The Clothes They Stood Up In by Alan Bennett Page A

other hand seemed unconscious of the irritation he was causing, his serenity so impervious Mr. Ransome put it down to drugs. Now he sat happily at the kitchen table, and while Mr. Ransome fussed around the flat on the lookout for evidence of damage or dilapidation or even undue wear and tear, Martin chatted comfortably to Rosemary, as he called her.
    â€œHe just needs to lighten up a bit,” said Martin as Mr. Ransome banged about in the cupboards.
    Mrs. Ransome wasn’t sure if “lighten up” was the same as “brighten up” but catching his drift smiled and nodded.
    â€œIt’s been like playing houses,” said Martin. “Cleo and I live over a dry cleaners normally.”
    Mrs. Ransome thought Cleo might be black but she didn’t like to ask.
    â€œActually,” said Martin, dropping his voice because Mr. Ransome was in the pantry cupboard counting the bottles of wine in the rack, “actually it’s perked things up between us two. Change of scene, you know what they say.”
    Mrs. Ransome nodded knowledgeably; it was a topic frequently touched on in the afternoon programs.
    â€œGood bed,” whispered Martin. “The mattress give you lots of—what’s the word?—purchase.” Martin gave a little thrust with his hips. “Know what I mean, Rosemary?” He winked.
    â€œIt’s orthopedic,” Mrs. Ransome said hastily. “Mr. Ransome has a bad back.”
    â€œI’d probably have one too if I’d lived here much longer.” Martin patted her hand. “Only joking.”
    â€œWhat I don’t understand,” said Mr. Ransome, coming into the kitchen while Martin still had his hand over his wife’s (Mr. Ransome didn’t understand that either), “what I don’t understand is how whoever it was that transported our things here could remember so exactly where everything went.”
    â€œTrouble ye no more,” said Martin, and he went out into the hall and brought back a photograph album. It was a present Mr. Ransome had bought Mrs. Ransome when he was urging her to find a hobby. He had also bought her a camera which she had never managed to fathom so that the camera never got used, nor did the album. Except that now it was full of photographs.
    â€œThe Polaroid camera,” Martin said, “the blessings thereof.”
    There were a dozen or so photographs for every room in the flat on the night in question; general views of the room, corners of the room, a close-up of the mantelpiece, another of the desktop, every room and every surface recorded in conscientious detail, much as if, had the flat been the setting for a film, the continuity assistant would have recorded them.
    â€œAnd our name and address?” Mr. Ransome said.
    â€œSimple,” said Martin. “Open . . .”
    â€œAny drawer,” said he and Mrs. Ransome together.
    â€œAll these photographs,” Mrs. Ransome said. “Whoever they are, they must have no end of money. Don’t they make it look nice.”
    â€œIt is nice,” said Martin. “We’re going to miss it.”
    â€œIt’s not only that all our things are in the right place,” Mr. Ransome said. “The rooms are in the right place too.”
    â€œScreens,” said Martin. “They must have brought screens with them.”
    â€œThere’s no ceiling,” said Mr. Ransome triumphantly. “They didn’t manage that.”
    â€œThey managed the chandelier,” said his wife. And so they had, suspending it from a handy beam.
    â€œWell, I don’t think we need to prolong this stage of the proceedings any longer than we have to,” said Mr. Ransome. “I’ll contact my insurance company and tell them our belongings have been found. They will then doubtless contact you over their collection and return. There doesn’t seem to be anything missing but at this stage one can’t be sure.”
    â€œOh,