The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year

by Sue Townsend

  Eva shouted ‘Yvonne!’

  She heard her mother-in-law’s snail-paced progress upstairs before she eventually came into the bedroom.

  ‘Yvonne, Barry and his friend are leaving now Will you please fetch his clothes?’

  Yvonne said, ‘They won’t be ready yet, I’ve only just popped them into the dryer. If he puts them on now, he’ll get pneumonia.’

  Eva said, struggling to keep her voice even, ‘That is a myth perpetuated by old-age pensioners. You cannot catch pneumonia from wearing damp socks and trousers. If that were the case, my whole school would have contracted pneumonia after a wet playtime.’ Her temper began to struggle out of her throat. ‘I spent half of my childhood wet or damp. A gaberdine mac is not impervious to snowstorms or torrential rain. I slept in a room with a bucket in the corner because the fucking roof leaked. So, Barry, go downstairs with Yvonne and Angelica, put on your damp clothes, and leave!’

  Barry was near to tears, he’d thought that Eva was his friend. This was a big blow.

  Angelica switched off the little Sony machine that had been recording in the top pocket of her cowboy shirt.

  Yvonne said to her daughter-in-law, We haven’t seen Mr Temper for a long time, have we, Eva? No, and Mr Temper hasn’t got a leg to stand on. I’ve lost count of my relatives, friends and acquaintances who’ve contracted pneumonia because they didn’t sufficiently air their washing!’

  Eva yelled back, ‘And that myth is why we had to put up with bloody washing hanging around the house until Saturday! It would be washing on Monday, drying in front of the coal fire on Tuesday, folding on Wednesday, ironing on Thursday, and airing on Friday and Saturday. Put the clothes away on Sunday, and start all over again on Monday! And, on each of those bloody days, my mother was a martyr. It was like living in a Chinese laundry!’

  Angelica said, Well, I’ve got to go back to work anyway.

  Barry said sadly, ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

  Yvonne said, ‘Goodbye, Eva, you may not see me for a while. I’ve been extremely hurt by your remarks. I’ve been badly done by.’

  Eva said, ‘Barry, you look fantastic, a different man. I’m sorry I’ve been such a cow If you’re driving and you see me at the window, give me a wave. I’d like to see your lights in the dark. It’ll reassure me you’re still around.’

  Barry said, ‘You are a lovely woman, Eva. I want to buy you a present. What do you like?’

  ‘I like everything. Anything you choose, Barry, would be gratefully received.’

  Eva watched Barry and Angelica drive away.

  A few minutes later, Yvonne left the house.

  Eva saw with dismay that she was limping heavily. She was wearing her knitted beret with the pompom back to front. Eva thought about opening the window and telling her so, but she did not want to risk Yvonne thinking that she was mocking her in any way.

  After three days had passed and Yvonne had not returned, Brian went to find out why.

  He came back, looking worried, saying, ‘Mother seems to have developed an obsession with Alan Titchmarsh, and is threatening to make Mr Titchmarsh a beneficiary in her will.’ He added, ‘She wasn’t wearing any make-up, I didn’t recognise her at first.’ Then, sadly, ‘I think she might be losing her marbles.’

  46

  The next day, when Brian was at work, Mrs Hordern came into his office and said, ‘Your wife’s on the front of the Mercury.’

  Brian grabbed the local paper, and saw that the front page was dominated by a blurry, wide-angle photograph of Eva sitting up in bed. The headline said: ‘MAN SAVED BY “SAINT”.’

  Brian turned to page three, and read:

  Local woman, Eva Beaver (50), of Bowling Green Road, Leicester, has, according to suicidal black cab driver, Barry Wooton (36), ‘a special gift’.

  ‘She saved my life,’ said the burly cabby. (See above, top right.) ‘She is a saint.’

  There was a murky black and white photograph of Barry, looking like Fungus the Bogeyman. Brian read on, with mounting incredulity:

  ‘On Friday night, I was desperate,’ Barry told Mercury reporter Angelica Hedge, talking in the neat lounge of his flat at Arthur Court, Glenfield Estate. ‘I was low, and thought that my life was not worth living.’

