The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year

by Sue Townsend

  Alexander queried, “‘But” he’s a good chap? Think about it. And I’m trilingual. I spoke like dis until I was adopted, man. Then I slowly learned to speak like this,’ he said, affecting an exaggerated form of received pronunciation.

  Brian eyed Alexander’s muscled torso and bulging triceps, and wished that he too could wear a tight white T-shirt. He was anxious to reduce the increasing heat of their confrontation. He cast about for something innocuous to say. ‘I don’t need to think about it, Azizi is a good chap.’

  Alexander changed the subject. While we’re talking about mozzarella, who’s in charge of feeding Eva?’

  ‘Eva thinks the people will provide — very biblical, isn’t it? But until that miracle happens it’s down to my mother, her mother and muggins here.’

  He put a lump of lard in a frying pan and watched it melt. Before it got hot, he threw two slices of white bread in.

  Alexander burst out, ‘No, man! Let the fat get hot first!’

  Brian quickly turned the bread over and cracked an egg in the gap between the slices. Before the white of the egg had set, he slid the eggy mess on to a cold white plate. He ate standing up at the counter.

  Alexander watched him in disgust. Each one of Alexander’s meals was an occasion. Those eating must be seated, there must be a tablecloth and proper cutlery, children under ten were not allowed free access to the sauce bottles, and hands must be washed. Children were required to ask permission to leave the table. It was Alexander’s contention that food cooked without love was bad food.

  Brian had fallen on the slimy mess like a starving dog. When it was gone, he wiped his mouth and put the plate and the fork he’d used into the dishwasher.

  Alexander sighed. ‘Sit down, man. I’m gonna cook that again. Watch and learn.’

  Brian, who was still hungry, sat down.

  20

  Ruby came the next morning with Eva and Brian’s washing. It was ironed and folded so immaculately in a raffia laundry basket that Alexander, who had arrived ten minutes earlier to remove the carpet in Eva’s bedroom, was touched almost to tears at the trouble she’d taken.

  When Ruby asked, ‘Kids at school?’ he could hardly answer.

  He had spent the first ten years of his life in dirt and chaos, getting up early enough to sift through the piles of clothes on the bedroom floor so that he could wear the least dirty items to school.

  When Ruby hobbled upstairs, Alexander laid his face on the laundry and breathed in.

  After manoeuvring Eva’s bed around the room with her in it, Alexander almost lost his patience, but all he said to her was, ‘It would be so much easier if you got out of bed.’

  She said, ‘If you can’t do it alone, shall I ask Brian to help when he comes home from work?’

  ‘No,’ said Alexander. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

  Eventually, after a lot of encouragement from Eva, he managed to roll the carpet up, tie it securely and throw it out of the window. He went downstairs and stuck a Post-it note under the string holding it together.

  It said: ‘PLEASE HELP YOURSELF.’

  By the time he’d made tea and toast and gone to the doorstep with an empty milk bottle, the carpet was gone.

  On the reverse of the note was written in biro: ‘THANK YOU SO MUCH. YOU’VE NO IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS TO ME.’

  While Alexander sanded down the old floorboards, Eva knelt on the bed and looked out over the open sash window. She was wearing an industrial respirator, which soon led to a rumour in the area — spread by Mrs Barthi, the newsagent’s wife — that Brian had contaminated his wife with some kind of moon bacteria, and that she had been confined to her room by the authorities.

  Later that afternoon, Brian was mystified when the queue in the newsagent’s melted away as he joined it.

  Mr Barthi covered his nose with a handkerchief and said, ‘Sir, you should not be out in our community spreading your unearthly moon germ s.’

  Brian spent so long explaining the situation at home to Mr Barthi that the newsagent grew bored and longed for the bearded customer to leave the shop. But then, to his dismay, Dr Beaver gave a lengthy dissertation about the lack of germs on the moon, which somehow led to a monologue on the moon’s lack of atmosphere.

