Four Stories

by Alan Bennett

  ‘After all,’ he was almost conspiratorial, ‘he doesn’t know you’re here.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s dying,’ said Midgley.

  ‘Living, dying,’ said the boy and shrugged. The words meant the same thing.

  ‘You do want your father to live?’ He turned towards the nurse and pulled a little face.

  ‘I was told he wasn’t going to last long. I live in Hull.’

  ‘Our task is to make them last as long as possible.’ The pretty boy looked at his watch. ‘We’ve no obligation to get them off on time.’

  ‘Some of them seem to think we’re British Rail,’ the doctor remarked to a nurse in the small hours when they were having a smoke after sexual intercourse.

  ‘I don’t like 15-year-old doctors, that’s all,’ said Midgley. ‘I’m old enough to be his father. Does nobody else wait? Does nobody else feel they have to be here?’

  ‘Why not go sleep in your van? I can give you a pillow and things.’ She was eating a toffee. ‘I’ll send somebody down to the car park if anything happens.’

  ‘What do you do all day?’ asked Midgley.

  ‘Sleep.’ She was picking a bit of toffee from her tooth. ‘I generally surface around three.’

  ‘Maybe we could have a coffee. If he’s unchanged.’

  ‘OK.’

  She smiled. He had forgotten how easy it was.

  ‘I’ll just have another squint at my dad.’

  He came back. ‘Come and look. I think he’s moved.’

  She ran ahead of him into the room. The old man lay back on the pillows, a shaded light by the bed.

  ‘You had me worried for a moment,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘No. His face has changed.’

  She switched on the lamp over the bed, the light so sudden and bright that that alone might have made the old man flinch. But nothing moved.

  ‘It’s just that he seemed to be smiling.’

  ‘You’re tired,’ she said, put her hand against his face and switched out the light.

  Midgley switched it on again.

  ‘If you look long enough at him you’ll see a smile.’

  ‘If you look long enough,’ she said, walking out of the room, ‘you’ll see anything you want.’

  Midgley stood for a moment in the darkened room, wishing he had kissed her when he’d had the chance. He went out to look for her but there had been a pile-up on the M62 and all hell was about to break loose.

  ‘WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY?’ said his wife on the phone. ‘Sit in the waiting room. Sit in his room. Walk round the hospital.’

  ‘Don’t they mind?’

  ‘Not if they’re going to die.’

  ‘Is he, though?’ said his wife, watching her mother who had taken up her station on the chair by the door, holding her bag on her knees, preparatory to going to bed. ‘It seems a long time.’ The old lady was falling asleep. Once she had slipped right off that chair and cracked her head on the sideboard. That had been a hospital do.

  ‘I can’t talk. Mum’s waiting to go up. She’s crying out for a bath. I’m just going to have to steel myself.’ The handbag slipped to the floor.

  ‘I need a bath,’ said Midgley.

  ‘Go over to your dad’s,’ said his wife. ‘Mum’s falling over. Bye.’

  ‘What am I doing sat on this seat?’ said her mother, as she got her up. ‘I never sit on this seat. I don’t think I’ve ever sat on this seat before.’

  IN THE MORNING Midgley was woken by Nurse Lightfoot banging on the steamed-up window of the van. It was seven o’clock.

  ‘I’m just going off,’ she was mouthing through the glass.

  He wound down the window.

  ‘I’m just coming off. Isn’t it a grand morning? I’m going to have a big fried breakfast then go to bed. I’ll see you at teatime. You look terrible.’

  Midgley looked at himself in the driving mirror, then started up the van and drove after her, hooting.

  ‘You’re not supposed to hoot,’ she said. ‘It’s a hospital.’

  ‘I forgot to ask you. How’s my dad?’

  ‘No change.’ She waved and ran down a grass bank towards the nurses’ flats. ‘No change.’

  His dad lived where he had lived once, at the end of a terrace of redbrick back-to-back houses. It was an end house, as his mother had always been careful to point out. It gave them one more window, which was nice, only kids used the end wall to play football against, which wasn’t. His dad used to heave himself up from the fireside and go out to them, night after night. He let himself in with the key he had had since he was fourteen. ‘You’re twenty-one now,’ his mother had said.

