The Laying on of Hands - Alan Bennett [41]
‘A grandma,’ he shouted. ‘Yes!’ There was a pause. ‘Guess,’ said the young man and listened. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Girl. Seven and a half pounds. 5.35. Both doing well. I’m ringing everybody. Bye, Grandma.’
Midgley half rose as the young man put the receiver back, but sat back as he consulted a bit of paper then picked it up again and dialled.
‘Hello, Neil. Hi. You’re an uncle … You’re an uncle. Today. Just now. 5.35. Well, guess.’ He waited. ‘No. Girl. No. I’m over the moon. So you can tell Christine she’s an aunty. Yes, a little cousin for Josephine. How’s it feel to be an uncle? … Bye.’
Midgley got up and stood waiting. The young man took another coin and dialled again. It was a way of breaking news that could be adapted for exits as well as entrances, thought Midgley.
‘Hello, Margaret. You’re a widow. A widow … This afternoon. Half-past two … How’s it feel to be bereaved?’
‘Betty,’ said the young man. ‘Congratulations.
‘You’re an aunty. Aunty Betty. I won’t ask you to guess,’ he went on hurriedly. ‘It’s a girl. Susan’s over the moon. And I am.’
With each call his enthusiasm had definitely decreased. Midgley reflected that this baby was well on the way to being a bore and it was only a couple of hours old.
‘I’m just telephoning with the glad tidings. Bye, Aunty.’
The proud father put a new pile of coins on the box and Midgley was moved to intervene.
‘Could I just make one call?’
‘Won’t it wait,’ said the young man. ‘I was here first. I’m a father.’
‘I’m a son,’ said Midgley. ‘My father’s dying.’
‘There’s no need to take that tone,’ said the young man, stepping out of the helmet. ‘You should have spoken up. There’s a phone outside physio.’
Midgley listened to the phone ringing along the passage at his father’s brother’s house.
‘Uncle Ernest? It’s Denis. Dad’s been taken poorly.’
‘You mean Frank?’ said his uncle.
‘Yes. Dad. He’s had a stroke,’ said Midgley. ‘And a fall. And now he’s got pneumonia.’ Somehow he felt he ought to have selected two out of three, not laid everything on the line first go off.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ said his uncle. ‘Our Frank.’
‘Can you ring round and tell anybody who might want to come. The doctor says he won’t last the night.’
‘From here? Me ring?’
It started pipping.
‘Yes. I’m in a box. There are people waiting.’
‘You never know,’ said the young man. ‘They can work miracles nowadays.’
‘THIS IS WHAT I’d call an industrial lift,’ said Uncle Ernest, tapping the wall with his strong boot. ‘It’s not an ordinary passenger lift, this. It’s as big as our sitting room.’
It stopped and a porter slid a trolley in beside Midgley. A woman looked up at him and smiled faintly.
‘Is it working?’ said the porter. The little head closed its eyes.
‘We’ve just had a nice jab and now we’re going for a ta ta.’
Behind a glass panel Midgley watched the concrete floors pass.
‘It’s very solidly constructed,’ said Uncle Ernest, looking at the floor. ‘These are overlapping steel plates. We can still do it when we try.’
‘Let the dog see the rabbit,’ said the porter as the lift stopped.
‘This is six,’ said Midgley.
‘Every floor looks the same to me,’ said his uncle.
‘Did you ring our Hartley?’ Hartley was Uncle Ernest’s son and a chartered accountant.
‘He’s coming as soon as he can get away.’
‘Was he tied up?’
He had been.
‘Secretary was it? Was he in a meeting? I’d like to know what they are, these meetings he’s always in, that he can’t speak to his father. “Excuse me, I have to speak to my father.” That’s no disgrace, is it? “I won’t be a moment, my dad’s on the line.” Who’s going to take offence at that? Who are they, in these meetings? Don’t they have fathers? I thought fathers were universal. Instead of which I have to make an appointment to see my own son. Sons, fathers, you shouldn’t need appointments. You should get straight through. You weren’t like that with your dad. Frank thought the world of you.’
They were going down the long corridor again.
‘I came on the diesel,’ said Uncle Ernest. He was lame in