On Chasing Brad Through Purgatory

On Chasing Brad Through Purgatory by Stephen Benatar Page A

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Authors: Stephen Benatar
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you?”
    â€œNo, I’m Danny.”
    â€œMy parents had a butler called Danny. Or was he the chauffeur? He may have been the chiropodist.”
    This question exercised us as we made our way out of the small convenience. (Convenience?) At the last moment I noticed there were suspicious brown spots on the lino near the basin but I thought Damn it I’ve only got my handkerchief; don’t the staff in this hospital do anything ? Besides she needed shepherding, Katy needed shepherding (I’d asked again) back to the ward she’d wandered out of. During our brief walk I retrieved the castigated package and since it was difficult to manage in one hand left her to totter on unaided. Well no not really totter. Without any renewed offer to see to all my washing, not even a patently half-hearted one, she went on ahead at quite a spanking rate and disappeared around the proper door with only one further scrap of communication. “I think he was the chauffeur. He was always very kind to me. Gone but not forgotten. Wish I could remember his name.”
    I called it after her but felt sure she hadn’t heard.
    Then I carried on to the Mary Llewellyn Jenkins ward and left the gowns with a sister who was sitting at her desk. I didn’t regale her with my little spiel. I merely said, “For the hospital. We hope they’ll come in handy. May I use your loo?” She gave me a nice smile, slightly bemused, said, “Thank you. Yes of course,” so I knew there was no way they could ever send me back to set that particular record straight.
    But on my way out I may have bemused her further. “Oh could you tell Katy in the nextdoor ward her chauffeur’s name was Danny? Perhaps you could write that down for her?”
    Also on my way out I noticed for the first time the little room from which I’d escaped earlier. The door of it was closed. I had no wish at all to see inside.
    Fortunately the johns attached to Mary Llewellyn Jenkins were as well-stocked as their brother john was lacking. There was even disinfectant! I smuggled out both this and a J-Cloth and dealt efficiently with the scouring of the basin and the removal of those brown spots from the lino. I then returned the bottle, binned the cloth and made good use of their large green bar of Lifebuoy—plus nailbrush! Gosh did I feel virtuous! During my blessedly unencumbered—and unconstricted—return to Pack Hill I thought Hey bugger me am I going to have a tale to pass on to Richard and Hermione when I put in my request for a surely justified exchange of handkerchief. (“Why what did you do with it?” Rather casually: “Oh … you know … just happened to dry an old lady’s bottom. As you do.”) In the meanwhile it was Brad to whom I spoke. “So does that finally answer your question?”
    For he had once asked me whether I could imagine looking after him in the most fundamental fashion if he ever happened to catch AIDS or anything else ultimately as incapacitating.
    â€œNo,” I’d replied. “So please don’t include it on any list of things to aim for.”
    â€œThen you’re saying you don’t love me sufficiently to wipe my bum?”
    â€œNot true. What I’m saying is—simply—why do we have to cross our bridges? Of course I could easily enough just give you the answer you’re wanting. But until one actually finds oneself in that position…? A bit like being tortured in the war. Sometimes I’m sure I’d have said ‘No—please—I’ll tell you anything!’ no matter how many thousands of lives might have depended on my keeping quiet. But then I think Well perhaps you can’t ever be quite sure until the contingency arises. Maybe—somehow—from somewhere you do in fact manage to draw the strength. I hope so but I also hope—just as fervently—that I’ll never have to find out.”
    Brad

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