The Clothes They Stood Up In by Alan Bennett Page B

there’s a long corridor. They tend to have a hot drink about this time. They’re nuns,” she said explanatorily.
    â€œNuns?” said Mr. Ransome. “Are you sure they won’t have gone to bed?”
    â€œNo. They’re up and down all night having the services. There’s always somebody about.”
    She went on listening to the phone ringing in Cornwall.
    â€œCan’t it wait?” asked Mr. Ransome, seeing his effects halfway up the M1. “Speed is of the essence.”
    â€œI know,” said the old lady, “whereas nuns have got all the time in the world. That’s the beauty of it except when it comes to answering the phone. I aim to go on retreat there in May.”
    â€œBut it’s only February,” Mr. Ransome said. “I . . .”
    â€œThey get booked up,” explained the old lady. “There’s no talking and three meals a day so do you wonder? They use it as a holiday home for religious of both sexes.You wouldn’t think nuns needed holidays. Prayer doesn’t take it out of you. Not like bus conducting. Still ringing. They’ve maybe finished their hot drink and adjourned to the chapel. I suppose I could ring later, only . . .” She looked at the coins waiting in Mr. Ransome’s hand. “I’ve put my money in now.”
    Mr. Ransome gave her a pound and she took the other 50p besides, saying, “You don’t need money for 999.”
    She put the receiver down and her money came back of its own accord, but Mr. Ransome was so anxious to get on with his call he scarcely noticed. It was only later, sitting on the floor of what had been their bedroom, that he said out loud, “Do you remember Button A and Button B? They’ve gone, you know. I never noticed.”
    â€œEverything’s gone,” said Mrs. Ransome, not catching his drift, “the air freshener, the soap dish. They can’t be human; I mean they’ve even taken the lavatory brush.”
    â€œFire, police, or ambulance?” said a woman’s voice.
    â€œPolice,” said Mr. Ransome. There was a pause.
    â€œI feel better for that banana,” said a man’s voice. “Yes? Police.” Mr. Ransome began to explain but the man cut him short. “Anyone in danger?” He was chewing.
    â€œNo,” said Mr. Ransome, “but . . .”
    â€œAny threat to the person?”
    â€œNo,” said Mr. Ransome, “only . . .”
    â€œSlight bottleneck at the moment, chief,” said the voice. “Bear with me while I put you on hold.”
    Mr. Ransome found himself listening to a Strauss waltz.
    â€œThey’re probably having a hot drink,” said the old lady, who he could smell was still at his elbow.
    â€œSorry about that,” the voice said five minutes later. “We’re on manual at the moment. The computer’s got hiccups. How may I help you?”
    Mr. Ransome explained there had been a burglary and gave the address.
    â€œAre you on the phone?”
    â€œOf course,” said Mr. Ransome, “only . . .”
    â€œAnd the number is?”
    â€œThey’ve taken the phone,” said Mr. Ransome.
    â€œNothing new there,” said the voice. “Cordless job?”
    â€œNo,” said Mr. Ransome. “One was in the sitting room, one was by the bed. . . .”
    â€œWe don’t want to get bogged down in detail,” said the voice. “Besides, the theft of a phone isn’t the end of the world. What was the number again?”
    It was after one o’clock when Mr. Ransome got back and Mrs. Ransome, already beginning to pick up the threads, was in what had been their bedroom, sitting with her back to the wall in the place where she would have been in bed had there been a bed to be in. She had done a lot of crying while Mr. Ransome was out but had now wiped her eyes, having decided she was going to make the best of things.
    â€œI thought you might be