Such Men Are Dangerous

Such Men Are Dangerous by Stephen Benatar

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Authors: Stephen Benatar
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companionable silence.
    “Would you like a cup of tea?”
    “No thank you, Mrs Beecham.”
    “Just had one, have you?”
    “It isn’t long since breakfast.”
    “Ah…I thought that perhaps Amy might have made you one before you came up?”
    He hesitated, smiled.
    “Yes, you’re right. She did.”
    “And the two of you had a wee talk?” Then before he could answer she put up a hand to stop him. “It’s all right, vicar. I know why you’re here. It’s very good of you and I appreciate it but I know .” And she lay her veined, arthritic hand on top of his for a moment and gave it a slight squeeze, as though she was the one whose job it was to offer comfort.
    “How did you know, Mrs Beecham?”
    “Well, now, you guess. I have a few simple tests at the surgery, then some others a shade more complicated at the hospital, x-rays and things—oh, just a routine check, they try to tell me, everyone over sixty has them now. Then yesterday the doctor comes to see me, spends a long time talking to my daughter at the front door. Through the evening Amy hugs me about six times, kisses me on the cheek, is ever so bright and breezy but tense and snappy with it, if you see what I mean. And as if all that wasn’t enough, you yourself turn up around the crack of dawn, the second visit you’ve paid us in about three years, and without even ringing the doorbell, what’s more! Well, vicar, let me tell you something. Up to now, for silly reasons of my own, I may have gone along with it but even so I was not born yesterday.” She gave a cheerful laugh, until he saw her upper dentures start to slip. “I’ll let you into another little secret if you like.”
    “Please.”
    “I don’t mind. I don’t mind dying.”
    He nodded, non-committally. It was now he who had his hand on hers.
    “And shall I tell you why?”
    He thought she was going to tell him she was tired; had too many aches, too little energy, too little mobility and independence; had outlived so many of her family and her friends.
    World-weary. Life offers no more hope, no more surprises. One’s dreams are only of the past. It’s just a question now of getting through with what degree of dignity one can manage to cling onto.
    He would have known exactly what she meant. Despite her pleasant room, despite her books.
    Despite, even, a messenger encircled in light behind Tiffany’s: a heavenly torchbearer handing on his torch?
    Then he felt guilty. That his lack of sleep was catching up on him wasn’t any mitigation. He quickly sought forgiveness.
    “I don’t mind dying,” she said, “because…well, because there are great numbers of nice people who are dead.”
    He thought about this. “People you’ve known?”
    “Yes. And a great many more I haven’t.”
    He smiled.
    “Of course,” she added, “ you may say, and naturally I’d agree, that there are great numbers of nice people who are living. But how many of them do you ever get to meet? In this world?”
    He sighed.
    She looked at him inquiringly.
    “I foresee,” he said, “a thoroughly exhausting eternity. I’d been hoping for a bit of peace.”
    “Now, stop it! It won’t be an unending series of coffee mornings, which I can tell is how you picture it. Besides, attendance would only be optional.”
    “Mind you.” He laughed. “What coffee mornings! Leonardo da Vinci, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Abraham Lincoln. Don’t quote me if I say this, but a mite more interesting than anything we usually get at St Matthew’s.”
    They became more serious.
    “How long have I got, vicar?”
    He spoke about Christmas. He stroked her hand, entirely without knowing he did so.
    “Listen, Mrs Beecham, let’s get back to basics for an instant. Only think of what Jesus has said—and St Paul—to give us comfort and encouragement in any situation whatsoever.”
    They spent at least ten minutes in reminding themselves.

15
    In that morning’s post there’d been a letter from their daughter

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