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Bennett concedes that "One seldom was able to do her a good turn without some thoughts of strangulation", but as the plastic bags build up, the years pass by and Miss Shepherd moves into Bennett's driveway, a relationship is established which defines a certain moment in late 20th-century London life which has probably gone forever. The dissenting, liberal, middle-class world of Bennett and his peers comes into hilarious but also telling collision with the world of Miss Shepherd: "there was a gap between our social position and our social obligations. It was in this gap that Miss Shepherd (in her van) was able to live".
Bennett recounts Miss Shepherd's bizarre escapades in his inimitable style, from her letter to the Argentinean Embassy at the height of the Falklands War, to her attempts to stand for Parliament and wangle an electric wheelchair out of the Social Services. Beautifully observed, The Lady in the Van is as notable for Bennett's attempts to uncover the enigmatic history of Miss Shepherd, as it is for its amusing account of her eccentric escapades. --Jerry Brotton
92 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1989
Miss Shepherd: You're looking up at the cross. You're not St John, are you?
A. Bennett: St John who?
Miss Shepherd: St John. The disciple whom Jesus loved.
A. Bennett: No. My name's Bennett.
Miss Shepherd: Well, if you're not St John I want a push for the van. It conked out, the battery possibly. I put some water in only it hasn't done the trick.
A. Bennett: Was it distilled water?
Miss Shepherd: It was holy water so it doesn't matter if it was distilled or not. The oil is another possibility.
A. Bennett: That's not holy too?
Miss Shepherd: Holy oil in a van? Don't be silly. It would be far too expensive. I want pushing to Albany Street.
(Bennett pushes the van while Miss Shepherd directs.)
Miss Shepherd: What have we stopped for?
A. Bennett: This is Albany Street.
Miss Shepherd: The top of Albany Street. I want the bottom.
A. Bennett: That's a mile away.
Miss Shepherd: So? You're young. I'm in dire need of assistance. I'm a sick woman, dying possibly.
Later, when Bennett offers to let Miss Shepherd move the van into his garden to avoid being ticketed by police, she objects.
Miss Shepherd: There's a lot of ivy in your garden. Ivy's poison. I shall have to think about it. You're not doing me a favour, you know. I've got other fish to fry. A man on the pavement told me that if I went south of the river I'd be welcomed with open arms.
A. Bennett: I was to learn that to reject favours when offered was always Miss Shepherd's way. Time had to pass to erase any sense of obligation or gratitude, so that when eventually she did avail herself of the offer and bring the van in the feeling was that she had done me the favour. One laughs, but international diplomacy proceeds along much the same lines.
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