The Clothes They Stood Up In by Alan Bennett Page B

there’s nothing missing,” said Martin. “One or two After Eights perhaps, but I can easily replenish those.”
    â€œNo, no,” said Mrs. Ransome, “that won’t be necessary. They’re”—and she smiled—“they’re on the house.”
    Mr. Ransome frowned and when Martin went off to find the various pro-formas he whispered to Mrs. Ransome that they would have to have everything cleaned.
    â€œI don’t like to think what’s been going on. There was a bit of kitchen paper on your dressing table with what was almost certainly blood. And I’ve a feeling they may have been sleeping in our bed.”
    â€œWe’ll exchange flimsies,” said Martin. “One flimsy for you. One flimsy for me. Your effects. Do you say ‘effects’ when a person’s still around? Or is it just when they’re dead?”
    â€œDead,” said Mr. Ransome authoritatively. “In this case it’s property.”
    â€œEffects,” said Martin. “Good word.”
    Standing on the forecourt as they were going Martin kissed Mrs. Ransome on both cheeks. He was about the age their son would have been, Mrs. Ransome thought, had they had a son.
    â€œI feel like I’m one of the family,” he said.
    Yes, thought Mr. Ransome; if they’d had a son this is what it would have been like. Irritating, perplexing. Feeling got at. They wouldn’t have been able to call their lives their own.
    Mr. Ransome managed to shake hands.
    â€œAll’s well that ends well,” said Martin, and patted his shoulder. “Take care.”
    â€œHow do we know he wasn’t in on it?” said Mr. Ransome in the car.
    â€œHe doesn’t look the type,” said Mrs. Ransome.
    â€œOh? What type is that? Have you ever come across a case like this before? Have you ever heard of it? What type does it take, that’s what I’d like to know.”
    â€œWe’re going a little fast,” said Mrs. Ransome.
    â€œI shall have to inform the police, of course,” Mr. Ransome said.
    â€œThey weren’t interested before so they’ll be even less interested now.”
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    â€œI’m the solicitor. Who are you? Are you the expert?”
    They drove in silence for a while.
    â€œOf course, I shall want some compensation. The distress. The agony of mind. The inconvenience. They’re all quantifiable, and must be taken into account in the final settlement.”
    He was already writing the letter in his head.
    In due course, the contents of the flat came back to Naseby Mansions, a card pinned to one of the crates saying, “Feel Free to Use. Martin.” And, in brackets, “Joke.” Mr. Ransome insisted that everything must be put back just as it had been before, which might have proved difficult had it not been for the aide-mémoire in the form of Mrs. Ransome’s photograph album. Even so the gang who returned the furniture were less meticulous than the burglars who had removed it, besides being much slower. Still, the flat having been decorated throughout and the covers washed, hoovered or dry-cleaned, the place gradually came to look much as it had done before and life returned to what Mrs. Ransome used to think of as normal but didn’t now, quite.
    Quite early on in the proceedings, and while Mr. Ransome was at the office, Mrs. Ransome tried out her cane rocking chair and rug in the now much less spartan conditions of the lounge, but though the chair was as comfortable as ever the ensemble didn’t look right and made her feel she was sitting in a department store. So she relegated the chair to the spare room where from time to time she visited it and sat reviewing her life. But no, it was not the same and eventually she put the chair out for the caretaker who incorporated it into his scheme of things in the room behind the boiler, where he was now trying to discover