  The house was neat and clean and cold. He looked for some sign of interrupted activity, even a chair out of place, some clue as to what his father had been doing when the blow fell. But there was nothing. He had a home help. She had probably tidied up. He put the kettle on, before having a shave. He knew where everything was. His dad’s razor on the shelf above the sink, a shaving brush worn down to a stub and a half-used packet of Seven O’Clock blades. He scrubbed away the caked rust from the razor (‘Your dad doesn’t care,’ said his mother) and put in a new blade. He had never gone in for shaving soap. Puritan soap they always bought, green Puritan soap. Then having shaved he took his shirt off to wash in the same sequence he had seen his father follow every night when he came in from work. Then, thinking of the coming afternoon, he did something he had never seen his father do, take off his trousers and his pants to wash his cock. He smelled his shirt. It stank. Naked, white and shivering he went through the neat sitting room and up the narrow stairs and stood on the cold lino of his parents’ bedroom looking at himself in the dressing-table mirror. On top of the dressing-table, stood on little lace mats, was a toilet set. A round glass jar for a powderpuff, a pin tray, a cut-glass dish with a small pinnacle in the middle, for rings, and a celluloid-backed mirror and hair-brush. Items that had never had a practical use, but which had lain there in their appointed place for forty years.

  He opened the dressing-table drawer, and found a new shirt still in its packet. They had given it to his father as a Christmas present two years before. He put it on, carefully extracting all the pins and putting them in the cut-glass dish. He looked for pants and found a pair that were old, baggy and gone a bit yellow. Some socks. Nothing quite fitted. He was smaller than his father. These days it was generally the other way round. He went downstairs, through into the scullery to polish his shoes. He remembered the brushes, the little brush to put the polish on which as a child he had always thought of as bad, the big noble brush that brought out the shine. He stood on the hearthrug and saw himself in the mirror, ready as if for a funeral, and sat down on the settee about to weep when he realised it was not his father’s funeral he was imagining but his own. On the end of the tiled mantelpiece of which his mother had been so proud when they had had it put in in 1953 (a crime getting rid of that beautiful range, Joyce always said) was his dad’s pipe. It was still half full of charred tobacco. He put it back but rolling over it fell on to the hearth. He stooped to pick it up and was his father suddenly, bending down, falling and lying there two days with the pipe under his hand. He dashed out of the house and drove wildly back to the hospital.

  ‘No change,’ said the nurse wearily (they were beginning to think he was mad). But if there was no change at least the old man didn’t seem to be smiling.

  ‘I’m wearing your shirt, Dad,’ Midgley said. ‘The one we gave you for Christmas. I hope that’s all right. It doesn’t really suit me, but I think that’s why Joyce bought it. She said it didn’t suit me but it would suit you.’

  A nurse came in.

  ‘They tell you to talk,’ said Midgley. ‘I read it in an article in the Reader’s Digest,’ (and as if this gave it added force), ‘it was in the waiting room.’

  The nurse sniffed. ‘They say the same thing about plants,’ she said, putting the carnations back on the window-sill. ‘I think it’s got pas
t that stage.’

  MIDGLEY WAS SITTING on the divan bed in Nurse Lightfoot’s room in the nurses’ quarters. The rooms were light and modern like the hospital. She was sitting by the electric fire with one bar on. There was a Snoopy poster on the wall.

  ‘People are funny about nurses,’ she said. ‘Men.’ She took a bite of her bun. They were muesli buns. ‘You say you’re a nurse and their whole attitude changes. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘No,’ lied Midgley.

  ‘I notice it at parties particularly. They ask you what you do, you say you’re a nurse and next minute they’ve got you on the floor. Perfectly ordinary people turn into wild beasts.’ She switched another bar on.

  ‘I’ve given up saying I’m a nurse for that reason.’

  ‘What do you say you are?’ asked Midgley. He wondered whether he would be better placed if he went over to the fire or he got her to come over to the bed.

