by Alan Bennett
Those early morning services with just a handful of regulars in the side chapel, the others generally maiden ladies who had cycled there on tall bicycles through the autumn mists, were to me the stuff of religion, the real taste of God. But though I did not admit it myself I knew that what the clergy preferred were occasions like Christmas Eve when the church was packed to the doors, the side aisles full, people even standing at the back like they did in those days at the cinema. For many in the congregation this was their one visit to church in the year. Plumping to my knees with split-second timing I would scornfully note how few of these festive communicants knew the service. Most of them didn’t even kneel but sat, head in hand as if they were on the lavatory, this their one spiritual evacuation of the year.
Fastidious worshipper that I was, when I got to the altar rail I was even more choosy. Christmas and Easter, those joyous festivals of the Christian year, figured in my calendar as fearful health hazards and a true test of faith. At the sparsely attended eucharists that were the norm the rest of the year one could bank on finding oneself at the communion rail alongside a person of proven piety and blameless life. As my turn came for the chalice I would think of the TB or the cancer I might catch but come the Watch Night services at Christmas and Easter these ailments were forgotten. Then it was VD that was the bugbear. With the church chock-a-block with publicans and sinners one never knew who was going to be one’s drinking companion. It was all my mother’s fault. She had brought us up never to share a lemonade bottle with other boys, and wiping it with your hand, she said, was no protection, so I knew the dainty dab with the napkin the priest gave the chalice made no difference at all. There was God of course, in whose omnipotence I was supposed to believe: He might run to some mystical antisepsis. But then He might not. That I should catch syphilis from the chalice might be all part of His plan. The other place I was frightened of contracting it was the seat of a public lavatory, and that the rim of the toilet should be thus linked with the rim of the chalice was also part of the wonderful mystery of God. It was on such questions of hygiene rather than any of theology that my faith cut its teeth. I see myself walking back from the altar and plunging to my knees, then at the first opportunity surreptitiously spitting into my handkerchief.
But I knew that if God had marked me down for VD and a test of faith no amount of spitting was going to help. It was all chickenfeed to the Ancient of Days.
Switching on the Test Match at Headingley by mistake nowadays, I see the scene of these early spiritual struggles. ‘Why, Headingley!’ I might say, parodying Parkin, ‘I was re-born here.’ The camera pans along the Cardigan Road boundary and there above the trees is the spire of St Michael’s, designed by J.L. Pearson who built Truro Cathedral, St Michael’s with St Bartholomew’s at Armley, the best of the nineteenth-century churches in Leeds, and in those days I knew them all. Around the time I was spitting into my handkerchief David Storey, the novelist and playwright, was playing rugby for Wakefield and so was often on the Headingley ground. For him too St Michael’s was a symbol of hope. Cold, wet and frightened in the middle of a game he would look longingly at the spire and tell himself that within the hour he would be stood opposite the church waiting for a tram; the match would be over and he would be going home. That is by the way, but then so is much of this reminiscence, my childhood itself fairly by the way, or so it seemed at the time. Brought up in the provinces in the forties and fifties one learned early the valuable lesson that life is generally something that happens elsewhere.
A Chip in the Sugar
Graham: Alan Bennett
PRODUCED BY INNES LLOYD
DESIGNED BY TONY BURROUGH
DIRECTED BY STUART BURGE
MUSIC BY GEORGE FENTON
GRAHAM IS A MILD MIDDLE-AGED MAN. THE PLAY IS SET IN HIS BEDROOM, A SMALL ROOM WITH ONE WINDOW AND ONE DOOR, IT IS FURNISHED WITH A SINGLE BED, A WARDROBE, TWO CHAIRS AND NOTHING MUCH ELSE,
I’d just taken her tea up this morning when she said, ‘Graham, I think the world of you.’ I sand, ‘I think the world of you.’ And she said, ‘That’s all right then.’ I said, ‘What’s brought this on?’ She said, ‘Nothing. This tea looks strong, pull the curtains.’ Of course I knew what had brought it on. She said, ‘I wouldn’t like you to think you’re not Number One.’ So I said, ‘Well, you’re Number One with me too. Give me your teeth. I’ll swill them.’
