The new tune which was to be the theme-song of Hate Week （the Hate Song， it was called） had already been composed and was being endlessly plugged on the telescreens. It had a savage， barking rhythm which could not exactly be called music， but resembled the beating of a drum. Roared out by hundreds of voices to the tramp of marching feet， it was terrifying. The proles had taken a fancy to it， and in the midnight streets it competed with the still-popular “It was only a hopeless fancy”. The Parsons children played it at all hours of the night and day， unbearably， on a comb and a piece of toilet paper. Winston’s evenings were fuller than ever. 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. Parsons boasted that Victory Mansions alone would display four hundred metres of bunting. He was in his native element and as happy as a lark. The heat and the manual work had even given him a pretext for reverting to shorts and an open shirt in the evenings. He was everywhere at once， pushing， pulling， sawing， hammering， improvising， jollying everyone along with comradely exhortations and giving out from every fold of his body what seemed an inexhaustible supply of acrid-smelling sweat.
A new poster had suddenly appeared all over London. It had no caption， and represented simply the monstrous figure of a Eurasian soldier， three or four metres high， striding forward with expressionless Mongolian face and enormous boots， a submachine gun pointed from his hip. From whatever angle you looked at the poster， the muzzle of the gun， magnified by the foreshortening， seemed to be pointed straight at you. The thing had been plastered on every blank space on every wall， even outnumbering the portraits of Big Brother. The proles， normally apathetic about the war， were being lashed into one of their periodical frenzies of patriotism. As though to harmonize with the general mood， the rocket bombs had been killing larger numbers of people than usual. One fell on a crowded film theatre in Stepney， burying several hundred victims among the ruins. The whole population of the neighbourhood turned out for a long， trailing funeral which went on for hours and was in effect an indignation meeting. Another bomb fell on a piece of waste ground which was used as a playground and several dozen children were blown to pieces. There were further angry demonstrations， Goldstein was burned in effigy， hundreds of copies of the poster of the Eurasian soldier were torn down and added to the flames， and a number of shops were looted in the turmoil； then a rumour flew round that spies were directing the rocket bombs by means of wireless waves， and an old couple who were suspected of being of foreign extraction had their house set on fire and perished of suffocation.
In the room over Mr. Charrington’s shop， when they could get there， Julia and Winston lay side by side on a stripped bed under the open window， naked for the sake of coolness. The rat had never come back， but the bugs had multiplied hideously in the heat. It did not seem to matter. Dirty or clean， the room was paradise. As soon as they arrived they would sprinkle everything with pepper bought on the black market， tear off their clothes， and make love with sweating bodies， then fall asleep and wake to find that the bugs had rallied and were massing for the counter-attack.
Four， five， six — seven times they met during the month of June. Winston had dropped his habit of drinking gin at all hours. He seemed to have lost the need for it. 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. The process of life had ceased to be intolerable， he had no longer any impulse to make faces at the telescreen or shout curses at the top of his voice. Now that they had a secure hiding-place， almost a home， it did not even seem a hardship that they could only meet infrequently and for a couple of hours at a time. What mattered was that the room over the junk-shop should exist. To know that it was there， inviolate， was almost the same as being in it. The room was a world， a pocket of the past where extinct animals could walk. Mr. Charrington， thought Winston， was another extinct animal. He usually stopped to talk with Mr. Charrington for a few minutes on his way upstairs. The old man seemed seldom or never to go out of doors， and on the other hand to have almost no customers. He led a ghostlike existence between the tiny， dark shop， and an even tinier back kitchen where he prepared his meals and which contained， among other things， an unbelievably ancient gramophone with an enormous horn. He seemed glad of the opportunity to talk. Wandering about among his worthless stock， with his long nose and thick spectacles and his bowed shoulders in the velvet jacket， he had always vaguely the air of being a collector rather than a tradesman. With a sort of faded enthusiasm he would finger this scrap of rubbish or that — a china bottle-stopper， the painted lid of a broken snuffbox， a pinchbeck locket containing a strand of some long-dead baby"s hair — never asking that Winston should buy it， merely that he should admire it. To talk to him was like listening to the tinkling of a worn-out musical-box. He had dragged out from the corners of his memory some more fragments of forgotten rhymes. There was one about four and twenty blackbirds， and another about a cow with a crumpled horn， and another about the death of poor Cock Robin. “It just occurred to me you might be interested，” he would say with a deprecating little laugh whenever he produced a new fragment. But he could never recall more than a few lines of any one rhyme.
