The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year Page 3

  She would not be chopping vegetables and browning meat for a casserole. She would not be baking bread and cakes because Brian preferred the home-made to the shop bought. She would not be cutting grass.’ weeding.’ planting and sweeping paths or collecting leaves in the garden. She would not be painting the new fence with creosote. She would not be chopping wood to light the real log fire that Brian sat next to after he came home from work in the winter months. She would not be brushing her hair, showering or hurriedly applying make-up.

  Today she would not be doing any of those things.

  She would not be worrying that her clothes were uncoordinated, because she could not see the time when she would be wearing clothes again. She would only be wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown for the foreseeable future.

  She would rely on other people to feed her, wash her and buy her food. She didn’t know who these people were but she believed that most people were longing to demonstrate their innate goodness.

  She knew she wouldn’t be bored — she had a great deal to think about.

  She hurried to the lavatory, washed her face and under her arms, but it felt wrong to be out of bed. She thought that with her feet on the floor she would easily be lured downstairs by her own sense of duty. Perhaps in future she would ask her mother for a bucket. She remembered the porcelain potty under her grandmother’s sagging bed — as a child, it had been Ruby’s job to empty the contents early every morning.

  Eva lay back on the pillows and quickly fell asleep.’ only to be woken by Brian asking, What have you done with my clean shirts?’

  Eva said, ‘I gave them to a passing washerwoman. She’s going to take them to a babbling brook she knows and pummel them on the stones. She’ll have them back by Friday.’

  Brian, who had not been listening, shouted, ‘Friday! That’s no good to me! I need one now!’

  Eva turned over to face the window. A few golden leaves were spiralling down from the sycamore outside. She said, ‘You don’t have to wear a shirt. It’s not a condition of your employment. Professor Brady dresses as if he was in The Rolling Stones.’

  ‘It’s bloody embarrassing.” said Brian. ‘We had a delegation from NASA last week. Every last one of them was in a blazer, collar and tie, and they were shown round by Brady in his creaking leather trousers, Yoda T-shirt and down-at-heel cowboy boots! On his salary! All the bloody cosmologists are the same. And when they’re together in the one room, it looks like a meeting in a drug rehabilitation unit! I’m telling you, Eva, if it wasn’t for we astronomers they’d be dead in the water!’

  Eva turned back to him and said, ‘Wear your navy polo shirt, your chinos and your brown brogues.’ She wanted him out of her room. She would ask her uneducated mother to show Dr Brian Beaver BSc, MSc, D Phil (Oxon) how to manipulate the simple dials on the washing machine.

  Before Brian left the room she asked him, ‘Do you think there is a God, Brian?’

  He was sitting on the bed, tying his shoelaces. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got religion, Eva. It always ends in tears. According to Steve Hawking’s latest book, God’s not fit for purpose. He’s a character in a fairy tale.’

  ‘Then why do so many millions of people believe in him?’

  ‘Look, Eva, the stats are against it. Something can actually come from nothing. Heisenbergian uncertainty allows a bubble of space—time to inflate out of nowhere…’ He paused. ‘But I admit the particle side is … difficult. The string theory supersymmetry boys really need to find the Higgs boson. And the wave function collapse is always a problem.’

  Eva nodded, and said, ‘I see. Thank you.’

  He groomed his beard with Eva’s comb and said, ‘So, how long do you intend to stay in bed?’

  ‘Where does the universe end?’ asked Eva.

  Brian fiddled with his beard, twirling the scraggy end between his fingers. ‘Can you tell me why you want to retreat from the world, Eva?’

  ‘I don’t know how to live in it,’ she said. ‘I can’t even work the remote. I preferred it when there were three channels and all you had to do was go duh, duh, duh.’

  She stabbed at the imaginary knobs on the imaginary television.

  ‘So, you’re going to loll about in bed because you can’t work the remote?’

