The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year

by Sue Townsend

  ‘She’s causing a lot of trouble, the residents are posh and there’s talk of a petition. And one of ‘em’s a solicitor, sir.’

  Sergeant Price was wary of the middle classes. He’d once been involved in a court case for slapping a youth about in the cells. How was he to know that the youth’s father was a solicitor’s clerk?

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ he said to PC Hawk. ‘The family liaison officers are both off on maternity leave. And you’re the nearest thing we’ve got to a woman.

  As PC Hawk walked towards his car, his soft cheeks blazed. He thought, ‘Yeah, I’m definitely growing a moustache as soon as my beard comes through.’

  It was an off-duty policeman called Dave Strong who found Amber. She was begging at the base of the Gherkin with a seventeen-year-old youth called Timmo, known to his parents as Timothy.

  PC Strong had acted on his intuition — he had thought it odd to see a young girl in a soiled school uniform with her hand out, beseeching indifferent office workers to, ‘Spare some change!’ accompanied by Timmo singing his desultory version of Wonderwall’.

  However, when interviewed by the press, Amber’s mother attributed her daughter’s rescue to Eva, rather than to the policeman. ‘She has special powers,’ Jade told a sceptical journalist from the Daily Telegraph. ‘She can see things that we can’t.’

  As a news item, it had everything — young love and possible underage sex in The Sun and (because Timmo had run away from his A levels) an article in the Guardian: ‘Are we pushing our young too hard?’

  The press eagerly pounced on this nugget of new Eva information. The Daily Mail, who were about to go with ‘Eva is ex-librarian’, scrapped their front page and replaced it with ‘ESP Eva finds runaway’.

  52

  At noon on Valentine’s Day, Brian and Titania came into Eva’s room.

  She could tell that both of them had been crying. She was not too alarmed — it seemed to her that British people had long ago stopped puffing themselves together, they now cried habitually in public and were applauded for it. Those who didn’t cry easily were labelled ‘anal’.

  Brian said, with a sob, ‘Mummy’s dead.’

  Eva said, when she was able to breathe, ‘Your mum or mine?’

  ‘Mine,’ he wailed.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ she thought. She said to Brian, ‘Bri, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘She was a wonderful mother,’ Brian cried.

  Titania attempted to take him in her arms, but he pushed her away and went to Eva, who felt obliged to pat his back. She thought, ‘This display from a man who “didn’t see the point” of buying his mother a birthday present, on the grounds that “she doesn’t need anything”.’

  ‘She fell off her stepladder trying to reach her emergency cigarettes,’ said Titania, her voice breaking and tears welling in her eyes.

  Eva was not to know, but the real reason that Titania was crying was because Brian had not given her a Valentine’s Day card or a box of Turkish delight, as he had every year since their affair had begun.

  Brian said, ‘Another casualty of smoking. She’s been dead for three days. What kind of society do we live in when an old lady can lie on her kitchen floor dead for three days before anybody notices?’

  Who found her?’ asked Eva.

  ‘Peter, the window cleaner,’ said Brian.

  ‘Our Peter, the window cleaner?’ said Eva.

  ‘He rang the police and they broke the door down,’ explained Titania.

  ‘Yes, and Peter can bloody well pay for a replacement door. He knows very well we keep a spare key here,’ said Brian.

  Titania said, ‘He’s in shock.’

  Brian shouted, ‘He’ll be even more shocked when I give him the bloody bill for a new uPVC triple-glazed door with a state-of-the-art mortise lock!’

  ‘No, you’re in shock,’ pressed Titania.

  ‘She was the best mother a man could have,’ said Brian, with a quivering lip.

  Eva and Titania exchanged a surreptitious smile.

  The doorbell rang.

  Titania looked at Eva in bed and Brian weeping, and said, ‘I suppose I’ll have to go.’

  When she opened the door, she received her usual reception. Shouts of ‘Adulteress!’, ‘Sinner!’, ‘Slag!’ Try as she might, she could not get used to the abuse she received whenever she was exposed to the crowd.

