It was the
middle of the morning, and Winston had left the cubicle to go
to the lavatory.
A solitary figure was coming towards him from the other end of
the long, brightly-lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair.
Four days had gone past since the evening when he had run into
her outside the junk-shop. As she came nearer he saw that her
right arm was in a sling, not noticeable at a distance because
it was of the same colour as her overalls. Probably she had crushed
her hand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes on
which the plots of novels were 'roughed in'. It was a common accident
in the Fiction Department.
They were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stumbled and
fell almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was wrung out
of her. She must have fallen right on the injured arm. Winston
stopped short. The girl had risen to her knees. Her face had turned
a milky yellow colour against which her mouth stood out redder
than ever. Her eyes were fixed on his, with an appealing expression
that looked more like fear than pain.
A curious emotion stirred in Winston's heart. In front of him
was an enemy who was trying to kill him: in front of him, also,
was a human creature, in pain and perhaps with a broken bone.
Already he had instinctively started forward to help her. In the
moment when he had seen her fall on the bandaged arm, it had been
as though he felt the pain in his own body.
'You're hurt?' he said.
'It's nothing. My arm. It'll be all right in a second.'
She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had certainly
turned very pale.
'You haven't broken anything?'
'No, I'm all right. It hurt for a moment, that's all.'
She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had
regained some of her colour, and appeared very much better.
'It's nothing,' she repeated shortly. 'I only gave my wrist a
bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!'
And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had
been going, as briskly as though it had really been nothing. The
whole incident could not have taken as much as half a minute.
Not to let one's feelings appear in one's face was a habit that
had acquired the status of an instinct, and in any case they had
been standing straight in front of a telescreen when the thing
happened. Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to betray
a momentary surprise, for in the two or three seconds while he
was helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand.
There was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was
something small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door
he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his
fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square.
While he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little more fingering,
to get it unfolded. Obviously there must be a message of some
kind written on it. For a moment he was tempted to take it into
one of the water-closets and read it at once. But that would be
shocking folly, as he well knew. There was no place where you
could be more certain that the telescreens were watched continuously.
He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the fragment of paper
casually among the other papers on the desk, put on his spectacles
and hitched the speakwrite towards him. 'five minutes,' he told
himself, 'five minutes at the very least!' His heart bumped in
his breast with frightening loudness. Fortunately the piece of
work he was engaged on was mere routine, the rectification of
a long list of figures, not needing close attention.
Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political
meaning. So far as he could see there were two possibilities.
One, much the more likely, was that the girl was an agent of the
Thought Police, just as he had feared. He did not know why the
Thought Police should choose to deliver their messages in such
a fashion, but perhaps they had their reasons. The thing that
was written on the paper might be a threat, a summons, an order
to commit suicide, a trap of some description. But there was another,
wilder possibility that kept raising its head, though he tried
vainly to suppress it. This was, that the message did not come
from the Thought Police at all, but from some kind of underground
organization. Perhaps the Brotherhood existed after all! Perhaps
the girl was part of it! No doubt the idea was absurd, but it
had sprung into his mind in the very instant of feeling the scrap
of paper in his hand. It was not till a couple of minutes later
that the other, more probable explanation had occurred to him.
And even now, though his intellect told him that the message probably
meant death -- still, that was not what he believed, and the unreasonable
hope persisted, and his heart banged, and it was with difficulty
that he kept his voice from trembling as he murmured his figures
into the speakwrite.
He rolled up the completed bundle of work and slid it into the
pneumatic tube. Eight minutes had gone by. He re-adjusted his
spectacles on his nose, sighed, and drew the next batch of work
towards him, with the scrap of paper on top of it. He flattened
it out. On it was written, in a large unformed handwriting:
seconds he was too stunned even to throw the incriminating thing
into the memory hole. When he did so, although he knew very well
the danger of showing too much interest, he could not resist reading
it once again, just to make sure that the words were really there.
For the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work. What
was even worse than having to focus his mind on a series of niggling
jobs was the need to conceal his agitation from the telescreen.
He felt as though a fire were burning in his belly. Lunch in the
hot, crowded, noise-filled canteen was torment. He had hoped to
be alone for a little while during the lunch hour, but as bad
luck would have it the imbecile Parsons flopped down beside him,
the tang of his sweat almost defeating the tinny smell of stew,
and kept up a stream of talk about the preparations for Hate Week.
