The Lady in the Van Page #7

During the war.

I knew Kensington in the blackout.

- Oh. Really?

- Mmm.

The chair goes up on a lift.

And in this small ascension,

when she slowly rises

above the level of the garden wall,

there is a vagabond nobility about her.

A derelict Nobel Prize winner, she looks,

her grimy face set

in a kind of resigned satisfaction.

Could we do that again?

I'd like another go.

When you come back.

Ooh.

Here we go.

You smell lovely.

- You okay?

- Yes.

Good.

There. Your M.O.T.

There you go.

Hello, Margaret.

Fourteen years?

You must be a saint.

She's a difficult woman, my sister.

Edith won't have her in the house.

I used to help her out when I could.

It's what Mother would have wanted.

I'm not a saint, just lazy.

- I know she was an ambulance driver.

- Yes.

And she was a nun. Twice over.

Till they got rid of her.

Tipped her over the edge.

She spent some time in an asylum.

Banstead.

Which was my fault.

No.

Mind you, she's a difficult woman.

Such a bully.

Did she bully you? She bullies me.

Well, I had her put away.

Incarcerated.

Sectioned is what you'd call it today.

Mind you, she got away from them, too.

- Oh!

- Gave them the slip, ended up in the van.

Does she still play? Piano?

No.

Oh.

That is sad.

Have you heard of Cor-tot?

Alfred Cortot, the virtuoso pianist?

Yes.

Margaret was his pupil.

Yeah, she had to go over

to Paris for lessons.

It wasn't easy in those days.

And practice. Oh. My word,

she used to practice all daylong.

Well, the nuns put a stop to that.

Test of obedience.

I was a vet in Africa, and when I came

back, the music was out. Finished.

Practicing had become praying.

Hmm.

Played at the Proms once.

Miss Shepherd?

Miss Shepherd?

I just tried to visit you.

I wasn't stopping there.

A woman said my face rang a bell.

Was I ever in Banstead?

And she would not stop.

They gave me some mince and she said,

"You'll find the mince here

a step up from the mince in Banstead."

I don't know about the...

The mince in Banstead,

or anywhere else, for that matter.

That's just where they put people

when they're not right.

Well, you look nice and clean.

Yeah, well, that'll be the bath.

They let me do it myself.

The nurse came and gave me

some finishing touches.

She said I'd come up a treat.

I bought you these.

Flowers?

What do I want with flowers?

They... They only die.

I've got enough on my

plate without flowers.

Why, you won't often

have been given flowers.

Who says'?

I've had bigger flowers than these.

And with ribbons on.

These don't compare.

Music.

How are people

supposed to avoid it?

You see, I had it at my fingertips.

I had it in my bones.

I could play in the dark.

Had to sometimes.

And the keys were

like rooms.

C major and D minor.

Dark rooms and light rooms.

Just like a mansion

to me, music.

Only it worried me,

that playing came easier than praying.

And I...

I said this, which may have been an error.

Said it to whom?

My confessor.

He said

that was another vent

the devil could creep through.

So, he outlawed the piano.

Put paid to music generally.

Said dividends would accrue in terms of

growth of the spirit.

Which they did.

They did.

How's your mother?

Oh. The same.

Still in the coma?

No.

She's just getting a bit of shut-eye.

People do.

Well, good night.

Mr Bennett?

Hold my hand.

It's clean.

So much of what

this woman's life had been,

I found out only after her death.

So, to tell her story,

I have occasionally had to invent,

though much of it one could not make up.

And I do not make it up when I say

that it was on the morning after this talk,

when she lay in the van

with her hair washed,

that on that same morning

comes the social worker into the garden,

bearing clean clothes, linen and ointment

and knocks on the door of the van.

It is a van no longer.

It is a sepulchre.

Can I use your phone?

Yes. Yes, of course.

Even now, I do not venture

into this evil-smelling tomb.

But I feel cheated that the discovery

of the body has not actually been mine

and that having observed so much

for so long,

I am not the first to witness her death.

Now, in quick succession,

come the doctor,

the priest and men from the undertaker's

all of whom do what no one else has done

for 20 years.

Namely, without pause

and seemingly without distaste,

step inside the van.

Lord grant her everlasting rest

and let perpetual light shine upon her.

Present her to God the Most High.

She's gone, then, the lady.

He'll know. She'll have told him.

Only they got to keep mum, vicars.

No helping the police with their enquiries.

Did you know she was on the run?

Miss Shepherd?

Miss whatever you call her, yeah.

Stationary at a junction,

a young lad on a motorbike

comes 'round a corner too fast...

And smashes into her vehicle.

Not her fault.

Only here's a dead boy on the road

who she thinks she's killed.

Does she call the police?

Flag down a fellow motorist? Oh, no.

She clears off pronto.

Thereby putting herself

on the wrong side of the law.

So, you blackmailed her.

I'm a policeman, Mr Bennett.

Retired, of course.

We don't do things like that.

Well, it's a cut above

her previous vehicle.

All those years,

stood on my doorstep,

she was outside the law.

A life, this is what I keep thinking,

a life beside which mine is just dull.

Left to my own thoughts at the graveside,

one of the undertaker's men takes the eye.

Not an occupation one drifts into,

I imagine, undertaking.

Mr Bennett. Excuse me.

I'm supposed to be the centerpiece here.

But I'm forgetting

that the dead know everything.

You should be fighting back the tears,

not eyeing up the talent.

Well, it's a thought.

She's dead now.

I can do what I want with her.

Yes, you can.

I'm dead. Feel free!

Oh. Hello.

There are two of you now.

Is that because you're in two minds?

- Yes.

- No.

Where are you going, Miss Shepherd?

I was wondering, would either of you object

if the van became a place of pilgrimage?

- No.

- I'm getting rid of the van. The van is going.

Healing could take place, and any proceeds

could go towards the nuns.

The nuns?

What did the nuns ever do for you?

Well, not much,

but when the donations start rolling in

they'll realise

what a catch I would have been.

It was the same with Saint Bernadette.

They didn't realise with her

until it was too late.

This way.

There's someone I want you to meet.

That's something you could do.

This thing you're trying to write,

well, you could pump it up a bit.

If it were on the lines of

The Song of Bernadette,

it would make you a packet.

I mean, why? Why did you just let me die?

I'd like to go up into heaven.

An ascension, possibly.

A transfiguration.

That's not really my kind of thing.

Oh. There you are.

This is my new friend.

- Hello.

- Hello.

It's the young man who

crashed into the van.

Hi.

I thought it was me that killed him.

Turns out it was his own fault.

So, one way and another,

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