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‘Victory Square, near the monument.’
‘It’s full of telescreens.’
‘It doesn’t matter if there’s a crowd.’
‘Any signal?’
‘No. Don’t come up to me until you see me among a lot
of people. And don’t look at me. Just keep somewhere near
me.’
‘What time?’
‘Nineteen hours.’
‘All right.’
Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at an-
other table. They did not speak again, and, so far as it was
possible for two people sitting on opposite sides of the same
table, they did not look at one another. The girl finished her
lunch quickly and made off, while Winston stayed to smoke
a cigarette.
Winston was in Victory Square before the appointed
time. He wandered round the base of the enormous flut-
ed column, at the top of which Big Brother’s statue gazed
southward towards the skies where he had vanquished the
Eurasian aeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes, it had been,
a few years ago) in the Battle of Airstrip One. In the street
in front of it there was a statue of a man on horseback which
was supposed to represent Oliver Cromwell. At five minutes
past the hour the girl had still not appeared. Again the ter-
rible fear seized upon Winston. She was not coming, she
had changed her mind! He walked slowly up to the north
side of the square and got a sort of pale-coloured pleasure
from identifying St Martin’s Church, whose bells, when it