Tea with the Rev De Witt Talmadge - II

Old Rogers, who had been standing unnoticed in the corner for the past three hours – he had come in to attend to my bonsai with a miniature chain saw and, when the Reverend and I had entered the room, thought it best to stay motionless in front of a picture of some sunflowers my mother had painted from another picture of sunflowers, hoping I suppose it would look like Degas’ Rustic with sunflowers, which it did – coughed. We turned. ‘Excuse me Ma’am, Reverend,’ he obfuscated. ‘I was just fixing this ‘ere bonsai. Fixin’ it good and proper.’

‘Ignore him, Reverend,’ I said. ‘And have another grape.’

‘Thank you, Mrs. Lax, thank you.’

My friends, I hope you do not call that death. That is an autumnal sunset. That is a crystalline river pouring into a crystal sea.

‘Death too, though,’ added Old Rogers. ‘Richard Dawkins…’

‘Shush, Rogers,’ I snapped. ‘Isn’t it time for you to bring in the llama?’

‘Aye, Ma’am,’ he deferred, and slunk from the room.

‘I do apologise, Reverend,’ I spake. ‘Another grape?’

‘Thank you, my good woman,’ came his voice from a small cupboard. ‘I shall.’

That is the solo of human life overpowered by the hallelujah chorus. That is a queen’s coronation. That is heaven. That is the way my father stood at eighty-two, seeing my mother depart at seventy-nine.

There was a couple of minutes’ silence, of respectfully waiting to see if he had finished. ‘Oh, bravo,’ I said, ‘bravo, Reverend De Witt Talmadge. What a remarkable tale. Yes, truly I see your point. One should die in an appropriate manner, with all the proper things in order, properly. I do wish you would have another grape and… oh, have the whole bunch, there are only two left anyway.’

‘Thank you Mrs. Lax. Yes, indeed, death should be like a crystalline river running into a crystal sea, IMO. I very much feel that is how it should be.’

‘Oh Rogers,’ I sighed, suspecting that somewhere in heaven my life was being turned into reality television but with a live audience laughter track, ‘I didn’t mean bring the llama in here!’

After we had cleaned up the mess, or rather, the servants had, and we had done nothing but retire to a small alcove from which we could not see in front of ourselves and stood, unsmiling and unresponsive, facing each other in that cramped space, I had another discussion with Rev. De Witt Talmadge about death. It seemed to much on his mind, and considering the book from which he was quoting so readily had been published in 1890, I am not surprised.

‘Surely, Reverend,’ I said, leaning forward in my chair like some kind of present-day Oprah Winfrey, ‘there’s so much we don’t know about death. Why, despite the beautiful word-picture you painted earlier, I still don’t feel I really want to die at all.’

‘Oh, Mrs. Lax,’ he lamented. ‘You must die, it will be so much fun. Can I tell you about my dream?’

‘Is it merely pages and pages of your book on marriage, recited whilst you strike unusual poses?’ I asked, ambiguously. I imagined the dreams of Reverends were no more or less savoury than anyone else’s. Last night, I dreamt of Old Rogers in his swimming trunks. Serves me right for wearing them, I suppose.

‘Well, yes and no,’ he wavered. ‘Yes, it is, and no, it isn’t not. But I will refrain from the posing if’ – here he sighed – ‘you insist.’

I sighed. I couldn’t very well refuse a Reverend. One of my few weaknesses.

To be continued...