The Lady in the Van

The smell is sweet,

with urine only a minor component,

the prevalent odour suggesting

the inside of someone's ear.

Dank clothes are there, too,

wet wool and onions, which she eats raw,

plus, what for me has always been

the essence of poverty,

damp newspaper.

Miss Shepherd's multi-flavoured aroma

is masked by a liberal application

of various talcum powders,

with Yardley's Lavender always a favourite.

And currently it is this genteel fragrance

that dominates the second subject,

as it were, in her odoriferous concerto.

But as she goes, the

original theme returns,

her own primary odour

now triumphantly restated

and left hanging in the house

long after she has departed.

Tell her.

- Miss Shepherd.

- Hmm?

In future, I would prefer

if you didn't use my lavatory.

There are lavatories at the bottom

of the High Street. Use those.

They smell.

And I'm by nature a very clean person.

I have a testimonial for a clean room,

awarded me some years ago.

And, do you know, my

aunt, herself spotless,

said I was the cleanest

of all my mother's children,

particularly in the unseen places.

The writer is double.

There is the self who does the writing,

and there is the self who does the living.

And they talk. They argue.

Writing is talking to oneself.

And I've been doing it all my life,

and long before I first saw this house

five years ago.

- Fifteen?

- Number 10 fetched 17.

Come on. I thought you had

a play on in the West End.

These houses have got so much potential,

once you get rid of the junk-.

There you have it. Gloucester Crescent.

Good street. On the up and up.

Big motor, have you? Loads of room.

Watch out...

- Just be a few minutes.

- All right, governor.

You're not Saint John, are you?

Saint John who?

Saint John, the disciple

whom Jesus loved.

No. The name's Bennett.

Oh, well, if you're not Saint John,

I need a push for the van.

It's conked out.

The battery, possibly.

I put some water in. Hasn't done the trick.

Well, was it distilled water?

It was holy water, so it doesn't

matter if it's distilled or not.

'Course, the oil is another possibility.

That's not holy, too?

Holy oil? Well, in a van,

it would be far too expensive. Now.

I want pushing around the corner. So...

Are you wanting to go far?

Possibly. I'm in two minds.

I'm turning left!

Oh, is that it?

I need... I need the other end.

Well, that's half a mile away.

I'm in dire need of assistance.

I'm a sick woman.

Dying, possibly.

I'm just looking for a last resting place,

somewhere to lay my head.

Do you know of anyone?

Hmm?

Bye-bye, madam. Mind how you go.

A proper writer might welcome such

an encounter as constituting experience.

Me, I have to wait and mull it over.

She saw you coming.

She's old.

You wouldn't get Harold Pinter

pushing a van down the street.

No, unlike me.

But then I'm too busy not writing plays

and leading my mad, vigorous creative life.

Yeah, you live it, I write it.

- Welcome.

- Hello.

- All moved in?

- Hello. Yes.

- Was the move good?

- Yes, thank you.

Well done.

It's a pretty house.

Not as big as ours, of course,

but then you're unattached.

No, it's attached to the house behind.

I mean you. You're single.

Oh.

Sickert once lived in the street,

apparently. Dickens' abandoned wife.

Now it's the usual North London medley.

Advertising, journalism, TV.

People like you, writers, artists.

Anything in the pipeline?

Well, I have got a play on in the West End.

Of course you have, yeah.

Dare one ask?

Uh, thirteen five.

- Oh, my God.

- Yes, I know.

We're twice as big,

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