  Eventually, after many hints, which included yawning in Brian’s face, Mr Barthi closed the shop early. ‘It was the only thing I could do to make him go away,’ he told his wife.

  She turned the OPEN sign to face the street again and said, ‘So, why do you have tears on your face, you big fat booby?’

  Mr Barthi said, ‘I know you will mock me, Sita, but I was actually bored to tears. The next time he comes into the shop you can serve him.’

  Later, Brian came out of the butcher’s, where he had been buying a piece of rump steak for himself and eight chipolata sausages for Eva. He saw the lights in the newsagent’s flicker back on. He crossed the road and headed towards the shop. Mr Barthi saw Brian approaching, and had just enough time to turn the sign over and slide the bolt.

  Brian banged on the door and shouted, ‘Mr Barthi! Are you there? I forgot my New Scientist.’

  Mr Barthi was crouching behind the counter.

  Brian shouted through the letter box, ‘Barthi, open the door, I know you’re there!’

  When there was no response, Brian aimed one kick at the door, then turned away and walked back without his magazine to face the chaos at home.

  Mr Barthi only raised his head when five minutes had passed.

  Brian told Eva later that night that, in future, he would have his scientific journals posted directly to the house. He said, ‘Barthi is cracking up. He yawned in my face and then started to cry. He doesn’t deserve our patronage.’

  Eva nodded, though she wasn’t really listening. She was thinking about Brian Junior and Brianne.

  They knew she didn’t answer the phone any more, but there were other forms of communication.

  Ho was in his room, writing to his parents using notepaper and a pen. He could not email them such news, they must be slightly prepared — when they saw the letter in his handwriting, they would know that he had something serious to tell them. He wrote:

  My Dearest Mother and Father,

  You have been excellent parents. I honour and love you. It hurts me to tell you that I have not been a good son.

  I have fallen in love with an English girl called Poppy. I have given her my love, my body and everything I possess, including the money you both worked so hard for in the Croc Factory to send me to an English university.

  Poppy’s parents are both in intensive care in a place called Dundee. She has spent all of her money, so I gave her my money until I had none left. Yesterday I asked her when she could pay the money back to me and she wept and said, ‘Never.’

  Mother and Father, I don’t know what to do. I cannot live without her. Please don’t judge her too harshly. Poppy’s parents are rich important people who crashed their light aircraft into the side of the White Cliffs of Dover. They are both in a coma. Poppy says that doctors in England are corrupt, as they are at home. And they will only keep her parents alive if they are paid enough. If not, they will switch off the machines.

  Will you please send me more money? Are you still thinking about selling the apartment? Or cashing in your pensions?

  Poppy says an international money order made out to Poppy Roberts would be best. Please help me, my parents — if I lose her love, I will kill myself

  I hope you are both well and happy.

  Greetings from your son,

  Ho

  Ho went downstairs and posted the letter in one of those red cylindrical structures that the English call a ‘box’. He was on his way back to the accommodation block when he bumped into Brian Junior who was, as usual, walking along the pavement while simultaneously reading a book of equations and listening to an MP3 player through over-ear headphones. A snatch of music could be heard faintly — it sounded to Ho like Bach.

  Brian Junior acknowledged Ho�
�s presence by blinking his eyes rapidly and grunting an approximation of, ‘Hello.’

  Ho looked up at Brian Junior and wished he was as tall as him and had such a handsome face. He would also like that thick blond hair, and those teeth! And how was it possible that Brian Junior’s cheap shabby clothes looked so good on him?

  If Ho had been English, he would have worn the clothes of a gentleman. Burberry tweeds and shirts from Savile Row Shoes from Church’s. His parents had bought him clothes to wear at his English university, but the clothing they’d chosen was that of the proletariat. It was most difficult wearing a Manchester United football shirt in Leeds. Strangers accosted him and called him names. It was good that he had Poppy to love him.

  He said, ‘Brian Junior. Could I speak to you about money?’

