The Laying on of Hands: Stories by Alan Bennett Page A

memorial service.
    ‘Hail,’ said the young man. ‘We meet again.’ Geoffrey shook hands.
    ‘I meant to come before now,’ he said, ‘only my car’s not been well.’
    Geoffrey managed a smile. Seeing him again, Geoffrey thought how fortunate it was that his advance had been rejected. God had been kind. It would never have done.
    Hopkins made room for Geoffrey to sit down, just as he had on the first occasion they had talked.
    ‘I came back,’ he said, as if it were only that morning he had fled the church. ‘I thought about it and I thought, why not?’ And now he turned towards Geoffrey and looking him sternly in the eye put his hand on the vicar’s knee. ‘All right?’
    Geoffrey did not speak.
    There was a click, then another and the turning of a wheel and faintly, as if from a great way off, Geoffrey heard the cogs begin to grind as the clock gathered itself up and struck the hour.

Miss Fozzard Finds Her Feet
     

    B it of a bombshell today. I’m just pegging up my stocking when Mr Suddaby says, ‘I’m afraid, Miss Fozzard, this is going to have to be our last encounter.’ Apparently this latest burglary has put the tin hat on things and what with Mrs Suddaby’s mother finally going into a home and their TV reception always being so poor there’s not much to keep them in Leeds so they’re making a bolt for it and heading off to Scarborough. Added to which Tina, their chow, has a touch of arthritis so the sands may help and the upshot is they’ve gone in for a little semi near Peasholme Park.
    ‘But,’ Mr Suddaby says, ‘none of that is of any consequence. What is important, Miss Fozzard, is what are we going to do about your feet? You’ve been coming to me for so long I don’t like to think of your feet falling into the wrong hands.’
    I said, ‘Well, Mr Suddaby, I shall count myself very lucky if I find someone as accomplished as yourself and, if I may say so, with your sense of humour.’ Because it’s very seldom we have a session in which laughter doesn’t figure somewhere.
    He said, ‘Well, Miss Fozzard, chiropody is a small world and I’ve taken the liberty of making a few phone calls and come up with two possibilities. One is a young lady over in Roundhay, who, I understand is very reasonable.’
    ‘A woman?’ I said, ‘In chiropody? Isn’t that unusual?’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘not nowadays. The barriers are coming down in chiropody as in everything else. It’s progress Miss Fozzard, the march of, and Cindy Bickerton has her own salon.’ I said, ‘Cindy? That doesn’t inspire confidence. She sounds as if she should be painting nails not cutting them.’
    ‘Well,’ he said, ‘in that case the alternative might be more up your street. I don’t know him personally but Mr Dunderdale has got all the right letters after his name. He’s actually retired but he still likes to take on a few selected clients, just to keep his hand in. However he does live out at Lawnswood and unless I’m very much mistaken you’re not motorised?’ I said, ‘No problem. I can just bob on the 17. It’s a bus I like. No, if it’s all the same to you and the Equal Opportunities Board I’ll opt for Mr Dunderdale.’ He said, ‘I think it’s a wise decision. Allow me,’ (and he winked) ‘Allow me,’ he said, ‘to shake hands with your feet.’
    I’ve been going to Mr Suddaby for years. I think it’s an investment, particularly if you’re like me and go in for slim-fitting court shoes (squeeze, squeeze). Mr Suddaby reads me the riot act, of course, but as he says, ‘It’s a free country, Miss Fozzard. If you want to open the door to a lifetime of hard skin, I can’t stop you.’ What view this Mr Dunderdale will take remains to be seen.
    When I get back Mrs Beevers has her hat and coat on, can’t wait to get off. Says Bernard has been propped up in a chair staring at the TV all evening. She helps me get him upstairs and then I sit by the bed and, as per the recovery programme, give