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what Mr Pinneberg ordered.’ And she got in.
    She saw him coming, behind the porter who was pushing a cart with the trunk, the bed-bag and the crate. And because for the last five minutes she had been seeing her husband with quite new eyes, she was struck by the fact that he kept his right hand in his trouser pocket. And that was really not his style; it was something he never did; yet there he was with his right hand in histrouser pocket.
    They drove off.
    ‘So,’ he said, with a slightly embarrassed laugh. ‘This way you get to see the whole of Ducherow in passing. Ducherow is just one long street.’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you were going to explain to me why people might be offended.’
    ‘Later,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult to talk now. The road-surface is awful here.’
    ‘All right, later,’ she said, and was silent too. But then she noticed something else; he had pressed his head right into the corner, so that if anyone looked into the car they would not be able to recognize him. ‘There’s your firm,’ she said. “ ‘Emil Kleinholz. Corn, animal feed and fertilizers. Potatoes wholesale and retail.” Oh, I can buy my potatoes at your place.’
    ‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘That’s an old sign. We don’t do potatoes retail any more.’
    ‘That’s a pity,’ she said. ‘It would have been really fun coming into your place and buying ten pounds of potatoes from you. I wouldn’t have acted married at all, you know!’
    ‘Yes it is a pity,’ he said. ‘It would have been great fun.’
    She tapped her foot and gave an indignant snort, but said nothing further. A little later she asked pensively, ‘Is there any water around here?’
    ‘What d’you mean?’ he asked cautiously.
    ‘To go swimming, of course,’ snapped Lammchen. ‘What else would I mean?’
    ‘Oh yes, there are a number of places where you can swim,’ he said.
    And they drove on. They had now left the main street—Lammchen saw a sign reading ‘Feldstrasse’—and there were detached houses, all in their own gardens.
    ‘Oh look, it’s pretty here,’ said she, happily. ‘Masses of summerflowers!’
    The car was fairly bouncing along.
    ‘Now we’re in Green End,’ said he.
    ‘Green End?’
    ‘Yes. Our road’s called Green End.’
    ‘This is a road? I thought the driver had got lost.’
    On the left was a paddock, fortified with barbed-wire and occupied by a few cows and a horse. On the right was a field of pink clover in bloom.
    ‘Do open the window now!’ she begged.
    ‘We’re nearly there.’
    The paddock marked the end of the levelled ground. There the town had planted its last memorial—and what a memorial! On the last piece of levelled ground stood Mothes the Builders’ speculative apartment box, a lank and lofty affair, plastered brown and yellow in the front, its side walls bare, waiting for adjoining buildings.
    ‘It’s not exactly beautiful,’ said Lammchen, looking up at it.
    ‘But it’s very nice inside,’ he said encouragingly.
    ‘Then let’s go inside,’ she said. ‘And then of course it’ll be lovely for the Shrimp. So healthy.’
    Pinneberg and the driver picked up the wicker trunk, Lammchen took the egg-crate; the driver said: ‘I’ll go back for the bed-bag.’
    On the ground floor where the shop was it smelled of cheese and potatoes; on the first floor it was mainly cheese, on the second floor cheese reigned supreme, and right at the top under the roof, the damp, mouldy potato-smell was there again.
    ‘How did this smell get past the cheese? Can you tell me that?’
    But Pinneberg was already opening the door.
    ‘Let’s go into our room first!’
    They crossed the small hall, it was indeed small, with a wardrobe on the right and a chest on the left. The men could scarcelyget by with the trunk.
    ‘Here,’ said Pinneberg, and flung open the door.
    Lammchen stepped over the threshold.
    ‘Goodness,’ she said, in confused surprise. ‘What’s all this …?’
    But then