  ‘Money?’ repeated Brian Junior, as though he had never heard the word before. Brian Junior had never spent a day worrying about money, and he assumed —was absolutely certain — that he would be independently wealthy one day.

  Ho said, ‘I think you have money. And I do not. So, if you give me some of the money you have, we will both be happy, yes?’

  Brian Junior mumbled, ‘Cool.’ Then he turned round and walked back in the direction he’d just come from, his face blazing with embarrassment. He couldn’t bear Ho’s humiliation.

  Later that night, there was a knock on Ho’s door.

  It was Brian Junior, clutching a handful of banknotes. He shoved them at Ho and ran back to his room.

  Ho counted the notes on his bed. There was £70. It was nothing, nothing!

  It would buy rice and vegetables for him, but what about Poppy?

  How could he tell her that he had no money for the corrupt English doctors?

  21

  Eva was entranced by her all-white room. Alexander had worked all day and into the evening, painting the ceiling, the walls, the woodwork around the window and the floorboards eggshell white. Eva had asked him to leave her bed up against the window From there she could see along the road and beyond, to the faint shadow of hills, the smudge of evergreens and the bare branches of deciduous trees.

  The smell of fresh paint was overpowering when Brian eventually came home from work. He walked around the house, opening windows. He opened the door to what he was now trying to call ‘Eva’s room’. He was temporarily blinded by the dazzling whiteness of the space.

  Eva said, ‘Don’t come in! The floor’s still wet!’

  Brian’s right foot hovered over the sticky floor, but he managed to regain his balance.

  Eva apologised. ‘Sorry!’

  What are you sorry for?’ asked Brian.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be sharp with you.’

  ‘Do you think a few sharp words from you are going to hurt me, when you have already destroyed my life and our marriage?’ Brian was choking on his words.

  A vision of orphaned Bambi came to him, and he almost lost control of his emotions.

  Eva said, ‘I’ve got one word to say to you …’ She mouthed the ‘T’, but then bit it back. She knew that she was partly to blame for the situation they found themselves in.

  She had known Brian intimately for neatly thirty years. He was part of her DNA.

  Eventually, Brian said, ‘I’m dying for a pee.’

  He looked longingly at the en suite, but the wet paint lay between them, like half-frozen water between two icebergs. Eva pulled the cord to turn the ceiling light off, and he left to use the family bathroom.

  She turned towards the window.

  There was almost a full moon, shining through the skeleton of the late autumn sycamore.

  Brian sat downstairs in the sitting room. What had happened to the lovely comfortable home he had once enjoyed? He looked around the room. The plants were dead, as were the flowers still standing in slimy stinking water. The lamps which had once given the room a golden glow were also dead. He couldn’t be bothered to turn them on. There was no fire in the grate, and the colourful jewelled cushions that had once eased his comfort when he watched Newsnight at the end of the day were stacked on either side of the fireplace.

  He looked up at the framed family photograph on the mantelpiece. It had been taken at Disney World. They had called in at Orlando after two weeks in Houston and he had bought Single Day Tickets. He’d been disappointed at Eva and the twins’ lacklustre response when he had revealed them, and had mimed playing and singing a trumpet fanfare.

  Inside the theme park, when a giant Mickey Mouse had asked in a squeaky voice if they’d like a photographic memento of their visit, Brian had agreed and handed over twenty dollars.

  They had struck a pose while Brian told Eva and the twins, ‘Give bigger smiles!’

  The twins had bared their teeth like frightened chimpanzees, but Eva had looked steadily ahead, wondering how Mickey Mouse could manipulate the camera with his large, gloved pseudo-hands.

  After the last shot, Goofy had approached, dragging his feet on the hot asphalt. Speaking through a gap between his flying-buttress teeth, he’d said to Mickey, ‘Man, I just fuckin’ quit.’

  Mickey had answered, ‘Jeez, dude! What the fuck happened?’

  ‘That fuckin’ bitch, Cinderella, just kicked me in the fuckin’ balls again.’

