The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year (19 page)

Poppy sat up and said weakly, ‘I love the snow, don’t
you, Dr Beaver?’

Brian said, ‘Please, call me Brian. It’s certainly a
fascinating substance. Did you know, Poppy, that no two snowflakes are the
same?’

Poppy gasped, though she had known this about
snowflakes since she was at infants school. ‘So, each is unique?’ she said,
with wonderment in her voice.

Brian recalled, ‘The twins played snowflakes in
their first nativity play. The imbecilic teacher had made them
identical
costumes.
Nobody else in the audience noticed, but I did. It spoiled the whole thing for
me.’

Poppy said, ‘I was always Mary.’

Brian looked at her intently. ‘Yes, I can see why
you were chosen.’

‘Do you mean you can tell that I’m the chosen one?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Brian.

Poppy reached forward, took Brian’s hand off the
steering wheel and kissed it. She manoeuvred herself into the front of the car,
over the gearstick, and sat on his lap. She said in her little-girl voice, ‘Are
you my new daddy?’

Brian remembered the last time Titania had sat on
his knee. She’d put on weight recently and the experience had been rather
painful. Now he wanted to push Poppy Into the passenger seat, before his todger
came to life, but she had her arms around his neck and was stroking his beard
and calling him ‘Daddy’.

He found all of this to be irresistible. He did
things that were, as everyone said these days, ‘completely Inappropriate’. And
he was flattered to think that such a lovely young innocent girl could be
attracted to a 55-year-old fool like himself.

He wondered if Titania would be waiting for him in
the shed. Perhaps the snow had prevented her from making her usual journey — he
hoped not, because he needed a woman tonight.

When
the blizzard had abated, and it was a mere snowstorm, Brian and Poppy got out
of the car and walked to the house.

Eva saw them arrive at the gate.

Brian was beaming, and Poppy was whispering something
in his ear.

Eva knocked so fiercely on the window that one of
the panes broke. Snow rushed in like water through a dyke, then melted slowly
in the heat.

30

The
next morning, Eva was sitting cross-legged on the bed as Alexander replaced the
broken glass, squeezing putty around the pane like she used to squeeze pastry
around the edge of a pie to make a fluted pattern.

She said, ‘Is there anything you can’t do?’

‘I can’t play the saxophone, I don’t know the rules
of croquet, I can’t remember my wife’s face. My navigation is crap. I can’t
pole-vault, and I’m hopeless at fist-fighting.’

Eva admitted, ‘I can’t tune a digital radio. I gave
up after a day with my smartphone. On my computer the Microsoft wouldn’t engage
with the internet, and neither could I. I couldn’t watch a film on an iPad —
and why should I, when there’s a cinema half a mile away? I should have been
born a hundred years ago. I can’t download on my MP3 machine. Why do people
keep buying me these gadgets? I’d be happier with a simple radio, a television
with knobs on the front, a Dansette record player and a phone like we had when
I was a child. Something important that stood on the hall table. It rang so
loudly that we could hear it all over the house and garden. And it only rang
when there was something important to say. Somebody was ill. An arrangement had
to be changed. Or the person who had been ill had died. People ring now to say
that they’ve arrived in McDonald’s and are about to order a cheeseburger and
fries.’

Alexander laughed. ‘You’re a technophobe like me,
Eva. We’re happier with a simpler way of life. I should go back to Tobago.’

Eva said, vehemently, ‘No! You can’t!’

He laughed again. ‘Take it easy, Eva. I’m going nowhere.
It costs a lot of money to have a slower pace of life, and I had my one shot at
that.’

She asked, ‘Do you ever talk about your wife?’

‘No. Never. If the kids ask, I lie and say she’s
gone to heaven. My children believe that she is up there in the arms of Jesus,
and I ain’t gonna disabuse them of that comforting picture.’

‘Was your wife beautiful?’ Eva said, quietly.

‘No, not beautiful. Pretty, elegant — and she looked
after herself. Her clothes were always good, she had her own style. Other women
were a bit afraid of her. She never wore a tracksuit, didn’t own a pair of
trainers. She didn’t do casual.’

Eva glanced at her ragged nails and slid them under
the duvet.

