meet; where you really were alone. Walking was comforting, too: better than hiding would have been, or even smashing a window (a deed I sometimes used to have recourse to when in a temper). The walking soothed my frustration and feeling of grievance. I wasnât hiding: I was doing something.
All that afternoon I walked on across the Common. In the middle there was a lonely cottage, known as âNoahâs Arkâ. I came to Noahâs Ark and passed it. I felt safe enough in the sense that I didnât feel myself in any danger, but I also felt a little scared, like a child who has ventured into the deep end for the first time. Yet the surroundings were empty and peaceful as could be, and the solitude went on suiting me. Anyway, there was nothing much to do but go on, unless I sat down, to which I didnât feel disposed.
At last I came to the further, eastern edge of the Common. I canât recall, now, exactly how far I got, but I suppose it must have been somewhere on the outskirts of Brimpton. This surprises me now, for I have the map in front of me and from my home the whole distance is certainly over five miles. It was as the Common came to an end that my strange fit - to which it had, of course, formed the setting - came to an end also. Here were houses and people again - the normal world, even though far from home. What should I do now? It was borne in upon me that there was no course - no course at all - open to me but simply to go back. This, as I have since learned over and over, is the only termination to any loss of self-control.
I turned and began tramping back, but I was tired out. My pace across the Common became slower and slower. I had a strong notion, now, that I wouldnât be up to walking the whole way.
And then an odd and lucky chance occurred. I had been vaguely aware, for some little time, of two boys on bicycles passing me, coming back and re-passing, but apart from noticing that they were a little older than myself, I had been too tired and preoccupied to give them any close attention. Finally, however, with a grating of boots on the road, they stopped beside me and asked me where I was going. When I told them that I was walking the length of the Common and further, they were, of course, surprised. âCor, thatâs a bit of a way,â said one of them; but they didnât ask any more questions. Then, friendlily enough, the older one suggested that he should give me a lift on the bar of his bicycle.
I was only too ready. The bar was hard and uncomfortable, and with me perched in front of him the boy was horribly slow and wobbly. But we got along - perhaps as much as a mile and a half. I canât remember what we talked about, except that I asked them whether they were brothers and they said no. They werenât in the least inquisitive about what I was doing or why I was walking so far alone. They maintained a kind of detached sociability, as though they felt they might as well give me a lift as pass the time in any other way.
They took me as far as Noahâs Ark. In spite of the wobbliness and the bar pressing into my not-very-well-covered buttocks, I would have liked to ask them to go further, but felt I couldnât decently do so. They dropped me. I thanked them and they set off back, in the summer twilight, towards Brimpton.
I plodded on and eventually got back home dead beat. Well, like the business at Mr Punchâs party, it had worked all right. Everyone was in a fine old taking, my mother and my sister close to tears and my father half-minded to alert the police. I had been away four or five hours, if not more. They were too much relieved to scold me. I gave my mother my version of my quarrel with my sister, said I felt better now and not cross any more; had a bath and went to bed. But for several years afterwards my sister and I were never easy together on Greenham Common. She must have suffered a great deal of worry and apprehension that afternoon,
All that afternoon I walked on across the Common. In the middle there was a lonely cottage, known as âNoahâs Arkâ. I came to Noahâs Ark and passed it. I felt safe enough in the sense that I didnât feel myself in any danger, but I also felt a little scared, like a child who has ventured into the deep end for the first time. Yet the surroundings were empty and peaceful as could be, and the solitude went on suiting me. Anyway, there was nothing much to do but go on, unless I sat down, to which I didnât feel disposed.
At last I came to the further, eastern edge of the Common. I canât recall, now, exactly how far I got, but I suppose it must have been somewhere on the outskirts of Brimpton. This surprises me now, for I have the map in front of me and from my home the whole distance is certainly over five miles. It was as the Common came to an end that my strange fit - to which it had, of course, formed the setting - came to an end also. Here were houses and people again - the normal world, even though far from home. What should I do now? It was borne in upon me that there was no course - no course at all - open to me but simply to go back. This, as I have since learned over and over, is the only termination to any loss of self-control.
I turned and began tramping back, but I was tired out. My pace across the Common became slower and slower. I had a strong notion, now, that I wouldnât be up to walking the whole way.
And then an odd and lucky chance occurred. I had been vaguely aware, for some little time, of two boys on bicycles passing me, coming back and re-passing, but apart from noticing that they were a little older than myself, I had been too tired and preoccupied to give them any close attention. Finally, however, with a grating of boots on the road, they stopped beside me and asked me where I was going. When I told them that I was walking the length of the Common and further, they were, of course, surprised. âCor, thatâs a bit of a way,â said one of them; but they didnât ask any more questions. Then, friendlily enough, the older one suggested that he should give me a lift on the bar of his bicycle.
I was only too ready. The bar was hard and uncomfortable, and with me perched in front of him the boy was horribly slow and wobbly. But we got along - perhaps as much as a mile and a half. I canât remember what we talked about, except that I asked them whether they were brothers and they said no. They werenât in the least inquisitive about what I was doing or why I was walking so far alone. They maintained a kind of detached sociability, as though they felt they might as well give me a lift as pass the time in any other way.
They took me as far as Noahâs Ark. In spite of the wobbliness and the bar pressing into my not-very-well-covered buttocks, I would have liked to ask them to go further, but felt I couldnât decently do so. They dropped me. I thanked them and they set off back, in the summer twilight, towards Brimpton.
I plodded on and eventually got back home dead beat. Well, like the business at Mr Punchâs party, it had worked all right. Everyone was in a fine old taking, my mother and my sister close to tears and my father half-minded to alert the police. I had been away four or five hours, if not more. They were too much relieved to scold me. I gave my mother my version of my quarrel with my sister, said I felt better now and not cross any more; had a bath and went to bed. But for several years afterwards my sister and I were never easy together on Greenham Common. She must have suffered a great deal of worry and apprehension that afternoon,
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