The Laying on of Hands: Stories

by Alan Bennett

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

  Bit 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 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 you’ve seen it but it won’t be the last, could I offer you a glass of sweet sherry?’

  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 snook
er.’ 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 seems unfair is that I’m paying for it too.’

  Mr Dunderdale looked up and he said, ‘Yes’ (and he had my foot in his hand). He said, ‘Yes. If there had been thirteen disciples instead of twelve, the other one would have been you Miss Fozzard.’

  Green silk handkerchief this time. Last week it was red.

  The words are beginning to come back, though, no doubt about it and when he can’t manage a word I get him to do what Mr Clarkson-Hall suggested, namely describe what he means and skirt a path round it. Miss Molloy makes him do it as well and she says one way and another they get along. Bathes him every day, rubs him with baby oil, says that where bedsores are concerned prevention is better than cure.

  I still go in on a night and give him all my news. Mr Dunderdale had been saying that it was a pity evolution had taken the turn that it did because if it hadn’t we might have found ourselves making as much use of our feet as we do our hands, which in the present economic climate might have been just what’s needed to tip the balance. Miss Molloy said, ‘That’s interesting,’ only Bernard just groans.

  Personally I’m surprised she can put up with him but she says that by Australian standards he’s a gentleman.

  I hear them laughing.

  SOFT FURNISHINGS, we’re always a bit slack first thing so I’ll generally do a little wander over into Floor Coverings and have a word with Estelle Metcalf. I wish it was Housewares we were next to as that would make it Joy Poyser because Estelle’s all right but she’s a bit on the young side, big glasses, boy friend’s one of these who dress up as cavaliers at the weekend.

  I said to her this morning, ‘Shiatsu.’ She said, ‘Come again?’ I said, ‘Shiatsu, what is it?’ She said, ‘Is it a tropical fish?’ I said, ‘No.’ She said, ‘Is it a mushroom?’ I said, ‘No.’ She said, ‘Is it Mr Dunderdale?’ I said, ‘Why should it be Mr Dunderdale?’ She said, ‘Because most things are with you these days.’ I said, ‘I shall ignore that, Estelle. Suffice it to say it’s a form of massage involving various pressure points on the body that was invented by the Japanese.’ She said, ‘That’s all very well but it didn’t stop them doing Pearl Harbour, did it?’ Neville’s besieging York on Sunday, trying out his new breastplate. Estelle’s going along as an imploring housewife who comes out under a flag of truce.

  Just then a customer comes in wanting some seersucker slipovers so we had to cut it short. I don’t talk about Mr Dunderdale. And if I do she talks about Oliver Cromwell.

  I go weekly now, though Mr Dunderdale won’t charge me any more. I was sat on the sofa afterwards while he put away his instruments and he said, ‘Good news, Miss Fozzard. We seem to have cracked the tinea pedis, not a trace of it left. I think that calls for a sherry refill. Are you in a hurry to get off?’ I said, ‘No. Why?’ He said, ‘Well, we still have a little time in hand and I wonder if I might prevail upon you to try on a pair of bootees?’ I said, ‘Bootees?’

  He said, ‘Well, I’m using the term loosely. They’re technically what we would call a fur-lined Gibson bruised look but bootees is a convenient shorthand. The shade is Bengal bronze.’ I said, ‘Well, they’re a lovely shoe.’ He said, ‘Yes. Cosy, ankle-hugging they make a beautiful ending to the leg. They’re a present, of course.’ I said, ‘Oh, Mr Dunderdale, I couldn’t.’ He said, ‘Miss Fozzard, please. My contacts in the world of footwear procure me a considerable discount. Besides there is a little something you can do for me in return.’ I said, ‘Oh?’ He said, ‘My years in bending over ladies’ feet have resulted in an intermittently painful condition of the lower back which, if you are amenable you have it in your power to alleviate.’ I said, ‘I do, Mr Dunderdale?’ He said, ‘You do, Miss Fozzard. I’m going to put one cushion on the hearthrug here for my head and the other here for my abdomen and now I’m going to lie down and what I want you to do is to step on my lower back.’ I said, ‘Should I take the bootees off?’ He said, ‘No, no. Keep the bootees on, their texture makes them ideal for the purpose. That’s it. Steady yourself by holding onto the edge of the mantelpiece if you want.’

  Then he said something I couldn’t hear because his face was pressed into the carpet. ‘What was that, Mr Dunderdale?’ ‘I said, “Excellent,” Miss Fozzard. You may move about a little if you would care to.’ I said, ‘I’m anxious not to hurt you, Mr Dunderdale.’ He said, ‘Have no fears on that score, Miss Fozzard. Trample away.’ I said, ‘I feel like one of those French peasants treading the grapes.’ He said, ‘Yes. Yes, yes.’ I said, ‘Do you feel the benefit?’ He said, ‘Yes, yes, I do. Thank you. If you don’t mind, Miss Fozzard I’ll just lie here for a little while. Perhaps you could see yourself out.’

  So I just left him on the hearthrug.

  When I got back Bernard is sitting on the sofa with Miss Molloy, both of them looking a bit red in the face. ‘We were just laughing,’ Miss Molloy says, ‘because Bernard couldn’t think of a word.’ ‘Well,’
I said, ‘he must learn to skirt round it.’ ‘Oh, he did that all right,’ she said. ‘You’re an expert at that, aren’t you Bernard?’ And they both burst out laughing.

  Mr Clarkson-Hall’s very pleased with him. Says he’s never known a recovery so quick. Says he didn’t have the privilege of knowing Bernard before but he imagines he’s now quite like his old self. I said, ‘Yes. He is.’

  After Miss Molloy had gone he comes in here while I’m having my hot drink and says he’s thinking of opening the kiosk again and that Mallory is going to help him. I said, ‘Does Miss Molloy have any experience of sweets and tobacco?’ He said, ‘No, but she’s a fun-loving girl with a welcoming whatever it’s called and that’s half the battle.’

  Note from Mr Dunderdale this morning saying his back is much better and that he was looking forward to seeing me next week.

  Estelle suffers in the back department, the legacy from once having had to wield a spare pike at the Battle of Naseby. So I was telling her all about me helping Mr Dunderdale with his, only she wasn’t grateful. Just giggles and says, ‘Ooh, still waters!’

  Floor coverings, they ought to have somebody more mature. She really belongs in Cosmetics.

  I DON’T KNOW what’s got into people at work. I come in this morning and the commissionaire with the moustache who’s on the staff door says, ‘Have a good day, my duck.’ I said, ‘You may only have one arm, Mr Capstick, but that doesn’t entitle you to pat me on the bottom.’ Next thing is I’m invoicing some loose covers in Despatch when one of the work experience youths who can’t be more than sixteen gives me a silly wink.

  I said to Estelle, ‘My Viyella two-piece doesn’t normally have this effect.’ She said, ‘Well they’re just wanting to be friendly.’ I said, ‘Friendly? Estelle, I may not be a feminist (though I did spearhead the provision of pot-pourri in the ladies toilets) but people are not going to pat my bottom with impunity.’ Estelle says, ‘No. The boot’s on the other foot,’ and starts giggling. I said to Joy Poyser, ‘How ever she manages to interest anyone in serious vinyl flooring I do not understand.’