Free The Clothes They Stood Up In by Alan Bennett Page B

it.
    â€œIt’s from Peru,” Mrs. Ransome said.
    â€œYes,” he said, “thanks,” and tore it in two.
    â€œIt might be important,” said Mrs. Ransome.
    â€œIt’s always important,” said the young man, and dropped the pieces on the carpet.
    Mrs. Ransome looked at his feet. Like every bit of him that she could see they were perfect, the toes not bent up and useless like her own, or Mr. Ransome’s. These were long, square-cut and even expressive; they looked as if at a pinch they could deputize forthe hands and even play a musical instrument.
    â€œI’ve never seen you in the lift,” she said.
    â€œI have a key. Then it doesn’t have to stop at the other floors.” He smiled. “It’s handy.”
    â€œNot for us,” said Mrs. Ransome.
    â€œThat’s true,” and he laughed, unoffended. “Anyway, I pay extra.”
    â€œI didn’t know you could do that,” said Mrs. Ransome.
    â€œYou can’t,” he said.
    Mrs. Ransome had an idea he was a singer, but felt that if she asked he might cease to treat her as an equal. She also wondered if he was on drugs. Silence certainly didn’t seem to bother him and he lay back at his end of the sofa, smiling and completely at ease.
    â€œI should go,” said Mrs. Ransome.
    â€œWhy?”
    He felt in his armpit then waved an arm at the room.
    â€œThis is all her.”
    â€œWho?”
    He indicated the torn-up letter. “She did the place up. She’s an interior decorator. Or was. She now ranches in Peru.”
    â€œCattle?” said Mrs. Ransome.
    â€œHorses.”
    â€œOh,” said Mrs. Ransome. “That’s nice. There can’t be too many people who’ve done that.”
    â€œDone what?”
    â€œBeen an interior decorator then . . . then . . . looked after horses.”
    He considered this. “No. Though she was like that. You know, sporadic.” He surveyed the room. “Do you like it?”
    â€œWell,” said Mrs. Ransome, “it’s a little strange. But I like the space.”
    â€œYes, it’s a great space. A brilliant space.”
    Mrs. Ransome hadn’t quite meant that but she was not unfamiliar with the concept of space as they talked about space a lot in the afternoons, how people needed it, how they had to be given it and how it had not to be trespassed on.
    â€œShe did the place up,” he said, “then of course she moved in.”
    â€œSo you felt,” said Mrs. Ransome (and the phrase might have been her first faltering steps in Urdu it seemed so strange on her lips), “you felt that she had invaded your space.”
    He pointed one beautiful foot at her in affirmation.
    â€œShe did. She did. I mean take that fucking pram . . .”
    â€œI remember those,” said Mrs. Ransome.
    â€œYes, well, sure, only
apparently,
” he said, “though it wasn’t apparent to me, that is not there as a pram. It is there as an object. And it had to be just on that fucking spot. And because I, like, happened to move it, like half an inch, madam went ballistic. Threatened to take everything away. Leave the place bare. As if I cared. Anyway, she’s history.”
    Since she was in Peru Mrs. Ransome felt that she was geography too, a bit, but she didn’t say so. Instead she nodded and said, “Men have different needs.”
    â€œYou’re right.”
    â€œAre you hurting?” Mrs. Ransome said.
    â€œI was hurting,” the young man said, “only now I’m stepping back from it. I think you have to.”
    Mrs. Ransome nodded sagely.
    â€œWas she upset?” she asked, and she longed to take hold of his foot.
    â€œListen,” he said, “this woman was always upset.” He stared out of the window.
    â€œWhen did she leave you?”
    â€œI don’t know. I lose track of time. Three months, four months ago.”
    â€œLike February?” said Mrs.