  Barry’s eyes filled with tears as he told of the calamities that had brought him to such a desperate state: ‘I ran over my own dog, Sindy, gas and electric went up, my heating’s broke, yobs slashed the leather seats in the back of the cab, and I’ve spent a fortune on lonely heart adverts and I’ve still not found a wife.’ Barry explained that he was ‘drawn’ to Mrs Beaver’s house. ‘She is bedridden and I’d often seen her at her window in the small hours. I was on my way to the railway line to put my head on the rails, when I felt something pulling me towards her house. It was 3.27 a.m. but I rang her bell.’

  Brian read on, and discovered that his wife was ‘an angel’, ‘a saviour’, ‘a miracle worker’ and ‘a saint’. He, Brian Beaver (75), was ‘a top nuclear scientist’ and they had ‘18-year-old triplets, Poppy, Brianne and Brian Junior’. He immediately sat down at his desk and typed an email to the editor.

  Sir,

  I wish to protest in the strongest possible manner about your front-page article concerning my wife, Eva Beaver. It contains many falsehoods and inaccuracies, e.g. I am not a nuclear scientist. I work in astronomy and I am 55 years of age. There is a compulsory retirement age at my place of work. I would certainly not be allowed to carry on at the age of 75 years.

  I am not the father of triplets. The Poppy you refer to is a house guest and not one of my progeny.

  Furthermore, my wife is certainly not ‘an angel’, ‘a saviour’, ‘a miracle worker’ or ‘a saint’, and neither is she ‘bedridden’. She has chosen to take to her bed for reasons of her own.

  You will be hearing from my lawyers in due course.

  Yours faithfully,

  Dr Brian Beaver, BSc, MSc, D Phil (Oxon)

  When he had pressed ‘send’, Brian hurried along the corridor to show Titania the front page. She laughed all the way through the article, and had a mild form of hysterics when she read that Brian was seventy-five.

  When Brian told her that he had emailed a letter to the editor of the paper, she said, ‘You fool! That will keep the whole bloody thing going.’

  One of Titania’s young interns, Jack Box, said, ‘It’s already on Twitter. The hashtag’s “womaninbed”. Do you want me to bring it up?’

  Brian and Titania had never sent a tweet before, and neither had they read one.

  Jack Box’s fingers flew over the keyboard. He said, ‘There have been three posted over the last hour.’

  Brian read, in descending order:

  Eva Beaver a saint? I don’t think so, she’s a slag.

  I need your help Eva, I want to kill myself, where are you?

  Die! Brine Beevar!!! y ru stil aliv 75 yr old man!! newcleer enege wil kill uz al! an diform are babis!!!!

  Brian said, ‘Hate mail now, Tit. And does Eva care? No, she is indifferent to my suffering.’

  He read on:

  #WomanInBed, are you reading this? I wish I was in bed with you. You look fit.

  As they watched the screen, it displayed: ‘One more tweet available.’

  Jack Box clicked the mouse and the Tweet popped up, from GreenMan2478:

  #WomanInBed. I understand your need for spiritual replenishment. Remember, we are all made from stars, but you are sprinkled with stardust. Go Well Sister.

  Brian said, ‘Stardust, my arse. If Eva were to be covered in residue from a supernova, she wouldn’t last long.’

  By 10 p.m. that night, there had been 157 tweets, and by 6 a.m. the next day, this figure had almost trebled.

  One tweeter asked the simple question, ‘Why is she in bed?’

  Suggestions came from across the world.

  47

  The next day, a Friday, a regional television team of two turned up at the door, requesting an interview with Eva. />
  Ruby, who had answered the door, said, ‘I’m her mother. I’m Ruby Brown-Bird.’ She immediately recognised the presenter. ‘You’re Derek Plimsoll. I’m a big fan of yours, I watch you every night on the news.’

  This was true. Ruby was a great admirer of his. He was so handsome and funny, and always made a little joke at the end of his six o’clock news round-up. Over the years, she had watched his black hair turn grey and his body spread, but he still wore lovely pastel suits and jazzy ties. When he interviewed politicians, he was very respectful. He was never irritated by them when they wouldn’t answer a question — not like that Jeremy Paxman. He was like an old familiar pal. And sometimes, when he said, ‘Goodnight, East Midlands, see you tomorrow,’ she would speak to the screen, and say, ‘Yes, see you tomorrow, Derek.’

  The girl with him, who was carrying the camera on a tripod, said, ‘And I’m Jo.’