He was particularly enthusiastic about a papier-mache model of
Big Brother's head, two metres wide, which was being made for
the occasion by his daughter's troop of Spies. The irritating
thing was that in the racket of voices Winston could hardly hear
what Parsons was saying, and was constantly having to ask for
some fatuous remark to be repeated. Just once he caught a glimpse
of the girl, at a table with two other girls at the far end of
the room. She appeared not to have seen him, and he did not look
in that direction again.
The afternoon was more bearable. Immediately after lunch there
arrived a delicate, difficult piece of work which would take several
hours and necessitated putting everything else aside. It consisted
in falsifying a series of production reports of two years ago,
in such a way as to cast discredit on a prominent member of the
Inner Party, who was now under a cloud. This was the kind of thing
that Winston was good at, and for more than two hours he succeeded
in shutting the girl out of his mind altogether. Then the memory
of her face came back, and with it a raging, intolerable desire
to be alone. Until he could be alone it was impossible to think
this new development out. Tonight was one of his nights at the
Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal in the canteen,
hurried off to the Centre, took part in the solemn foolery of
a 'discussion group', played two games of table tennis, swallowed
several glasses of gin, and sat for half an hour through a lecture
entitled 'Ingsoc in relation to chess'. His soul writhed with
boredom, but for once he had had no impulse to shirk his evening
at the Centre. At the sight of the words I love you the
desire to stay alive had welled up in him, and the taking of minor
risks suddenly seemed stupid. It was not till twenty-three hours,
when he was home and in bed -- in the darkness, where you were
safe even from the telescreen so long as you kept silent -- that
he was able to think continuously.
It was a physical problem that had to be solved: how to get in
touch with the girl and arrange a meeting. He did not consider
any longer the possibility that she might be laying some kind
of trap for him. He knew that it was not so, because of her unmistakable
agitation when she handed him the note. Obviously she had been
frightened out of her wits, as well she might be. Nor did the
idea of refusing her advances even cross his mind. Only five nights
ago he had contemplated smashing her skull in with a cobblestone,
but that was of no importance. He thought of her naked, youthful
body, as he had seen it in his dream. He had imagined her a fool
like all the rest of them, her head stuffed with lies and hatred,
her belly full of ice. A kind of fever seized him at the thought
that he might lose her, the white youthful body might slip away
from him! What he feared more than anything else was that she
would simply change her mind if he did not get in touch with her
quickly. But the physical difficulty of meeting was enormous.
It was like trying to make a move at chess when you were already
mated. Whichever way you turned, the telescreen faced you. Actually,
all the possible ways of communicating with her had occurred to
him within five minutes of reading the note; but now, with time
to think, he went over them one by one, as though laying out a
row of instruments on a table.
Obviously the kind of encounter that had happened this morning
could not be repeated. If she had worked in the Records Department
it might have been comparatively simple, but he had only a very
dim idea whereabouts in the building the Fiction Departrnent lay,
and he had no pretext for going there. If he had known where she
lived, and at what time she left work, he could have contrived
to meet her somewhere on her way home; but to try to follow her
home was not safe, because it would mean loitering about outside
the Ministry, which was bound to be noticed. As for sending a
letter through the mails, it was out of the question. By a routine
that was not even secret, all letters were opened in transit.
Actually, few people ever wrote letters. For the messages that
it was occasionally necessary to send, there were printed postcards
with long lists of phrases, and you struck out the ones that were
inapplicable. In any case he did not know the girl's name, let
alone her address. Finally he decided that the safest place was
the canteen. If he could get her at a table by herself, somewhere
in the middle of the room, not too near the telescreens, and with
a sufficient buzz of conversation all round -- if these conditions
endured for, say, thirty seconds, it might be possible to exchange
a few words.
For a week after this, life was like a restless dream. On the
next day she did not appear in the canteen until he was leaving
it, the whistle having already blown. Presumably she had been
changed on to a later shift. They passed each other without a
glance. On the day after that she was in the canteen at the usual
time, but with three other girls and immediately under a telescreen.
Then for three dreadful days she did not appear at all. His whole
mind and body seemed to be afflicted with an unbearable sensitivity,
a sort of transparency, which made every movement, every sound,
every contact, every word that he had to speak or listen to, an
agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape from her image.
