As Winston sat at the Chestnut Tree a memory floated into his mind.
He saw a candle-lit room with a vast white-counter panelled bed. He saw himself, a boy of nine or ten, sitting on the floor, shaking a dice-box, and laughing excitedly. His mother was sitting opposite him and also laughing.
It must have been about a month before she disappeared. It was a moment of reconciliation, when the nagging hunger in his belly was forgotten and his earlier affection for her had temporarily revived.
He remembered the day well, a pelting, drenching day when the water streamed down the window-pane and the light indoors was too dull to read by.
The boredom of the two children in the dark, cramped bedroom became unbearable.
This is the first time we gain a glimpse into the child Winston was. To what his life was. That he had a sibling, that he had a real mother.