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

him a run-down on my day.
    Mr Clarkson-Hall down at the Unit says that when somebody has had a cerebral accident, ‘In lay terms, a stroke, Miss Fozzard, we must take care not to treat them like a child. If your brother is going to recover his faculties, dear lady, the more language one can throw at him the better.’
    I was just recounting my conversation with Mr Suddaby and how they’re decamping to Scarborough when Bernard suddenly throws back his head and yawns.
    I rang Mr Clarkson-Hall this morning. He says that’s progress.
    I do miss work.
    I’M JUST GETTING MY THINGS on to go up to Mr Dunderdale’s this evening, when Bernard has a little accident and manages to broadcast the entire contents of his bladder all the way down the stairs. Mrs Beevers is taking her time coming and it’s only when I’ve got him all cleaned up and sitting on the throne that the doorbell eventually goes. Except even then it’s not her, just a couple from church about Rwanda. I said, ‘Never mind Rwanda, can we deal with the matter in hand and get a middle-aged gentleman off the lavatory?’ So we get him downstairs and manoeuvre him onto his chosen chair five inches from the TV screen.
    After they’ve gone I said, ‘You can work the remote; it’s about time you remembered how to wipe your own bottom.’ Not a flicker. Of course, that’s where they have you with a stroke: you never know what goes in and what doesn’t.
    When Mrs Beevers eventually does roll up she’s half an hour late which means I’ve missed the ten past and have to run all the way up Dyneley Road so by the time I’m ringing Mr Dunderdale’s doorbell I’m all flustered and very conscious that my feet may be perspiring. He said, ‘Well if that is what is troubling you, Miss Fozzard, I can straightaway put paid to the problem because I always kick off the proceedings by applying a mild astringent.’
    Refined-looking feller, seventy-odd but with a lovely head of hair, one of the double-fronted houses that look over the cricket field. Rests my foot on a large silk handkerchief which I thought was a civilised touch; Mr Suddaby just used to use yesterday’s Evening Post.
    He said, ‘Well, Miss Fozzard, I take one look at these and I say to myself here is someone who is on her feet a good deal. Am I right?’ I said, ‘You are. I’m in charge of the soft furnishing department at Matthias Robinson’s, or was until my brother was taken ill. Anything you want in cretonne you know where to come.’ He said, ‘I might hold you to that but meanwhile could I compliment you on your choice of shoe.’ I said, ‘Well, as a rule I steer clear of suede because as a shoe it’s a bit high maintenance, but sometimes I think the effort with the texturiser pays dividends.’ He said, ‘I can see we share a philosophy. If I may, I’ll just begin by clipping your toenails.’
    He said, ‘Of course as soon as you walked in I picked you out as a professional woman.’ I said, ‘How?’ He said, ‘By your discreet choice of accessories.’ I said, ‘Well I favour a conservative approach to fashion, peppy but classic if you know what I mean.’ He said, ‘I do. There’s been a verruca here, but it’s extinct. Do you know why I chose the profession of chiropody?’ I said, ‘No.’ He said, ‘It’s so that I could kneel at the feet of thousands of women and my wife would never turn a hair.’ I said, ‘Oh. Is there a Mrs Dunderdale?’ He said, ‘There was. She passed over.’
    When he’d finished he rubbed in some mentholated oil (Moroccan apparently) and said I’d just feel a mild tingling effect which wasn’t unpleasant and said my feet were in tip-top condition, the only possible cloud on the horizon a pre-fungal condition between two of my toes that he wanted to keep a watchful eye on.
    Had on a lovely cardigan. I said, ‘I hope you’ll excuse me asking but is that cardigan cashmere?’ He said, ‘Well spotted, Miss Fozzard. This may be the first time