The door opened abruptly, and Brianne said, ‘Oh,
Alex, I didn’t know you were here. Would you like a cup of tea, or a drink
perhaps? It is nearly Christmas, after all.’

‘Thank you, but I have to work and drive.’

Eva said, ‘I’d love a cup of tea.’

Brianne’s expression changed when she looked at her
mother. Well, I am busy, but I’ll try to bring you one up.’

There were a few moments of awkwardness between the
three of them.

Brianne said to Alexander, ‘Bye then. See you downstairs?’

He said, ‘Maybe,’ and turned back to the window ‘I’ll
make you a cup of tea, Eva, when I’ve finished this.’

There
was an uneasy atmosphere in the house over the next week.

There were silences and whisperings and slammed
doors. The women circled around each other. Eva tried to interest them in
decorating the house and stringing up the fairy lights, and they would agree
with her that it should be done — however, nobody actually did anything.

Poppy had made her base in the sitting room. She had
commandeered every item of furniture for her possessions and clothes, so the
Beavers had taken to sitting in the kitchen. Whenever Brian and Poppy met
accidentally in the house, they managed to touch each other briefly, and both
enjoyed the conspiracy. Brian particularly relished the contact — especially
on the nights when Titania was waiting for him in the shed.

On
the evening of the 19th of December, Brian asked Eva, What are we doing for
Christmas?’

Eva said, ‘I’ll be doing nothing at all.’

Brian was shocked. ‘So, you’re expecting
me
to
do
Christmas?’
He rose from the soup chair and walked up and down the
room, looking like a prisoner on Death Row waiting for the dawn.

Eva forced herself to stay silent as Brian faced the
awful fact that he might have to be responsible for Christmas, the Becher’s
Brook of family festivals. Many good women, and a few men, have fallen due to
the weight of expectation that rests on their shoulders.

‘I don’t even know where you
keep
Christmas,’
he said, as though in previous years Eva had deposited Christmas inside a
locked container at an out-of-town storage depot, and all she had to do was
pick Christmas up and take it home before December the 25th.

‘Do you want me to tell you how to do Christmas,
Brian?’

‘I suppose so.’

Eva advised him, ‘You may want to take notes.’

Brian took out of his pocket the little black
notebook with moleskin covers that Eva had bought for him as compensation for
fading his motorcycle exam. (He had argued with the examiner over the precise
meaning of the phrase ‘full throttle’.) He unclipped his fountain pen (a school
prize) and waited.

‘OK,’ said Eva. ‘I’m going to talk you through. Stop
me at any time.’

Brian sat back down in the soup chair with his pen
poised above his notebook.

Eva took a breath and started.

‘You’ll find the Christmas card list in the bureau
in the sitting room, together with stamps and unused cards. Write them tonight,
before you go to bed. After work tomorrow, drive around garden centres and
garage forecourts looking at Christmas trees. In your mind’s eye you are
seeing a perfect tree, lushly green and aromatic, rounded at the bottom and
rising in ever-decreasing circles until topped with a single branch. However,
there are no such trees. You drive around all week and fail to find one. At
nine p.m. the day before Christmas Eve, just as Homebase is closing, you will
panic and push through the doors and snatch at the nearest tree. Do not be too
disappointed when you end up with a tree a social worker would describe as “fading
to thrive”.’

Brian said, ‘For Christ’s
sake,
Eva, stick to
the bloody
list!’

Eva closed her eyes and tried to discipline herself
to keep to the bare facts of how she had prepared for Christmas 2010.

‘Tree decorations in box marked “TD”. Fairy lights
for tree in box marked “FLFT”. Fairy lights for sitting room, kitchen, dining
room, hall stairs, outdoor porch in box named “FL General”.
Do not
throw
horrible papier-mâché bells or similar cack-handed ornaments away. Brian Junior
and Brianne made them in infants school before they fully discovered maths. NB
— box of extension leads and multiple plug sockets in box marked “Christmas
Electricals”. Note — spare bulbs for FLs in here. All boxes to be found in
attic next to wooden giraffe. Stepladder in cellar. Buy firelighters, kindling
and logs from Farm Shop in Charnwood Forest. Pick three bags of coal up from BP
garage. Buy candles for candlesticks — open bracket, check widths, close
bracket.