  Eva muttered, ‘I can’t work the new oven stroke grill stroke microwave either. And I can’t work out how much we’re paying EON per quarter on our electricity bill. Do we owe them money, Brian, or do they owe us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. He took her hand and said, ‘I’ll see you tonight. By the way, is sex off the menu?’

  5

  ‘I don’t sleep with Steve no more,’ said Julie. ‘He’s in the box room with his PlayStation and The Best of Guns and Roses.’

  ‘Don’t you miss him? Physically?’ asked Eva.

  ‘No, we still have sex! Downstairs, after the kids have gone to bed. We used to have to fit it in during the adverts — you know how much I love my soaps — but now we can just Sky Plus. Something had to be done, after I missed the bit where Phil Mitchell took heroin for the first time. So, why are you still in bed?’

  ‘I like it here,’ said Eva. She liked Julie but she already wanted her to go.

  Julie said, ‘My hair’s falling out.’

  ‘It’s not cancer?’

  Julie laughed. ‘It’s the stress of work. There’s a new manager, a woman called Mrs Damson. God knows where she’s from. She’s one of them managers what expect you to work the full eight hours. When Bernard was the manager, we hardly did no work. We’d go in at eight o’clock, I’d put the kettle on, then me and the other girls would sit around in the staffroom having a laugh until the customers started banging on the door to be let in. Sometimes, for a laugh, we’d pretend not to hear them and we wouldn’t open the door until half past nine. Yeah, Bernard were lovely to work for. Shame he’s gone. It weren’t his fault our branch never made a profit. The customers just stopped coming.’

  Eva closed her eyes, feigning sleep, but Julie continued.

  ‘Mrs Damson had only been there three days when I broke out in one of my rashes.’ She pushed the sleeve of her jumper up past her elbow and shoved her bare arm in front of Eva. ‘Look, I’m covered in it.’

  Eva said, ‘I can’t see anything.’

  Julie pushed her sleeve down. ‘It’s fading now’ She got up and walked about the bedroom. She picked up the bottle of Olay Regenerist, which promised to rejuvenate the skin, gave a little laugh and replaced it on the dressing table.

  ‘You’re having a breakdown,’ she said.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘It’s the first symptom — when I went doolally after Scott was born, I stayed in bed for five days. Steve had to fly back to his rig. I was worried about him in the helicopter, they’re always crashing, Eva. I wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink, didn’t wash my face. I just cried and cried. I wanted a girl so bad. I’d already got four boys.’

  ‘So, you’d got a reason for feeling depressed.’

  Julie continued, ignoring Eva, ‘I was so sure. I’d only got pink clothes. When I took him out in his pram, people would look in and say, “She’s gorgeous, what’s her name?”. I’d say Amelia because that’s the name I would have given my little girl. Do you think that’s why our Scott is gay?’

  ‘He’s only five,’ said Eva. ‘He’s far too young to be anything.’

  ‘I bought him a little china tea service the other week. Teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, two cups and saucers, little miniature spoons, very pretty, everything covered in pink roses. He played all day with it, as well — until Steve came home and kicked it over.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Then he cried and cried.’

  ‘Scott?’ asked Eva.

  ‘No, Steve! Keep up.’

  What did Scott do?’ said Eva.

  ‘Same as he always does when there’s trouble in the house. He goes to my wardrobe and strokes my clothes.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit —’

  ‘A bit what?’ s
aid Julie.

  ‘A bit weird?’

  ‘Is it?’

  Eva nodded.

  Julie sat her large bulk on Eva’s bed. ‘To be honest, Eva, I’ve somehow lost my way with my boys. They’re not bad lads but I don’t know what to do with ‘em all. They’re so noisy and rough with each other. The noise they make when they’re running up the stairs, the way they eat and argue over the remote, their horrible boys’ clothes, the state of their fingernails. Me and Steve are thinking about trying for a girl again, next time he’s got shore leave. What do you think?’

  Eva said, ‘No, I forbid it!’

