The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year (31 page)

Eva wailed, ‘Barry, no!’

He said, ‘You’re too modest, Eva, people should know
what a great woman you are. You shouldn’t hide your light under a whatsit.’

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.