What it was we’d had a spot of excitement yesterday: we ran into a bit of Mother’s past. I said to her, ‘I didn’t know you had a past. I thought I was your past.’ She said, ‘You?’ I said, ‘Well, we go back a long way. How does he fit in vis-a-vis Dad?’ She laughed. ‘Oh, he was pre-Dad.’ I said, ‘Pre-Dad? I’m surprised you remember him, you don’t remember to switch your blanket off.’ She said, ‘That’s different. His name’s Turnbull.’ I said, ‘I know. He said.’
I’d parked her by the war memorial on her usual seat while I went and got some reading matter. Then I waited while she went and spent a penny in the disabled toilet. She’s not actually disabled, her memory’s bad, but she says she prefers their toilets because you get more elbow room. She always takes for ever, diddling her hands and whatnot, and when she eventually comes back it turns out she’s been chatting to the attendant. I said, ‘What about?’ She said, ‘Hanging. She was in favour of stiffer penalties for minor offences and I thought, “Well, we know better, our Graham and me.” I wish you’d been there, love; you could have given her the statistics, where are we going for our tea?’
The thing about Mam is that though she’s never had a proper education, she’s picked up enough from me to be able to hold her own in discussions about up-to-the-minute issues like the environment and the colour problem, and for a woman of her age and background she has a very liberal slant. She’ll look at my Guardian and she actually thinks for herself. Doctor Chaudhury said to me, ‘Full marks, Graham. The best way to avoid a broken hip is to have a flexible mind. Keep up the good work.’
They go mad round the war memorial so when we cross over I’ll generally slip my arm through hers until we’re safely across, only once we’re on the pavement she’ll postpone letting it go, because once upon a time we got stopped by one of these questionnaire women who reckons to take us for husband and wife. I mean, Mam’s got white hair. She was doing this dodge and I said, ‘Mam, let go of my arm.’ I didn’t really wrench it, only next thing I knew she’s flat on the pavement. I said, ‘Oh my God, Mother.’
People gather round and I pick up her bag, and she sits up and says, ‘I’ve laddered both my stockings.’ I said, ‘Never mind your stockings, what about your pelvis?’ She says, ‘It’s these bifocals. They tell you not to look down. I was avoiding some sick.’ Somebody says, ‘That’s a familiar voice,’ and there’s a little fellow bending over her, green trilby hat, shorty raincoat. ‘Hello,’ he says, ‘remember me?’
Well, she doesn’t remember people, I know for a fact because she swore me down she’d never met Joy Buckle, who teaches Flowers in Felt and Fabric at my day centre. I said, ‘You have met Joy, you knitted her a tea cosy.‘That’s all she can knit, tea cosies. And bed socks. Both outmoded articles. I said to her, ‘Branch out. If you can knit tea cosies you can knit skiing hats.’ She says, ‘Well, I will.’ Only I have to stand over her or else she’ll still leave a hole for the spout. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘you do remember Joy because you said she had some shocking eyebrows.’ She said, ‘I hope you didn’t tell her that.’ I said, ‘Of course I didn’t.’ She said, ‘Well, I don’t remember.’ And that’s the way she is, she doesn’t remember and here’s this little fellow saying, ‘Do you remember me?’ So I said, ‘No she won’t. Come on, Mother. Let’s get you up.’ Only she says, ‘Remember you? Of course. It’s Frank Turnbull. It must be fifty years.’ He said, ‘Fifty-two. Filey. 1934.’ She said, ‘Sea-Crest.’ He said, ‘No sand in the bedrooms.’ And they both cracked out laughing.
Meanwhile she’s still stuck on the cold pavement. I said, ‘Come along, Mother. We
don’t want piles.’ Only he butts in again. He says, ‘With respect, it’s advisable not to move a person until it’s been ascertained no bones are broken. I was in the St John’s Ambulance Brigade.’ ‘Yes,’ said Mother, ‘and who did you learn your bandaging on?’ And they both burst out laughing again. He had on these bright yellow gloves, could have been a bookie.
Eventually, I get my arms round her waist and hoist her up, only his lordship’s no help as he claims to have a bad back. When I’ve finally got her restored to the perpendicular she introduces him. ‘This is Frank Turnbull, a friend of mine from the old days.’ What old days? First time I knew there were any old days. Turns out he’s a gents’ outfitter, semiretired, shop in Bradford and some sort of outlet in Morecambe. I thought, ‘Well, that accounts for the yellow gloves.’
