There were times when the fact of
impending death seemed as palpable as the bed they lay on, and they would
cling together with a sort of despairing sensuality, like a damned soul grasping
at his last morsel of pleasure when the clock is within five minutes of striking.
He had grown fatter, his varicose ulcer had subsided, leaving only a
brown stain on the skin above his ankle, his fits of coughing in the early morning
had stopped.
In the labyrinthine Ministry the windowless,
air-conditioned rooms kept their normal temperature, but outside the pavements
scorched one’s feet and the stench of the Tubes at the rush hours was
a horror.
Processions, meetings, military parades,
lectures, waxworks, displays, film shows, telescreen programmes all had
to be organized; stands had to be erected, effigies built, slogans coined, songs
written, rumours circulated, photographs faked.
Squads of volunteers, organized by Parsons,
were preparing the street for Hate Week, stitching banners, painting posters,
erecting flagstaffs on the roofs, and perilously slinging wires across the street for
the reception of streamers.