The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year (21 page)

Eva swung round in the bed and lay down with her
head flat on the mattress. She said, ‘He exhausts me. Poor Titania.’

They both laughed.

As Mr Crossley turned away from the light, still
laughing, Eva saw for herself the shadow of a handsome man.

He said, ‘I must go now, Mrs Beaver.’

She pleaded, ‘Please come and join us tomorrow I
plan to get drunk in the afternoon and smoke many cigarettes.’

He said, ‘That sounds quite irresistible. Of course
I’ll come.

When he opened the door to leave, Brian was skulking
on the landing.

After Stanley had politely informed Brian that he
would be coming for Christmas Day, Brian followed him downstairs, hissing, ‘You
hold my wife’s hand again and I’ll have it off at the wrist.’

Stanley said quietly, ‘I know your sort. We had one
or two in the squadron. Big mouths, braggarts. They were always the last in a
scramble, always the first to come home. Hadn’t engaged with the enemy, but did
have a lot of bad luck with sudden and mysterious lack of visibility, radio
malfunction and guns jamming. Cheated at cards, rough with their women and
all-round total shits. Goodnight, Dr Beaver.’

Before Brian could think of a reply, Stanley had put
his hat on and left.

The icy pavement shone in the lamplight. He held on
to the walls and fences as he slowly made his way to the safety of his own
house.

33

Early
on Christmas Day morning Eva woke and looked out of the window to see snow
falling from a navy-blue sky. The house was silent. But when she listened carefully,
she heard the hot water circulating around pipes and radiators, and the faint
creaking of the floorboards as they made the slightest of contractions and expansions.
There was an intermittent bird noise emanating from the eaves. The bird was not
singing but making an irritated squawk: ‘Clack-ack-ack.’

Eva opened the sash window and craned her neck
backwards, looking for the bird. Snow settled on her upturned face before
melting instantaneously. She saw a blackbird with a yellow beak and one gimlet
eye. The other eye had gone, revealing a bloody socket.

The blackbird flapped its wings and attempted to
fly, crying, ‘Clack-ack-ack.’ One wing was distorted and would not retract.

Eva said, ‘What’s happened to you?’

Brian Junior came in, running his fingers through
his hair. ‘That blackbird has a very annoying alarm call.’

Eva said, ‘It’s lost an eye and has a damaged wing.
What shall we do?’

Brian Junior said,
‘You
do nothing and
I
do
nothing. If it’s badly injured, it will die.’

Eva objected, ‘There must be something —’

‘Close the window, snow is falling on your bed.’

She closed the window and said, ‘Perhaps if I
brought it inside?’

Brian Junior shouted, ‘No! Life is hard! Nature is
cruel! The strong overpower the weak! Everything dies! Even you, Mum, with your
gigantic ego, even you can’t escape death!’

Eva was too shocked to speak.

Brian Junior said, ‘Happy Christmas!’

Eva said, ‘Happy Christmas.’

When he’d gone, she pulled the duvet around her
while the blackbird continued its mournful cry.

‘Clack-ack-ack.’

Brian
had prepared for cooking his first Christmas dinner by studying the various
timings and advice in the cookery books he had bought Eva over the years. She
always referred to them as ‘Delia’, ‘Jamie’, ‘Rick’, ‘Nigel’, ‘Keith’, ‘Nigella’
or ‘Marguerite’.

After extensive reading he had designed a ‘fail-safe’
computer program, which he intended to follow with a stopwatch in one hand and
various implements in the other — for beating, basting, paring, cutting,
draining, stirring, peeling, mashing, opening, pouring and blending. He had
told his guests to arrive at 12.45 p.m. for drinks and the exchange of
pleasantries. He wanted them seated at the dining table no later than 1.10 p.m.
for the starter of avocado and lavender soufflé.

He was sorry that Poppy had gone to Dundee to see her
dying parents. He had hoped to impress her even further with his culinary
achievements over Christmas. She had left the night before, wearing Brian’s
fifty per cent cashmere overcoat, taking only a small bag and leaving the rest
of her mess all over the sitting room. It had taken Brian an hour before the
room was presentable enough to use over Christmas.