  Ruby didn’t take to her. She was one of those women like Poppy, who wore bright-red lipstick and big boots. Ruby couldn’t make head nor tail of young women today.

  She asked them into the kitchen and apologised for the non-existent mess.

  Derek wrinkled his suntanned nose and said, ‘What is that delicious smell?’

  Ruby said, ‘I’ve got a cake in the oven.’

  ‘A cake!’ he said, sounding both amazed and delighted. He wagged a plump finger at Ruby and said, ‘Are you sure you’ve not got a bun in the oven?’

  Ruby screeched with laughter and put her hands over her face. ‘Me, have a bun in the oven?’ She shrieked again, ‘I’m seventy-nine! I’ve had my womb took away!’

  Derek said, ‘I bet you were a proper minx, Ruby. Oh, just the thought of you, my dear, and I’m getting excited.’

  Jo rolled her eyes and said to Ruby, ‘D’you see what I have to put up with? He’s an unreconstructed nuisance.’

  Derek said, ‘We’re old school, aren’t we, Ruby? We used to enjoy a bit of sexual banter without the Sex Police rounding us up.’

  Ruby agreed. ‘I’m scared to open my mouth, these days. Every time I do, I seem to offend somebody or other. I’ve no idea what to call black people any more.’

  Jo said, flatly, ‘Black. You call them black.’

  Derek said, affecting a West Indian accent, ‘No, we is persons of colour now, innit?’

  When Ruby poured the tea, Derek rhapsodised over the teapot. He exclaimed, ‘A teapot, a milk jug, a sugar bowl, china cups and saucers, and apostle spoons!’

  Ruby was thrilled that here, at least, was a person who appreciated the niceties of life.

  Jo stood the camera on its three legs and fiddled with the lens. She mumbled to Derek, ‘The light is good,’ and switched on.

  Derek said to Ruby, ‘Can I ask you a few questions about your daughter?’

  Ruby was flattered. ‘Of course you can.’ It had always been her ambition to appear on television.

  Derek motioned towards Jo, and said, ‘She’ll need to thread a wire through your clothes, so watch out, Ruby, she bats for the other side.’

  Ruby was baffled.

  Jo said, ‘He’s trying to tell you that I’m a lesbian, and implying that I would like to sexually assault you.’

  Ruby looked a little fearful.

  Derek said, ‘It’s all right, Ruby, our Jo has got what they call a “same-sex life partner”, she’s not on the pull.’

  After Ruby had applied her fuchsia-pink lipstick, and a small microphone had been clipped on to the neck of her blouse, the interview began.

  Derek said, ‘We need to check for sound level. Mrs Brown-Bird, what did you have for breakfast?’

  Ruby recited, ‘Two cups of tea, cornflakes, egg, bacon, sausages, black pudding, grilled tomato, fried bread, beans, mushrooms and toast.’

  Upstairs, Eva woke from an uneasy dream. She had been running away from Michael Parkinson.

  When she was fully awake, she went into her normal routine. She shook her duvet, straightened the pillows and looked out of the window She saw a Mercedes van with East Midlands Tonight written on the side, parked opposite. She could hear voices coming from the kitchen, including her mother’s.

  She shouted, ‘Mum!’

  After a moment, she heard the kitchen door open, and footsteps in the hall.

  Her mother’s voice reached her, complaining about the stairs. ‘These bleddy things will be the death of me.’ She staggered into Eva’s room and sat down heavily on the soup chair. Why don’t you get a stair lift?’ she panted. ‘I can’t go on doing this five or six times a day.’

  Eva asked, ‘Who’s downstairs?’

  ‘Derek Plimsoll and a lesbian.’

  Eva looked blank.

  ‘Derek Plimsoll. You know the one. He’s on the telly. East Midlands Tonight. He makes a joke and taps his papers together at the end.’

  Eva nodded.

  Well, it’s him, and a lesbian. I’ve just done an interview with them.’ She touched the clip-on microphone.

  Eva said, ‘Have you won the accumulator on the Bingo?’

  ‘No, it’s about you.’

  ‘Me!’ said Eva.

  ‘Yes, you,’ said Ruby. ‘Derek Plimsoll reads the Mercury like everybody else in the country. He wants to interview you for what Derek calls “an extended slot”.’