He did not touch the diary during those days. If there was any
relief, it was in his work, in which he could sometimes forget
himself for ten minutes at a stretch. He had absolutely no clue
as to what had happened to her. There was no enquiry he could
make. She might have been vaporized, she might have committed
suicide, she might have been transferred to the other end of Oceania:
worst and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her
mind and decided to avoid him.
The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling and
she had a band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The relief
of seeing her was so great that he could not resist staring directly
at her for several seconds. On the following day he very nearly
succeeded in speaking to her. When he came into the canteen she
was sitting at a table well out from the wall, and was quite alone.
It was early, and the place was not very full. The queue edged
forward till Winston was almost at the counter, then was held
up for two minutes because someone in front was complaining that
he had not received his tablet of saccharine. But the girl was
still alone when Winston secured his tray and began to make for
her table. He walked casually towards her, his eyes searching
for a place at some table beyond her. She was perhaps three metres
away from him. Another two seconds would do it. Then a voice behind
him called, 'Smith!' He pretended not to hear. 'Smith!' repeated
the voice, more loudly. It was no use. He turned round. A blond-headed,
silly-faced young man named Wilsher, whom he barely knew, was
inviting him with a smile to a vacant place at his table. It was
not safe to refuse. After having been recognized, he could not
go and sit at a table with an unattended girl. It was too noticeable.
He sat down with a friendly smile. The silly blond face beamed
into his. Winston had a hallucination of himself smashing a pick-axe
right into the middle of it. The girl's table filled up a few
But she must have seen him coming towards her, and perhaps she
would take the hint. Next day he took care to arrive early. Surely
enough, she was at a table in about the same place, and again
alone. The person immediately ahead of him in the queue was a
small, swiftly-moving, beetle-like man with a flat face and tiny,
suspicious eyes. As Winston turned away from the counter with
his tray, he saw that the little man was making straight for the
girl's table. His hopes sank again. There was a vacant place at
a table further away, but something in the little man's appearance
suggested that he would be sufficiently attentive to his own comfort
to choose the emptiest table. With ice at his heart Winston followed.
It was no use unless he could get the girl alone. At this moment
there was a tremendous crash. The little man was sprawling on
all fours, his tray had gone flying, two streams of soup and coffee
were flowing across the floor. He started to his feet with a malignant
glance at Winston, whom he evidently suspected of having tripped
him up. But it was all right. Five seconds later, with a thundering
heart, Winston was sitting at the girl's table.
He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and promptly began
eating. It was all-important to speak at once, before anyone else
came, but now a terrible fear had taken possession of him. A week
had gone by since she had first approached him. She would have
changed her mind, she must have changed her mind! It was impossible
that this affair should end successfully; such things did not
happen in real life. He might have flinched altogether from speaking
if at this moment he had not seen Ampleforth, the hairy-eared
poet, wandering limply round the room with a tray, looking for
a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth was attached
to Winston, and would certainly sit down at his table if he caught
sight of him. There was perhaps a minute in which to act. Both
Winston and the girl were eating steadily. The stuff they were
eating was a thin stew, actually a soup, of haricot beans. In
a low murmur Winston began speaking. Neither of them looked up;
steadily they spooned the watery stuff into their mouths, and
between spoonfuls exchanged the few necessary words in low expressionless
'What time do you leave work?'
'Where can we meet?'
'Victory Square, near the monument.
'It's full of telescreens.'
'It doesn't matter if there's a crowd.'
'No. Don't come up to me until you see me among a lot of people.
And don't look at me. Just keep somewhere near me.'
Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at another table.
They did not speak again, and, so far as it was possible for two
people sitting on opposite sides of the same table, they did not
look at one another. The girl finished her lunch quickly and made
off, while Winston stayed to smoke a cigarette.
Winston was in Victory Square before the appointed time. He wandered
round the base of the enormous fluted column, at the top of which
Big Brother's statue gazed southward towards the skies where he
had vanquished the Eurasian aeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes,
it had been, a few years ago) in the Battle of Airstrip One. In
the street in front of it there was a statue of a man on horseback
which was supposed to represent Oliver Cromwell. At five minutes
past the hour the girl had still not appeared. Again the terrible
fear seized upon Winston. She was not coming, she had changed
her mind! He walked slowly up to the north side of the square
and got a sort of pale-coloured pleasure from identifying St Martin's
Church, whose bells, when it had bells, had chimed 'You owe me
three farthings.' Then he saw the girl standing at the base of
the monument, reading or pretending to read a poster which ran
spirally up the column. It was not safe to go near her until some
more people had accumulated. There were telescreens all round
the pediment. But at this moment there was a din of shouting and
a zoom of heavy vehicles from somewhere to the left. Suddenly
everyone seemed to be running across the square. The girl nipped
nimbly round the lions at the base of the monument and joined
in the rush. Winston followed. As he ran, he gathered from some
shouted remarks that a convoy of Eurasian prisoners was passing.
