely true. He made alast attempt.

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