  Both women were surprised at Eva’s vehement tone.

  Eva looked out of the window and saw a boy climbing the sycamore in her front garden. Nodding towards the window, she said casually, ‘Isn’t that one of your boys trying to climb our tree?’

  Julie looked out of the window, then ran to open it. She yelled, ‘Scott! Get down, you’ll break your bleddy neck!’

  Eva said, ‘He’s a boy, Julie. Put his tea set away.’

  ‘Yeah, I am going to try for a girl.’

  As she was walking down the stairs, Julie thought, ‘Wish it was me in that bed.’

  6

  Brianne glanced at her watch. It was 1 1.35 a.m. She had been awake since 5.30 a.m., thanks to Poppy’s chronic need for attention.

  Poppy had been on Brianne’s phone for nearly an hour to somebody called Marcus.

  Brianne thought, ‘She’s wearing my charm bracelet and using my phone and I haven’t got the guts to ask —no, demand— them back.’

  Poppy said, into the phone, ‘So, you won’t lend me a measly hundred quid? You’re such a tight bastard.’ She shook the phone, then threw it down on the narrow bed. ‘The fucking credit’s gone!’ she said angrily, looking at Brianne as if it were her fault.

  Brianne said, ‘I was supposed to ring Mum.’ Poppy said, ‘You’re lucky to have a mum. I’ve got nobody.’ She put on a ‘funny’ cockney accent. ‘Oh, poor Poppy, she’s all alone in the world. She ain’t got nobody to love ‘er.’

  Brianne forced herself to smile.

  Poppy declared, in her normal voice, ‘I’m a good actress. It was a toss-up between coming here and going to RADA. To be honest, I don’t like the look of the students here. They’re so utterly provincial. And I’m dreading starting American Studies — you don’t even get to visit America. I’m thinking of changing to what you’re doing. What is it again?’

  ‘Astrophysics,’ said Brianne.

  There was a gentle knocking on the door. Brianne opened it. Brian Junior stood in the doorway. ‘Sultry’ was the word to describe Brian’s early morning appearance. His lids were heavy and his bedhair was seductively tousled.

  Poppy shouted, ‘Hi, Bri! What have you been doing in your room all this time, you dirty boy?’

  Brian Junior blushed and said, ‘I’ll come back later… when…’

  ‘No,’ said Brianne, ‘tell me now.

  Brian Junior said, ‘It’s nothing much, but Dad rang and said that after we’d gone Mum went to bed wearing all her clothes, even her shoes, and she’s still there.’

  Poppy said, ‘I’ve often worn shoes in bed. There’s not a man alive that doesn’t like to see a woman in stilettos.’ She elbowed her way past the twins, into the corridor and knocked on the next door along where Ho Lin — a Chinese boy studying medicine — lived. When he came to the door wearing his blue and white striped English pyjamas, Poppy said, ‘An emergency, darling! Can I use your phone?’ She pushed in and closed the door.

  Brianne and Brian Junior looked at each other. Neither of them wanted to say what a monster Poppy was, and admit that she had singlehandedly made their first taste of freedom miserable. They had been brought up to think that if you didn’t speak it aloud, it didn’t exist. Their mother was a reticent woman who had passed her reticence on to them.

  Brianne said, ‘That’s what happens to women when they get to be fifty. It’s called the men-o-pause.’

  ‘So, what do they do?’ Brian Junior asked.

  ‘Oh, they go mad, shoplift, stab their husbands, go to bed for three days… that kind of thing.’

  Brian Junior said, ‘Poor Mum. We’ll phone her after the Freshers’ Fair.’

  When they got to the Students Union, they headed straight for the Mathematics Club. They pushed through the crowds of drunken students, and eventually stood in front of a trestle table covered in large laminated photocopied equations.

