The Laying on of Hands - Alan Bennett [29]
Churchwarden at St Wilfred’s apparently, past president of the Inner Wheel and nicely off by the looks of it, a pillar of the community. When he’s at the door he says, ‘Next time, if you’re very good, I shall initiate you into the mysteries of the metatarsal arch.’
I thought about it on the bus and when I gave Mrs Beevers her money I told her that with my wanting to get back to work she’d no need to come again as I was going to advertise for someone permanent. Bernard’s got a bit put by and if this isn’t a rainy day I don’t know what is.
He was watching TV so I switched it off and took him through my evening as Mr Clarkson-Hall said I should. He looked a bit snotty but I said ‘Bernard, nobody ever learned to talk again by watching the snooker.’ Told him about Mr Dunderdale and the pre-fungal condition between my toes, his cashmere cardigan and whatnot.
As Mr Clarkson-Hall says, ‘Miss Fozzard, it doesn’t matter what you say so long as it’s language: language is balls coming at you from every angle.’ And it’s working. I’d got him into bed and was just closing the door when I heard him say his first word. I think it was ‘Cow’.
When I rang Mr Clarkson-Hall to tell him he said, ‘Why cow?’ I said, ‘Probably an advert on TV’
Still he agreed: it’s a breakthrough.
IT WAS JUST that bit warmer today so I thought if I went along in my mustard Dannimac I could team it with my ancient peep-toe sandals that haven’t had an airing since last summer when I had a little run over to Whitby with Joy Poyser.
Well, Mr Dunderdale couldn’t get over them. Said he’d not seen a pair like them in fifteen years and that in the support they gave to the instep plus the unimpeded circulation of air via the toe no more sensible shoe had ever been devised. Made me parade up and down the room in them and would have taken a photograph only he couldn’t put his hands on his Polaroid. Anyway I’m taking them along so that we can do it next time.
Wants me to go fortnightly until my tinea pedis yields to treatment but he’s going to do it for the same fee and now that I’m back at work and we’ve got Miss Molloy coming in to see to Bernard there’s no problem.
She said, ‘Call me Mallory.’ I said, ‘Mallory? What sort of name is that? I wouldn’t be able to put a sex to it.’ She says, ‘Well, I’m Australian.’ Strong girl, very capable. And a qualified physiotherapist with a diploma in caring. It’s Australian caring but I suppose it’ll be the same as ours only minus the bugbear of hypothermia.
Ideally I would have preferred someone older, or someone less young anyway only we weren’t exactly inundated with applicants which surprised me because I’d have thought it would have been a nice little sideline for a pensioner, though they’d have to be ablebodied. She chucks Bernard about as if he’s two ha-porth of copper. Hails from Hobart, Tasmania, originally; I suppose England offers more scope for caring than the bush. And she and Bernard seem to hit it off, says she likes his sense of humour. I said to Joy Poyser, ‘News to me. I didn’t know he had one.’
Mind you, it’s bearing fruit as movement’s certainly coming back, he can hop up and down stairs now, more or less under his own steam. Speech too, because of course with him having company all day he gets the practice.
I was telling the whole saga of the stroke to Mr Dunderdale as he was tackling a patch of hard skin. He said, ‘What did Bernard do, Miss Fozzard?’ I said, ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr Dunderdale, he was a murderer. He said, ‘Oh. That’s unusual.’ I said, ‘Well, he was a tobacconist which comes to the same thing. Sweets and tobacco, a little kiosk in Headingley.’ He said, ‘Yes, well sweets and tobacco … it’s a lethal combination.’ I said, ‘He smoked, he was overweight and he certainly liked a drink. Worry is another cause, I know, but as I said to Mr Clarkson-Hall that is something he never did. But now, of course he’s paying for it. Only what