  A woman in a green tabard was holding a huge bouquet of mixed white flowers, wrapped in white tissue and tied with a white satin ribbon. As Titania searched through the flowers, in anticipation of finding a card addressed to herself from Brian, the post van drew up in the middle of the road.

  When the florist and the postman passed each other on the path, they exchanged sympathetic small talk.

  ‘Nightmare day!’ she said.

  He replied, ‘Nearly as bad as Christmas!’

  She said, ‘Still, I’m being took out tonight, for a slap-up meal.’

  Titania winced at ‘slap-up meal’.

  ‘Does your husband know?’ said the postman.

  Titania was amazed at the volume and duration of their laughter. They could not have been more amused had Peter Kay himself appeared at the end of the path and launched into a new routine.

  Titania found the little card. ‘To Eva, my love.’

  She yelled at the two delivery people, ‘Why do you do your fucking jobs, if you hate them so much?’

  The postman said, What’s up … nobody love you?’ He handed her a large pack of letters and cards bound in an elastic band. ‘Just before I left the depot, I seen another big sack for Eva come in. I’ll need a trolley tomorrow’

  Titania said, fiercely, ‘Valentine’s Day is yet another example of how the market commodifies socio-sexual relationships, transforming love from a state of “being” to a representation of “having”, and ultimately degrading us all. So, I’m proud that those who love me have not fallen into the “card ‘n’ chocolates’’ trap.’

  She went inside and slammed the door, but she could still hear the postman’s mocking laughter. Perhaps she should have used simpler language, but she refused to patronise uneducated people.

  Why shouldn’t they rise to her level?

  When Eva had the white bouquet thrust into her arms, she knew at once who it was from. It was written in Venus’s neat handwriting, and she deduced that Thomas had drawn the wobbly kisses on the bottom of the card.

  She said, ‘If I were in charge of Interflora, I would make it company policy that chrysanthemums were not allowed in bouquets. They smell of death.’

  Brian was slumped in the soup chair, talking about identifying his mother. ‘She looked as though she was sleeping,’ he said. ‘But she was wearing those bloody kangaroo slippers that Ruby bought her for Christmas. They’re death traps, I did warn her. It’s no wonder she fell off that stepladder.’ He looked at Eva. ‘Your mother is directly responsible for my mother’s death.’

  Eva kept quiet.

  Brian went on, ‘Rigor mortis had set in. The doctor had to prise a packet of Silk Cut from out of her dead fingers.’ He wiped his eyes with a balled-up tissue. ‘She’d made a jelly for herself, in a small pudding basin. It was still on the kitchen table. It was covered in a thin layer of dust. She would have hated that.’

  Titania said, ‘Tell Eva about the letters.’

  ‘I can’t, Tit.’ He started to sob, loudly.

  Titania said, ‘She’d written letters to herself, love letters. Like in the song, she sat right down and wrote herself a letter. And there was an envelope in her handbag, addressed to Alan Titchmarsh.’

  Brian wailed, ‘Should we put a stamp on it and post it for her? I don’t know the etiquette surrounding death and the postal system.’

  Eva said, ‘Nor do I — and personally, I don’t care if the letter to Mr Titchmarsh is posted or not.’

  Brian said, sounding a little hysterical, ‘Something has to be done with the bloody thing. Do I carry out her wishes or not?’

  Titani
a said, ‘Calm yourself, Bri. It’s not as though Alan Titchmarsh is expecting a letter from your mother.’

  Brian wept. ‘She never, ever sent me a letter. Not even to congratulate me on my doctorate.’

  Eva heard Alexander’s voice under the window, and felt huge relief. He would know what to do with the bloody, stupid Titchmarsh letter. After all, he had been to public school. She felt herself relax. Then she heard her mother’s voice. She looked out and saw Alexander supporting Ruby, who was dressed entirely in black, including a felt hat with black netting halfway down her face.

  Titania said, ‘I feel we ought to gird our loins.’

  They waited — in silence, apart from Brian’s sobs — for Ruby and Alexander to make their way upstairs. They heard Ruby asking him, Why has God punished me, by taking Yvonne away?’

  He answered, ‘Isn’t he meant to move in mysterious ways, your God?’