  A youth wearing a tight knitted hat gasped and said, ‘Jesus Christ, you’re the Beaver twins! Huge respect. You two dudes are awesome! No, no, you’re legends. A gold medal each at the IMO.’ He looked at Brian Junior and said, ‘And the Special Prize. Mega respect. ‘A solution of outstanding elegance.” Can you talk me through it? It would be an honour.’

  Brian Junior said, ‘Well, yes, if you’ve got a spare two hours.’

  The youth in the hat said, ‘Listen, any time, anywhere. A tutorial from Brian Beaver Junior would look sooperb on my CV. Let me get a pen?’

  A small crowd of onlookers had gathered around Brian Junior and Brianne. Word had spread that the Beaver twins were in the hall. As Brian Junior recited from memory the proof he had conjured up from nowhere — the examining professors had never even imagined it as an answer — he heard Brianne say, ‘Oh shit!’

  Poppy had stolen up behind them. She shouted, ‘Found you!’ Then, playfully wagging a finger at them both, said, ‘You really must get into the habit of letting me know where you’re going After all, you are my best friends.’ She was wearing an old taffeta evening dress over a black polo neck. She turned to the youth in the hat and said, ‘May I join, please? Although I’m a bear of very little brain, I might give your serious little group a bit of badly needed glam. And I wouldn’t disturb you in your calculations. I would sit at the back and keep my pretty mouth shut until I’m up to speed?’

  Brian Junior temporarily forgotten, the student handed Poppy an application form with an eager smile.

  7

  Eva regretted the day that Marks & Spencer had introduced elastane pyjamas for men. They did not flatter the middle-aged body. Brian’s genitals looked like a small bag of spanners through the unforgiving material.

  After three nights’ troubled sleep, Brian had pleaded to be allowed to return to the marital bed, citing his bad back.

  Eva reluctantly gave in.

  Brian went through his pre-bed routine, as he always had: gargling and spitting in the bathroom, winding the alarm clock, turning the shipping forecast on, hunting in each corner of the room and under the bed for spiders with a child’s fishing net he kept inside the wardrobe, switching what he called ‘the big light’ off, opening the small window, then sitting on the side of the bed and removing his slippers, always the left one first.

  Eva couldn’t remember when Brian had turned into a middle-aged man. Perhaps it was when he had started to make a noise as he got up from a chair.

  Normally he would talk about his day in monotonous detail, about people she had never met, but tonight he was silent. When he got into bed, he lay so close to the edge that Eva was reminded of a man teetering on the edge of a snake pit.

  She said, ‘Goodnight, Brian,’ in her normal voice.

  He said, out of the darkness, ‘I don’t know what to say when people ask me why you’ve taken to your bed. It’s embarrassing for me. I can’t concentrate at work. And I’ve got my mother and your mother asking questions I can’t answer. And I’m used to knowing the answers — I’m a Doctor of Astronomy, for fuck’s sake. And Planetary Science.’

  Eva said, ‘You’ve never once answered me properly when I ask you if God exists.’

  Brian threw his head back and shouted, ‘For God’s sake! Use your own bloody brain!’

  Eva said, ‘I haven’t used my brain for so long, the poor thing is huddled in a corner, waiting to be fed.’

  ‘You’re constantly mixing up the concept of heaven with the bloody cosmo
s! And if your mother asks me one more time to read her stars… I have explained the difference between an astronomer and an astrologer a million fucking times!’ He jumped out of bed, stubbed his toe on the bedside cabinet, screamed and limped out of the room. She heard the door to Brian Junior’s room slam.

  Eva fumbled in the cupboard of her bedside table, where she kept her most precious things, and pulled out her school exercise books. She had kept them clean and safe for over thirty years. As she leafed through them the moonlight shone on the golden stars she had won for her excellent work.

  She had been a very clever girl whose essays were always read aloud in class, and she was told by her teachers that with hard study and a grant she might even get to university. But she had been needed to go to work and bring in a wage. And how could Ruby afford to buy a grammar school uniform from a specialist shop on a widow’s pension?