  ‘I say I’m a sales representative. I don’t mean you,’ she said. ‘You’re obviously not like that. Course you’ve got other things on your mind at the moment.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Your dad.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  The duty nurse had been instructed to ring if there was any sign of a crisis.

  ‘He is lovely,’ she said, through mouthfuls of bun. ‘I do understand the way you feel about him.’

  ‘Do you?’ said Midgley. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Old people have their own particular attraction. He’s almost sexy.’

  Midgley stood up suddenly.

  She picked something out of her mouth.

  ‘Was your cake gritty?’

  ‘No,’ said Midgley, sitting down again.

  ‘Mine was. Mine was a bit gritty.’

  ‘It was probably meant to be gritty,’ said Midgley, looking at his watch.

  ‘No. It was more gritty than that.’

  ‘What would you say,’ asked Midgley, as he carefully examined a small stain on the bedcover, ‘what would you say if I asked you to go to bed.’

  ‘Now?’ she asked, extracting another piece of grit or grain.

  ‘If you like.’ He made it sound as if she had made the suggestion.

  ‘I can’t now.’ She gathered up the cups and plates.

  ‘Why not? You’re not on till seven.’

  ‘It’s Wednesday. I’m on early turn.’ She wondered if he was going to turn into a wild beast.

  ‘Tomorrow then?’

  ‘Tomorrow would be better. Though of course it all depends.’

  ‘What on?’

  She was shocked.

  ‘Your father. He may not be here tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Midgley, getting up. He kissed her fairly formally.

  ‘Anyway,’ she smiled. ‘Fingers crossed.’

  MIDGLEY SAT BY HIS FATHER’S BED and watched the dot skipping on the screen.

  ‘Hold on, Dad,’ he muttered. ‘Hold on.’

  There was no change.

  Before going down to sleep in the van he telephoned home. It was his son who answered. Joyce was upstairs with her mother.

  ‘Could you ask her to come to the phone, please,’ said Midgley. The ‘please’ was somehow insulting. He heard brief shouting.

  ‘She can’t,’ said Colin. ‘Gran’s in the bath. Mum can’t leave her. What do you want?’

  ‘You go up and watch her while I speak to your mum.’

  ‘Dad.’ The boy’s voice was slow with weary outrage. ‘Dad. She’s in the bath. She’s no clothes on. I don’t want to see her.’

  He heard more distant shouting.

  ‘Mum says if she can get a granny-sitter she may come over to see Grandad.’

  ‘Colin.’ Midgley was suddenly urgent. ‘Colin. Are you still there?’

  ‘Sure.’ (Midgley hated that.)

  ‘Tell her not to do that. Do you hear? Tell her there’s no need to come over. Go on, tell her.’

  ‘I’ll tell her when she comes down.’

  ‘No,’ said Midgley. ‘Now. I know you. Go up and tell her now.’

  The phone was put down and he could hear Colin bellowing up the stairs. He came back.

  ‘I told her. Is that all?’

  ‘No,’ said Midgley. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something? How’s Grandad? Haven’t you forgotten that? Well it’s nice of you to ask, Colin. He’s about the same, Colin, thank you.’

  ‘How was your grandad?’ said Joyce, coming downstairs with a wet towel and a bundle of her mother’s underclothes.

  ‘About the same,’ said Colin.

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘No change.’

  THAT NIGHT MIDGLEY DREAMED it was morning when the door opened and his father got into the van.

  ‘I didn’t know you drove, Dad,’ he said as they were going into town. ‘When did you learn?’

  ‘Just before I died.’

  His mother, as a girl, met them outside the Town Hall.

  ‘What a spanking van, Frank,’ she said. ‘Move up, Denis, let me sit next to your dad.’

  The three of them sat in a row until he saw her hand was on his father’s leg, when suddenly he was in a field alone with his mother.

  ‘What a grand field,’ she said. ‘It’s spotless.’

  He was a little boy and she was in a white frock, and some terrible threat had just been lifted. Then he looked behind him and saw something much worse. On the edge of the field, ready to engulf them, was an enormous slag heap, glinting black and shiny in the sun. His mother hadn’t seen it and chattered on how lovely this field was and slipping nearer came this terrible hill. Someone ran down the slope, waving his arms, a figure big and filthy, a miner, a coalman. He slid down beside them.