  As Ruby came into the room and saw Brian, she said, ‘I thought God would take me first. I’ve got a mystery lump. I could be dead in a week. A gypsy told me in the year 2000 that I wouldn’t make eighty. Ever since that day, I’ve been living on borrowed time.’

  As Brian vacated the chair for her he said, furiously, ‘Could we concentrate on my mother d’you think? After all, she is, actually, dead.’

  Ruby said, ‘It’s made me poorly, Yvonne dying like that with no warning. My lump is throbbing. Yvonne was going to take me to the doctor’s. Being as my daughter won’t get out of bed.’ Ruby touched her breast and grimaced, waiting for someone to question her.

  Alexander said, ‘Be nice, Ruby,’ as though he were talking to a recalcitrant toddler.

  Eva said, dutifully, ‘Your lump is probably a cyst, Mum. Why didn’t you tell me to my face?’

  ‘I hoped it would go away. I told Yvonne, she knew everything about me.’ She turned to Brian. ‘And she told me everything about you.’ This was an implicit threat.

  Brian said, ‘I blame you for my mother’s death. If you hadn’t bought those ludicrous kangaroo slippers, she’d be alive today.’

  Ruby shouted, ‘So, you’re blaming me for Yvonne’s passing?’

  Titania said, ‘I know I’m not strictly family, but —’

  Alexander interrupted her. ‘Titania, I think we should keep out of this.’

  A gang of teenage girls in school uniform had joined the crowd and were encouraging them to chant, ‘Eva! Eva! Eva!’ Somebody was keeping their finger on the doorbell. Eva clapped her hands over her ears.

  Ruby said, ‘And don’t expect me to answer that door. That was Yvonne’s job. I wondered where she’d been for the last three days. She liked people. Me, I can take them or leave them, but mostly leave them. Yvonne was a big help to me. I can’t deal with those people over the road on my own. There’s more every day.’

  Titania said, hurriedly, ‘I have my work. And a life to run.

  Brian stood at the end of Eva’s bed and snarled, ‘And now, as usual, we’re talking about Eva. I should have listened to my dear dead mother. She advised me to move out of this house, and reminded me that my marriage is over. So, my contribution to Eva’s care ends here. As a bereaved son, and now an orphan, please allow me to mourn for my mother.’

  Ruby ploughed on, regardless, ‘And there’s the funeral to think about. And it’s February. I could catch pneumonia. What will happen to Eva, if I’m in hospital, on oxygen?’

  Alexander said, ‘I’ll look after Eva. I’ll open the door. I’ll decide who comes in. I’ll cook, I’ll wash her linen.’

  ‘The flowers, Alexander, they are perfect,’ said Eva. ‘Thank you. But you can’t look after me, you have your own work.’

  ‘I’ve just been paid for a commission. I’ll be OK for a few weeks.’

  What about your kiddies?’ asked Ruby. ‘You can’t drag them out of their beds at night.’

  Alexander looked into Eva’s face. ‘No, we would have to live here.’

  Brian turned to Alexander. ‘My mother is dead, and you take the opportunity to move yourself and your family into my house. Do you think you’re going to live here rent free, using my electricity, my hot water, my fibre-optic broadband? Well, sorry, chummy, but there’s no room at the inn.’

  Titania said, ‘Bri, it’s awful, ghastly, dreadful beyond words, that Yvonne is dead, but it could be advantageous to all of us if Alexander was on hand.’

  Ruby said, ‘In Blackpool, that gypsy, she said there’d be a tall dark man.’

  Brian finally lost his temper. What in God’s holy name are you blathering about? My mother is dead! Will you just shut your bloody trap, woman! As to your earlier lamentation, I too wonder why my loving, unselfish mother was taken and you — with your fatuous observations and antediluvian brain — were left behind!’

  Ruby cried, ‘I didn’t murder your main!’ and threw her hands up to cover her face.

  Eva shouted, ‘Don’t call my mother stupid! She can’t help how she is!’ She felt so enraged that she began to shuffle on her knees towards Brian, who was sitting at the end of the bed.

  There was a loud cheer and some screaming when the crowd saw her pass the window for the first time in several days.