‘Drive into countryside for mistletoe, ivy, pine
cones, branches and seed heads. Dry out on radiators. Buy silver and gold
spray paint. Spray dried-out foliage, et cetera. Clear out fridge — use
disparate leftovers to make strange little meals, flavours disguised by chilli
flakes and garlic. Go to local butcher, order a turkey. Watch him laugh in your
face. Go to supermarket, try to order a turkey. Leave to the sound of laughter
from the poultry department. Buy ten tins of Quality Street for fifty quid.
Queue for an hour and ten minutes to pay for them. Decide how much to spend on
distant or near relations, trawl round shops, ignore present list and make
ludicrous impulse buys. Arrive home, unload presents, immediately suffer from
buyer’s remorse. Take everything back the following day and buy twenty-seven
pairs of red fleece socks with reindeer motif. Go online, order latest
technical must—have gadget for Brian and twins, find that there are none left
in the country, go to Currys and get told by youth that a container ship has
just docked at Harwich and lorry is due to deliver on 23rd December. Ask if you
can order three of the latest must-haves. Currys youth advises you to join
queue at five thirty a.m. as this will be your only chance.’

Brian said, ‘Eva, that was last Christmas! I need to
focus on this year! Half of your advice is redundant!’

But Eva was reliving the nightmare of Christmas
2010. ‘Go late-night shopping for Christmas outfit for self, to prevent row
like last year’s when Brian said, “Eva, you can’t wear jeans on Christmas day.”
Make impulse buy of red sequinned cardigan and black lace skirt. In Marks, buy
twins pyjamas and dressing gowns, ditto Brian. In food hall, buy ingredients
for Christmas dinner for six, plus cakes, biscuits, flans, mince pies, sliced
bread for sandwiches, salmon, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera —Brian
interjected, panicking now, ‘How can one person possibly deal with all those
different components?’

But Eva couldn’t stop.

‘Poultry supervisor says must queue from four a.m.
to guarantee getting a turkey. Stagger outside with bags, cannot find car, ring
police to report stolen car, then remember just before police arrive that came
by taxi, ring taxi firm for return journey, harassed-sounding man says, “Not a
chance, we’re fully booked for office parties.” Ring friends, they have all had
a drink, ring relatives, Ruby says, “It’s eleven thirty. How can I help? I
haven’t got a car.” Phone runs out of battery, hurl it in temper into prickly
car-park bush. Calm down and search for phone. Find phone but scratched and bleeding
from search. Eventually husband reports you missing, police say they will keep
an eye out, patrol car delivers you home at one thirty a.m. Snatch two hours’
sleep before driving car to Marks & Spencer to join queue. At four a.m.
nineteenth in queue. Dressed turkey’s gone, no choice but to buy undressed
turkey with head, neck and claws attached. Its eyes stare at you with
unbearable sadness, you apologise to it — in your mind, you think. Actually,
you have spoken aloud, and people around you think you are a madwoman because
you said, “I’m so sorry, turkey, that you had to be murdered for the sake of
tradition.”‘

Brian gave a deep sigh and said, ‘Eva, Eva, Eva.’

‘Are about to drive home when remember have to queue
for latest device. Drive to Currys to find queue already snaking round car
park. To join it or not — that is the question. While try to decide, fall
asleep at wheel of car causing very slight damage to Renault in front of you.
Renault driver reacts badly, as though you have injured his children and killed
his dog Swap insurance details then realise insurance out of date. Decide to
join queue and suffer the unbearable tension of wondering if Currys will run
out of devices before you reach the front door. Manage to get to counter before
must-have gadgets sell out. Try to pay, card rejected by machine, given lecture
by twelve-year-old cashier who says, “If you keep it loose in your bag, it’s
bound to get scratched. Why didn’t you keep it in the cardholder compartment in
your purse?” Tell child that I will be as disorganised as I want to be. She
says, “Do you have another card?” Say, ‘Yes,” and forage inside bra cups,
searching for other card. Give it to cashier who says card is warm, won’t work
until is cold. We wait and wait. People in queue behind protest loudly at
delay. Shout at queue, queue shouts back, supervisor brings tray of mini mince
pies to placate cold and tired customers. Man chokes on raisin inside mince
pie. Eventually, card is cool enough to insert into machine and is declined for
purchase of must-have gadgets.’