Already a dense mass of people was blocking the south side of
the square. Winston, at normal times the kind of person who gravitates
to the outer edge of any kind of scrimmage, shoved, butted, squirmed
his way forward into the heart of the crowd. Soon he was within
arm's length of the girl, but the way was blocked by an enormous
prole and an almost equally enormous woman, presumably his wife,
who seemed to form an impenetrable wall of flesh. Winston wriggled
himself sideways, and with a violent lunge managed to drive his
shoulder between them. For a moment it felt as though his entrails
were being ground to pulp between the two muscular hips, then
he had broken through, sweating a little. He was next to the girl.
They were shoulder to shoulder, both staring fixedly in front
A long line of trucks, with wooden-faced guards armed with sub-machine
guns standing upright in each corner, was passing slowly down
the street. In the trucks little yellow men in shabby greenish
uniforms were squatting, jammed close together. Their sad, Mongolian
faces gazed out over the sides of the trucks utterly incurious.
Occasionally when a truck jolted there was a clank-clank of metal:
all the prisoners were wearing leg-irons. Truck-load after truck-load
of the sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there but he saw
them only intermittently. The girl's shoulder, and her arm right
down to the elbow, were pressed against his. Her cheek was almost
near enough for him to feel its warmth. She had immediately taken
charge of the situation, just as she had done in the canteen.
She began speaking in the same expressionless voice as before,
with lips barely moving, a mere murmur easily drowned by the din
of voices and the rumbling of the trucks.
'Can you hear me?'
'Can you get Sunday afternoon off?'
'Then listen carefully. You'll have to remember this. Go to Paddington
With a sort of military precision that astonished him, she outlined
the route that he was to follow. A half-hour railway journey;
turn left outside the station; two kilometres along the road:
a gate with the top bar missing; a path across a field; a grass-grown
lane; a track between bushes; a dead tree with moss on it. It
was as though she had a map inside her head. 'Can you remember
all that?' she murmured finally.
'You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate's got
no top bar.'
'Yes. What time?'
'About fifteen. You may have to wait. I'll get there by another
way. Are you sure you remember everything?'
'Then get away from me as quick as you can.'
She need not have told him that. But for the moment they could
not extricate themselves from the crowd. The trucks were still
filing past, the people still insatiably gaping. At the start
there had been a few boos and hisses, but it came only from the
Party members among the crowd, and had soon stopped. The prevailing
emotion was simply curiosity. Foreigners, whether from Eurasia
or from Eastasia, were a kind of strange animal. One literally
never saw them except in the guise of prisoners, and even as prisoners
one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them. Nor did one
know what became of them, apart from the few who were hanged as
war-criminals: the others simply vanished, presumably into forced-labour
camps. The round Mogol faces had given way to faces of a more
European type, dirty, bearded and exhausted. From over scrubby
cheekbones eyes looked into Winston's, sometimes with strange
intensity, and flashed away again. The convoy was drawing to an
end. In the last truck he could see an aged man, his face a mass
of grizzled hair, standing upright with wrists crossed in front
of him, as though he were used to having them bound together.
It was almost time for Winston and the girl to part. But at the
last moment, while the crowd still hemmed them in, her hand felt
for his and gave it a fleeting squeeze.
It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a long time
that their hands were clasped together. He had time to learn every
detail of her hand. He explored the long fingers, the shapely
nails, the work-hardened palm with its row of callouses, the smooth
flesh under the wrist. Merely from feeling it he would have known
it by sight. In the same instant it occurred to him that he did
not know what colour the girl's eyes were. They were probably
brown, but people with dark hair sometimes had blue eyes. To turn
his head and look at her would have been inconceivable folly.
With hands locked together, invisible among the press of bodies,
they stared steadily in front of them, and instead of the eyes
of the girl, the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully at
Winston out of nests of hair.
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