Summer Memories

It has been pouring with rain for days, so much so that I had Mrs. Evans, the housekeeper, come and light the fire in the library today. As I write, Armitage is curled up in front of the fire, sucking a pencil and working on his radio dramatisation of 'The Odyssey', while I have been reclining on the chaise longue, worrying about the festival. The men arrived today to begin setting up the stage, and the park here at Phuckwhitt is being churned into a ploughed field. This is most upsetting, as my father loved the park, and had it re-landscaped by Miss Gertrude Jekyll to celebrate the Anchluss. He really was a most unpleasant man, but the park looks splendid at this time of year, and I hope the damage isn't irreparable. But, needs must where the devil drives, and hopefully the festival will be a huge success, and old Leslie can patch up the roof. It's worst for poor old Mrs. Evans, of course, who has her rooms in the attic. The damp plays havoc with her knees, which are in a terrible state with this wet summer.
Summers in my youth lasted for months; it never rained; the sun shone down from blue skies. In those days, before the war, my parents always took a house in Southwold, and it was there I met Eric Blair. He was visiting the area with the Independant Labour Party, who were holding their annual summer camp in Walberswick. Unfortunately, my Father had invited several prominent Blackshirts down for a fortnight, and there was a huge scrap on the beach. Blair was in the thick of it, of course, and although I could not have been more than three at the time, I toddled across the beach, and tugged at his Oxford bags, while pebbles hurled by my fathers people rained down on us.
'What is it, young man?' he asked, looking down at me. There was sardine caught in his moustache, I noticed.
'Smash Fascism', I said, and handed him a pebble. He smiled, and threw the pebble at my Father, who never really spoke to me again. He mentions this incident in 'Homage to Catalonia', of course.