  ‘Oh,’ she said placidly, ‘here’s your father,’ and he sat down beside her, coal and muck all over her white frock.

  Then they were walking through Leeds Market. It was Sunday and the stalls were empty and shuttered. It was also a church and they walked up through the market to the choir screen. It was in the form of a board announcing Arrivals and Departures, slips of board clicking over with names on them, only instead of Arrivals and Departures it was headed Births and Deaths. Midgley wandered off while his parents sat looking at the board. Then his mam got up and kissed his dad, and went backwards through the screen just before the gates were drawn across. Midgley tried to run down the church and couldn’t. He was shouting, ‘Mam. Mam.’ Eventually he got to the gates and started shaking them, but she had gone. He turned to look at his father who shook his head slowly and turned away. Midgley went on rattling the gates then someone was shaking the van. It was Nurse Lightfoot waking him up. ‘You can call me Valery,’ she chanted as she ran off to her big breakfast.

  Later that morning Midgley went in to see his father to find a smartish middle-aged woman sat by the bed. She was holding his father’s hand.

  ‘Is it Denis?’ she said without getting up.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Alice Dugdale. Did he tell you about me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He wouldn’t, being him. He’s an old bugger. Aren’t you?’

  She shook the inert hand. She was in her fifties, Midgley decided, very confident and done up to the nines. His mother would have called her common. She looked like the wife of a prosperous licensee.

  ‘He told me about you,’ she said. ‘He never stopped telling me about you. It’s a sad sight.’

  The nurse had said his father was a bit better this morning.

  ‘His condition’s stabilised,’ said Midgley.

  ‘Yes, she said that to me, the little slut. What does she know?’ She looked at him. ‘You’re a bit scruffy.’ She stood up and smoothed down her skirt. ‘I’ve come from Southport.’ She took the carnations from the vase and put them in the waste-bin. ‘A depressing flower, carnations,’ she said. ‘I prefer freesias. I’m a widow,’ she said. ‘A rich widow. Shall we have a meander round? No sense in stopping here.’ She kissed his father on the
forehead. ‘His lordship’s not got much to contribute. Bye bye chick.’

  She swept through the waiting room with Midgley in her wake. Aunty Kitty open-mouthed got up and went out to watch them going down the corridor.

  ‘That’ll be your Aunty Kitty, I take it.’ She said it loudly enough for her to hear.

  ‘It is, yes,’ said Denis, glancing back and smiling weakly. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No, thank God. Though she probably knows me.’

  They found a machine and had some coffee. She took a silver flask from her bag.

  ‘Do you want some of this in it?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Midgley.

  ‘I’d better,’ she said. ‘I’ve driven from Southport. I wanted to marry your dad only he said no. I had too much money. My husband left me very nicely placed. He was a leading light in the soft furnishing trade. Frank would have felt beholden, you see. That was your dad all over. Still you know what he was like.’

  Midgley was no longer sure he did.

  ‘How do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘He always had to be the one, did Frank. The one who did the good turns, the one who paid out, the one who sacrificed. You couldn’t do anything for him. I had all this money and he wouldn’t even let me take him to Scarborough. We used to go sit in Roundhay Park. Roundhay Park!’

  A woman went by, learning to use crutches.

  ‘We could have been in Tenerife.’

  Midgley was glad to have at least this aspect of his father’s character confirmed.

  ‘I didn’t want to let him down,’ said Midgley. ‘That’s why I’ve been waiting. He wants me to let him down, I know.’

  ‘Poor soul,’ she said, looking at the woman struggling down the corridor.

  ‘What was your mam like?’

  ‘She was lovely,’ said Midgley.

  ‘She must have had him taped. She looks a grand woman. He’s showed me photographs.’ She took out her compact and made up her face. ‘I’ll go back and have another look. Then I’ve got to get over to a Round Table in Harrogate. Killed two birds with one stone for me, this trip.’

  ‘YOUR MOTHER’D NOT BEEN DEAD A YEAR,’ sniffed Aunty Kitty. ‘I was shocked.’