  Brian had said, ‘Do you mind? I’ve got my children with me!’

  ‘Children?’ scoffed Goofy. ‘You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me! They look old, British man. They got teeth like broken rocks!’

  Brian had said to Goofy, ‘You can bloody talk — look at your bloody teeth! They’ll be on the fucking floor if you carry on insulting my children!’

  Mickey had placed himself between Brian and Goofy, saying, Whoah! Whoah! Come on, this is Disney World!’

  Brian got up and looked closely at Eva’s face in the photograph. Why hadn’t he noticed before that she looked so unhappy? He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and dusted the glass and the frame, then put it back where it had stood for six years.

  The house was dead now that Eva had gone.

  22

  Brianne was sitting on her narrow bed, staring at the wall opposite. Alexander had left half an hour earlier, leaving the bookcase and the jewellery, but unwittingly taking Brianne’s previously unused heart with him. She was filled with the most amazing joy.

  She said out loud, ‘I love him.’

  She wished now that she had bothered to make some friends. She wanted to ring somebody and tell them her good news. Brian Junior would not be interested, Poppy would turn news to her advantage and her mother had gone mad. There was only him she could tell.

  She picked up his business card and reached for her mobile. He answered immediately and illegally — he was doing 75 mph and was in the middle lane of the M1, going South.

  White Van Man.’

  ‘Alexander?’

  ‘Brianne?’

  ‘Yes, I forgot to thank you for bringing Mum’s stuff up. It was very kind of you.’

  ‘It wasn’t kindness. It was work, Brianne. I’ll get paid for it.’

  Where are you?’

  ‘I’ve just turned on to the motorway. I’m trapped between two lorries. If the front one brakes, I’m mincemeat.’

  Brianne exclaimed, ‘Alexander, you must turn the phone off at once!’

  She could imagine his mangled body on the motorway, surrounded by emergency vehicles. She could clearly see a helicopter hovering above him, waiting to take him to a specialist unit somewhere.

  She said, ‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you? Your life is precious.’

  He did as she had asked and switched his phone off. He didn’t know the girl had such strong feelings — she had shown very little emotion when he had handed over her mother’s jewellery.

  Brianne went outside and walked briskly up and down in front of the accommodation block. It was a cold night and she was not dressed for the outdoors, but she didn’t care. The possibility of love had softened her face and straightened her back.

  How could she hav
e lived so long without knowing of his existence?

  All that love stuff that she had once despised: the hearts, the songs, moon/June, the flowers. She wanted him to give her a white teddy bear clutching a plastic rose. Before today she could take men or leave them, most of them were spoilt man-boys. But he — he was worthy of worship.

  He looked like a black prince.

  She had never allowed a man to touch her breasts, or what she called her private bits. But as she paced in the cold she could feel her body melting, dissolving. She yearned for him. She was incomplete without him.

  Poppy looked out of her window and was astonished to see Brianne walking up and down in her pyjamas, her breath visible, like ectoplasm. She rapped on the window and saw Brianne look up, wave and smile. Poppy wondered which drug she had been taking. She threw on the red silk kimono she had shoplifted from Debenhams, and hurried downstairs.

  23

  It was the day before Guy Fawkes Night, but some premature fireworks were being let off as Brian and Titania joined a hastily convened staff meeting at the National Space Centre.

  Titania’s husband, Guy Noble, known as ‘Gorilla’ to his friends, had written to Professor Brady complaining that his wife was having ‘a torrid sexual affair at work with that buffoon Dr Brian Beaver’. Titania had confessed to having sex in the Clean Room, which housed the next generation of moon probe. It was called Walkers on the Moon, after their main sponsor, a local crisp manufacturer.

  All the staff were in the meeting, including the cleaners, the maintenance crew and the groundsman. It was part of Professor Brady’s (aka Leather Trousers) management philosophy that his team be ‘inclusive’. They were seated in the planetarium, which added an epic universal edge to their discussion.