Straight off he takes charge. He says, ‘What you need now,Vera, is a cup of coffee.’ I said, ‘Well, we were just going for some tea, weren’t we, Mother?‘Vera! Her name’s not Vera. She’s never been called Vera. My Dad never called her Vera, except just once, when they were wheeling him into the theatre. Vera. ‘Right,’ he says, ‘follow me.’ And puts his arm through hers. ‘Careful,’ she says. ‘You’ll make my boy friend jealous.’ I didn’t say anything.
Pause.
Now the café we generally patronise is just that bit different. It’s plain but it’s classy, no cloths on the tables, the menu comes on a little slate and the waitresses wear their own clothes and look as if they’re doing it just for the fun of it. The stuff’s all home-made and we’re both big fans of the date and walnut bread. I said, ‘This is the place.’ Mr Turnbull goes straight past. ‘No,’ he says, ‘I know somewhere, just opened. Press on.’
Now, if there’s one thing Mother and me are agreed on it’s that red is a common colour. And the whole place is done out in red. Lampshades red. Waitresses in red. Plates red, and on the tables those plastic sauce things got up to look like tomatoes. Also red. And when I look there’s a chip in the sugar. I thought, ‘Mother won’t like this.’ ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘this looks cheerful, doesn’t it, Graham?’ I said, ‘There’s a chip in the sugar.’ ‘A detail,’ he says, ‘they’re still having their teething troubles. Is it three coffees?’ I said, ‘We like tea,’ only Mother says, ‘No. I feel like an adventure. I’ll have coffee.’ He gets hold of the menu and puts his hand on hers. ‘Might I suggest,’ he says, ‘a cheeseburger?’ She said, ‘Oh, what’s that?’ He said, ‘It’s fresh country beef, mingled with golden-fried onions, topped off with toasted cheese served with french fries and lemon wedge.’ ‘Oh, lemon wedge,’ said Mother. ‘That sounds nice.’ I thought, ‘Well, I hope you can keep it down.’ Because it’ll be the pizza story all over again. One mouthful and at four o’clock in the morning I was still stuck at her bedside with the bucket. She said, ‘I like new experiences in eating. I had a pizza once, didn’t I, Graham?’ I didn’t say anything.
They fetch the food and she’s wiring in. He said, ‘Are you enjoying your cheeseburger?’ She said, ‘I am. Would I be mistaken in thinking that’s tomato sauce?’ He said, ‘It is.’ She says, ‘Give us a squirt.’ They both burst out laughing. He said, ‘Glass cups, Graham. Be careful or we’ll see up your nose.’ More laughter. She said, ‘Graham’s quite refined. He often has a dry sherry.’
‘Well, he could do with smartening up a bit,’ Mr Turnbull said. ‘Plastic mac. He wants one of these quilted jobs, I’ve shifted a lot of those.’ ‘I don’t like those quilted jobs,’ I said. ‘He sweats,’ Mother said. ‘There’s no excuse for that in this day and age,’ Mr Turnbull said, ‘the range of preparations there are on the market.You want to invest in some roll-on deodorant.’ Everybody could hear. ‘And flares are anathema even in Bradford.’
‘Graham doesn’t care, do you, Graham?’ Mother said. ‘He reads a lot.’ ‘So what?’ Mr Turnbull said. ‘I know several big readers who still manage to be men about town. Lovat green’s a nice shade. I tell you this, Graham,’ he said, ‘if I were squiring a young lady like this around town I wouldn’t do it in grey socks and sandals. These shoes are Italian. Feel.’ ‘I always think Graham would have made a good parson,’ Mother said, feeling his foot, ‘only he doesn’t believe in God.’ ‘That’s no handicap these days,’ Mr Turnbull said. ‘What do you do?’
‘He’s between jobs at present,’ Mother said. ‘He used to do soft toys for handicapped children. Then he was making paper flowers at one stage.’ I went to the toilet.
Pause.
When I came back he said, ‘I don’t believe in mental illness. Nine times out of ten it’s a case of pulling your socks up.’ I didn’t say anything. Mother said, ‘Yes, well, I think the pendulum’s gone too far.’ She didn’t look at me. ‘It’s like these girls, not eating,’ he said, ‘they’d eat if they’d been brought up like us,Vera, nothing to eat.’ ‘That’s right,’ Mother said, ‘they have it too easy. Did you marry?’ ‘Twice,’ he said. ‘I buried Amy last May. I was heartbroken but life has to go on. I’ve a son lives in Stevenage. I’ve got two grandsons, one at the motorbike stage. Do you drive?’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘You do,’ Mother said. ‘You had that scooter.’ ‘It was only a moped,’ I said. ‘Well, a moped, Graham. They’re all the same. I can’t get him to blow his own trumpet.’
