The Laying on of Hands: Stories by Alan Bennett Read Free Book Online Page B

congregation were disinclined to give him much attention. What had seemed just another tedious reminiscence is at first listlessly received and it’s only when the glad message ‘Not Aids’ begins to be passed round and its significance realised that people begin to take notice, some at the back even standing up to get a better view of this unlikely herald.
    It takes a little time and to begin with there is some shaking of heads but soon smiles begin to break out, people perk up and this nondescript young man suddenly finds himself addressing an audience that hangs on his every word. ‘I know there is nothing to be ashamed of whatever it was he died of, but with all due respect to the person who spoke, who obviously knew him much better than I did, all the same I was there when he died and I’m sure his aunt, at least, would like to know it was not Aids.’
    ‘HIV-related,’ corrected a man with a ponytail.
    ‘Yes, whatever,’ says the student.
    ‘It wasn’t Aids,’ Miss Wishart’s helpful neighbour shouts in her ear. ‘Not Aids.’
    Meeting an uncomprehending smile from the old lady, she thinks to mime the condition by pointing to her bottom and shaking her head, thereby causing much offence to Carl and his glabrous colleagues and bringing Miss Wishart no nearer enlightenment. The only aids she has come across are deaf aids and hers plainly isn’t working.
    Hopkins, having given his welcome news, offers no evidence to back it up and now seems disposed to sit down again except that Father Jolliffe, who, if he had been an MP and addressing the House of Commons, would at this point have had to preface his question by declaring an interest, leans over the lectern and says, ‘And do you mind telling us Mr … ?’
    ‘Hopkins.’
    ‘Mr Hopkins, do you mind telling us how Mr Dunlop did die?’
    The young man blew his nose, carefully wiped it, and put away his handkerchief.
    ‘Well, basically he had been on a trip which took him through some rough country where he was like bitten by some insect or other, you know, the name of which I can’t remember, only the doctors at the hospital knew it. He got this fever. He was in the room next door to me at the hotel, to begin with anyway. Then they took him in and that was it basically. I was surprised as it’s not a tropical place. The climate’s not very different from Sheffield. I come from Sheffield,’ he added apologetically.
    Hopkins remained on his feet looking round at the congregation and smiling helpfully as if to suggest that if there were any more questions he would be happy to try and answer them. He doesn’t have long to wait.
    ‘I do not believe this,’ Carl mutters as he gets to his feet though it is not to ask a question. He wholly ignores the student and talks to the church. ‘I’m sorry? I thought we’d grown up? I thought we’d learned to look this thing in the face? I never thought I’d still be hearing tales of some ailment picked up in the wilds of Tibet. Or a wasting disease caught from the udders of Nepalese yaks. It’s not from a bite. It’s not from cat hairs. It’s not from poppers nor is it a congenital disease of the dick. It’s a virus passed via blood and sex and that’s how it’s caught. Not from some fucking Peruvian caterpillar. Of course it was Aids. Look at his life. How could it be anything else?’
    In the silence that followed, many look desperately at the student in the hope he has something more to offer by way of rebuttal. But at 19 debate is hardly his strong point. He shrugs awkwardly and sits down shaking his head, long wrists dangling between his knees.
    Unpleasant and arrogant though Carl had been, and with a manner seemingly designed to put people’s backs up, there were many in the congregation who felt that he was right. They longed passionately to believe in this Peruvian caterpillar and its death-dealing bite. South America was a dangerous place, everyone knew that; there were the pampas, gauchos and