breath and opened the door. Instantly a warm wave of
relief flowed through him. A colourless, crushed-looking woman, with wispy
hair and a lined face, was standing outside.
'Oh, comrade,' she began in a dreary, whining sort of voice, 'I
thought I heard you come in. Do you think you could come across and have a
look at our kitchen sink? It's got blocked up and--'
It was Mrs. Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same floor.
('Mrs.' was a word somewhat discountenanced by the Party -- you were
supposed to call everyone 'comrade' -- but with some women one used it
instinctively.) She was a woman of about thirty, but looking much older.
One had the impression that there was dust in the creases of her face.
Winston followed her down the passage. These amateur repair jobs were an
almost daily irritation. Victory Mansions were old flats, built in 1930 or
thereabouts, and were falling to pieces. The plaster flaked constantly from
ceilings and walls, the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked
whenever there was snow, the heating system was usually running at half
steam when it was not closed down altogether from motives of economy.
Repairs, exc