‘I’ve got a Rover 2000,’ Mr Turnbull said, ‘handles like a dream. I think the solution to mental illness is hard physical work. Making raffia mats, I’d go mad.’ ‘Yes,’ says Mother, ‘only they do pottery as well. I’ve seen some nice ashtrays.’ ‘Featherbedding,’ Mr Turnbull said. ‘Do you like these Pakistanis?’ ‘Well in moderation,’ Mother said. ‘We have a nice newsagent. Graham thinks we’re all the same.’ I said, ‘I thought you did.’ She said, ‘Well, I do when you explain it all to me, Graham, but then I forget the explanation and I’m back to square one.’ ‘There is no explanation,’ Mr Turnbull said. ‘They sell mangoes in our post office, what explanation is there for that?“I know,’ Mother said, ‘I smelled curry on my Woman’s Own.You have to be educated to understand.’ I didn’t say anything.
He ran us home, promised to give her a tinkle next time he was in the neighbourhood. Said he was often round here tracking down two-tone cardigans. ‘Your Mother’s a grand woman,’ he said. ‘You want to cherish her.’ ‘He does, he does,’ Mother said. ‘You’re my boy friend, aren’t you, Graham?’ She put her arm through mine.
GO TO BLACK.
Come up on Graham standing looking out of the window. It is late afternoon. He sits on the arm of the chair.
There must be a famine on somewhere because we were just letting our midday meal go down when the vicar calls with some envelopes. Breezes in, anorak and running shoes, and he says, ‘I always look forward to coming to this house, Mrs Whittaker.’ (He’s got the idea she’s deaf, which she’s not; it’s one of the few things she isn’t.) He says, ‘Do you know why? It’s because you two remind me of Jesus and his mother.’ Well, I’ve always thought Jesus was a bit off-hand with his mother, and on one occasion I remember he was quite snotty with her, but I didn’t say anything. And of course Madam is over the moon. In her book if you can’t get compared with the Queen Mother the Virgin Mary’s the next best thing. She says, ‘Are you married?’ (She asks him every time, never remembers.) He said, ‘No, Mrs Whittaker. I am married to God.’ She says, ‘Where does that leave you with the housework?’ He said, ‘Well, I don’t do as well as your Graham. He’s got this place like a palace.’ She says, ‘Well, I do my whack. I washed four pairs of stockings this morning.’ She hadn’t. She put them in the bowl then they slipped her mind, so the rest of the operation devolved on me.
He said, ‘How are you today, Mrs Whittaker?’ She says, ‘Stiff down one side.’ I said, ‘She had a fall yesterday.’ She says, ‘I never did.’ I said, ‘You did, Mother.You had a fall, then you ran into Mr Turnbull.’
Pause.
She says, ‘That’s right. I did.’ And she starts rooting in her bag for her lipstick. She says, ‘That’s one of them anoraky thin
gs, isn’t it? They’ve gone out now, those. If you want to look like a man about town you want to get one of those continental quilts.’ He said, ‘Oh?’ I said, ‘She means those quilted jackets.’ She said, ‘He knows what I mean. Where did you get those shoes?’ He said, ‘They’re training shoes.’ She said, ‘Training for what? Are you not fully qualified?’ He said, ‘If Jesus were alive today, Mrs Whittaker, I think you’d find these were the type of shoes he would be wearing.’ ‘Not if his mother had anything to do with it,’ she said. ‘She’d have him down Stead and Simpson’s and get him into some good brogues. Somebody was telling me the Italians make good shoes.’
The vicar takes this as his cue to start on about people who have no shoes at all and via this to the famine in Ethiopia. I fork out 50P which he says will feed six families for a week and she says, ‘Well, it would have bought me some Quality Street.‘When he’s at the door he says, ‘I take my hat off to you, Graham, I’ve got a mother myself.’ When I get back in she said, ‘Vicar! He looked more like the paper boy. How can you look up to somebody in pumps?’ Just then there’s a knock at the door. ‘Get down,’ she says, ‘he’s back.’ Only it isn’t. It’s Mr Turnbull.