Europe in the Looking Glass Read Free Page A

of three young men, interpreted through the pen of one of them, can prove of any serious value. But if, in providing to a certain degree, however lopsided, a picture of the continent of which England forms a part, these doings will in any way further the new sense of ‘European Consciousness’ that is gradually coming into being, perhaps the reader will forgive the inchoate agglomeration of trivial fact and irrelevant opinion that comprises the remainder of this book.

CHAPTER II
    IT WAS WITH DIFFICULTY that we discovered the whereabouts of Finchley. The way out of London seemed to lie somewhere in the direction of the Wallace Collection and straight on. David was more or less familiar with the road, having once driven to Northallerton and back in the day. He had wished to see some panelling. On the way up he had offered a lift to a tramp, who said that he was making for York. When they reached York, the tramp expressed a wish to come on to Durham. Then, after going with David to admire the panelling, he thought that, after all, he would prefer to return to York. He eventually came the whole way back to London. It is a curious phenomenon, this passion that the unemployed display for motoring. They will willingly retrace a month’s hard walking for the sake of a day’s drive. Perhaps it enables them to forget their troubles.
    Once through Finchley, the tramlines seemed as though they would never end. They stretched for miles into country, where there was not a house in sight. After the gates of Hatfield it became so cold that we stopped to put on overcoats. Then I fell asleep, to be wakened some time later by David’s backing on to the main road, having shot up the turning to Cambridge by mistake.
    At one o’clock we reached the outskirts of Peterborough. Clumps of giant factory chimneys, silhouetted against the glow of furnaces, rose from the surrounding fields. The town was deserted but for one inarticulate policeman, who seemed unable to comprehend our very natural desire for a hotel. We, at length, discovered the Angel; but an angry landlord in grey and yellow flannel pyjamas informed us that it was full. So wasthe Station Hotel. The Grand, however, though not possessing a garage, was able to offer us three separate rooms, each of which was furnished with a Bible stamped with the words ‘The Commercial Travellers’ Bible Association’. Thus hallowed, we retired to sleep, leaving Diana, containing everything we possessed, in the street.
    The view next morning disclosed nothing but a waste of ruined brick, slightly charred, with the factory chimneys in the distance. In order to embark the car before the dockers stopped work, it was essential to be at Grimsby by eleven o’clock. Simon showed admirable firmness in helping David out of bed at half past seven. A bath did not offer itself. We left about nine, and as it became more and more apparent that we could not cover eighty miles in two hours we remembered that the next day was Sunday, and the day after that Bank Holiday, and pictured ourselves enjoying a healthy weekend romping about on the sands of the Humber. Diana had not been ‘run in’, and could not exceed a speed of forty miles an hour.
    After leaving the fen country, we reached the wold country, reminiscent of perhaps the most picturesque of all our laureates. It was hard to think that we must miss that Gothic fireplace, standing but half-a-dozen miles from the main road, which young Alfred and his father had built with their own hands. But it was twelve o’clock before we reached the docks at Grimsby. These appeared to be completely empty. We drove endlessly in and out of bridges, cranes and railway lines, until we eventually found the ship unaided.
    A corpulent man in a uniform then emerged from a shed. He said that there would be no difficulty, no difficulty whatever. David’s grandfather, it appeared, owned most of the line. No sooner was his name invoked than we were treated with embarrassing