  Eva felt a rage build up and then burst out of her body, transforming itself into words of anger and recrimination. ‘You lied to me every day for eight years! You told me that you finished work at six thirty every evening because of your passion for your moon project. But your real passion was for Titania Noble-Forester! I always wondered why you were so exhausted and ravenous, and able to eat a three-course meal.’

  Titania yelled at Brian, ‘So, that’s the reason you would never take me for dinner, is it? You couldn’t wait to get home to wifey’s prawn cocktail, pork chop and plum duff!’

  Brian said, quietly, ‘I have never stopped loving my wife. I thought it was possible to love two women. Well, three women, including my poor mother.’

  ‘You’ve never said that you loved me before,’ said Titania, her rage dispersed. She spoke into Brian’s ear. ‘Oh wow! That is such an aphrodisiac. Why don’t we have some “us” time, Squirrel? C’mon, we’ll go to the shed.’

  The doorbell rang as though a mad person were desperate to gain entry to the house.

  After a few moments, when nobody moved, Alexander looked at Brian and asked, ‘Shall I go?’

  Brian snapped, ‘Please your bloody self.’

  Alexander asked, ‘Eva, shall I?’

  She nodded. He was a good man to have around when there was a maniac at the door.

  He gave her an ironic salute and went to answer it.

  Titania passed the package of letters she was holding to Eva. ‘Half of it’s junk, the rest are all for you.’ She led Brian by the hand, as if he were a small child.

  Eva said, ‘Squirrel?’

  She looked at the package of letters with dismay. They were mostly addressed to ‘The Woman in Bed, Leicester’. A few from the United States said, ‘To the Angel in Bed, England’. One from Malaysia said, simply, ‘Eva UK’. After the first three, Eva pushed the bundle away.

  Each letter contained pain and false expectation.

  She could not help people, and the weight of their suffering was too much for her to bear.

  She often distracted herself by compiling lists inside her head, and now she stared at the white wall until her eyes were out of focus, and waited for a topic to emerge. Today it was pain.

  Worst pain

  1. Giving birth to twins

  2. Falling from high branch on to concrete

  3. Fingers slammed in car door

  4. Ulcerated milk ducts

  5. Falling into bonfire

  6. Bitten by pig at Farm Park

  7. Tooth abscess on Bank Holiday

  8. Trapped by wheel — Brian reversing car

  9. Drawing pin in knee

  10. Sea urchins in feet, Majorca

  53

  There was pain of a different sort the next day, when Brian Junior emailed Eva via Alexander’s
phone. Alexander printed it out using a complicated chain of Wi-Fi devices, and brought it up to her with a cup of real coffee.

  Mother, I do not find it agreeable to speak on the phone, and shall not do so again. In future, I may occasionally communicate with you by use of electronic means or even risk the vagaries of the postal system.

  ‘Pretentious little shit,’ said Eva. ‘Who does he think he is — Anthony Trollope?’

  She continued to read her son’s message.

  I hear from my father that my paternal grandmother is dead. It would be hypocritical of me to affect sadness, since I feel indifferent to her fate. She was a foolish old woman, as was proved by the farcical manner of her dying. However, I shall attend her funeral on Thursday. (I cannot speak for Brianne, she has a tutorial on that day with visiting God-tier professor Shing-Tung Yau. It is rare for a first-year undergraduate to be so honoured. Although I fear he will be less than ecstatic when he hears what she has to say about Calabi-Yau manifolds.)

  Eva broke off. ‘I pity the poor man. Do you know, Alexander, I don’t understand my children at all. I never have.’

  Alexander assured her, ‘Eva, none of us know our children. Because they are not us.’

  She turned back to the email with less enthusiasm.

  Since we won’t be meeting at the graveside, you may be interested to know that my paper proving that the Bohnenblust-Hille inequality for homogeneous polynomials is hyper conductive has been accepted by Annals of Mathematics for possible publication in the September issue, and that I have been offered a scholarship to St John’s College, Oxford. However, I may turn the latter down. It is hardly Cambridge, and my present location is agreeable to me. There is a café nearby that provides a full English breakfast at a price I can afford. This sustains me throughout the day. Then all I require in the late evening is a little bread and a lump of Edam cheese.