  Eva stood up in her bed and stamped up and down on the mattress. She shouted, ‘Absolutely not! I’d rather eat my own vomit! Go downstairs and tell them I decline.’

  Ruby said, ‘And the magic word?’

  Eva yelled, ‘Please!’

  Ruby was not used to Eva shouting at her. She said, tearfully, ‘I thought you’d be happy. It’s television, Eva. It means you’re special. I can’t go down there and tell him you won’t do it. He’ll be disappointed, heartbroken even.

  ‘He’ll cope,’ said Eva.

  Ruby dragged herself out of the chair, muttering, and began her descent.

  Once Ruby was back in the kitchen, she told Derek, in a loud whisper, ‘She says no, she’s in decline, and she’d sooner eat her own sick.’ She said to Jo, We had a dog that did that … disgusting! I was glad when it died.’

  Derek’s smile slipped. ‘Ruby, I can’t leave this house without interviewing Eva. I am an extremely experienced and respected journalist. I have my professional pride. So, madam, would you please be so kind as to go back upstairs and stress to your daughter that I have interviewed every celebrity to set foot in the East Midlands. I have shadow-boxed with Muhammad Ali. I have asked Mr Nelson Mandela some penetrating questions about his terrorist past and, may God rest her soul, I have flirted with Princess Diana.’ He bent down and whispered in Ruby’s ear, ‘And, by God, did she flirt back at me. I sensed that, had she been alone without her hangers-on, we could have had a few drinks and … well, who knows what might have happened? I was game for it, she was game for it …’ His voice tailed off, and he gave Ruby a salacious wink.

  Ruby was a thrilled co-conspirator. She nodded and turned.

  Eva was waiting impatiently for the sounds of departure but could hear only her mother, talking to the staircase, saying, ‘It’s all right for you, staircase, all you have to do is stand there, it’s me that has to climb you. Yes, I know you’re creaking, but at least you’re made of wood. When I creak, it’s my poor bones you’re hearing, and it’s painful.’

  Eva was not surprised by this.

  Her mother had always talked to household objects. Eva had heard her only yesterday, saying, ‘Come on now, iron, don’t run out of steam, I’ve got three of Eva’s nighties to do yet.’

  Ruby leaned against the door jamb, trying to get her breath back.

  Eva stood on the bed, glaring down at her mother. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Why haven’t they gone?’

  Ruby hissed, ‘You can’t say no to Derek Plimsoll. He interviewed Princess Diana, when she was alive.’

  Jo was watching Ruby’s interview on the camera screen. The fuchsia lipstick made her look as though she was haemorrhaging from the mouth.

 
Ruby was saying, ‘Eva’s always been a bit strange. We thought she was retarded for years, doolally. She used to make up plays in the back garden, using the rabbit in a non-speaking part. They’d practise all day, then I’d have to go out and watch. I’d take some knitting to pass the time. The rabbit was rubbish.’

  Jo told Derek, ‘We can’t use any of Ruby’s long shots. She had her legs open, you can see her big knickers.’

  Jo was fed up. Her love of cinéma-vérité was the reason she’d studied film at Goldsmith’s, but she’d hoped to work with Mike Leigh and improvising professional actors, not the general public. They were hopelessly inarticulate and usually fell back on familiar phrases, such as ‘It was a nightmare’, ‘We were devastated’, ‘It hasn’t sunk in yet’ and — the old favourite — ‘I’m over the moon’.

  Five minutes later, when Eva still hadn’t come down, Derek said, ‘I’ve had enough of all this fart-arsing about, I’m going up. Follow me!’

  He was slightly unnerved by the prospect of what was upstairs. He’d had a few nasty surprises in the past, like the 103-year-old man who, when Derek asked for the secret of his longevity, shouted, on a live interview Wanking!’ He whistled the theme from The Exorcist as he slowly climbed the stairs.

  Jo said, ‘We’re skating on thin ice here, Derek,’ as she followed him up, filming as she went.

  When Derek reached the landing, he hissed at Ruby, ‘Get out of the way, you’re blocking the shot!’ then pushed by her, making her stagger a little.

  Jo said, ‘A nice shot of you pushing an old lady aside there, Derek.’

  Eva saw Derek Plimsoll and a woman with a camera on her shoulder coming through the door towards her. She shouted, ‘Don’t let them in, Mum! Close the door!’