At mid-morning Brianne came into Eva’s room wearing
the silk pyjamas with a tea-rose print that Eva had paid for and Alexander had
ordered online from his phone. The whole process had taken under five minutes.

Brianne had done something good with her hair, and
her face looked less severe.

She said, ‘These are the loveliest pyjamas! I don’t
want to take them off!’

‘Alexander chose them,’ said Eva.

‘I know. Isn’t he the nicest man?’

‘You should thank him when you see him.’

‘I already have. He’s outside with his kids. I
invited them for dinner. Aren’t they the cutest kids ever, Mum?’

Eva was surprised but pleased that Alexander was
here. She said,
‘Cutest?’
That’s not a word you use.’

‘But they
are
cute, Mum. And they’re so
clever!
They know
reams
of poetry and all the capital cities of the world.
Alex is so proud of them. And I love his name —Alexander. He really is
Alexander the Great, isn’t he, Mum?’

Eva agreed. ‘Yes — but Alexander is forty-nine years
of age, Brianne.’

‘Forty-nine? That’s the new thirty!’

‘You once ranted that nobody over twenty-five should
be allowed to wear jeans, or dance in public.’

‘But Alex looks so good in jeans, and he did A level
maths, Mum! He understands nonhomogeneous equations!’

‘I can tell you’re fond of him,’ said Eva.

‘Fond?’ said Brianne. ‘I’m fond of Grandma Ruby, I’m
fond of whiskers on kittens and bright copper kettles, but I’m passionately in
fucking
love
with Alex Tate!’

Eva said, ‘Please! Don’t
swear.’

‘You’re such a fucking hypocrite!’ yelled Brianne. ‘You
swear! And you’re trying to spoil my relationship with Alex!’

‘There’s nothing to spoil. You’re not Juliet. This
is not a Montague and Capulet situation. Does Alex even know you love him?’

Brianne said, defiantly, ‘Yes, he does.’

‘And?’

Brianne lowered her eyes. ‘He doesn’t love me, of
course. He hasn’t had time to get to know me. But when I saw him struggling
with that bookcase in Leeds, I knew immediately that he was the person I’ve
been waiting for since I was a kid. I always wondered who it would be. Then he
knocked on my door.’

Eva tried to hold Brianne’s hand, but she pulled it
away and put it behind her back.

Eva asked, ‘And he was kind to you?’

‘I rang him three times on his mobile when he was on
the motorway. He told me to go out more and meet people of my own age.’

Eva said, gently, ‘He is right, Brianne. His hair is
grey. He has more in common with me than with you. We’ve both got Morrissey’s
second solo album.’

Brianne said, ‘I know that. I know everything there
is to know about him. I know his wife died in a car crash and that he was
driving. I know that Tate was his family’s slave name. I know how much he
earned in the noughties. And I know how much tax he paid. And which school his
children go to, and what their grades are. I know his previous romantic
history. I know he’s overdrawn by £77.1 5 and that he doesn’t have an agreed
overdraft facility.’

‘And he told you all this?’

‘No, I’ve hardly spoken to him. I doxed him.’

What’s “doxed”?’

‘It’s like talking to Neanderthal woman! I’ve read
every document about him. If there’s info I want, I can find it on the net. I’ve
mapped the story of his life, and one day I’ll be part of it.’

‘But, Brianne, don’t forget his children. You don’t
like
children, remember?’

Brianne screamed, ‘I like
his
children!’

Eva had never seen her in such an emotional state.
She heard Brian Junior’s bedroom door open, and seconds later he crashed into
her room.

‘I can hear you slagging my sister off, Mum. Why don’t
you butt out and leave us alone?’

The twins drew together, as they must have done in
her womb.

She was glad when they went out, but she had never felt
more alone. She heard them talking in Brian Junior’s bedroom. Their voices were
low and insistent, as though they were conspirators plotting a political
outrage.

Brian’s
hand-held computer had fallen into the turkey gravy. He tried to pick it up
with a pair of tongs but it fell back into the pan, splashing drops of boiling
gravy on to his face. He screamed and splashed his face under the cold tap. He
tried again with the tongs, and this time he managed to lift it out. He threw
it into the already crowded sink. As he had expected, the screen had died.

Brian panicked.

What came next?

For how much longer should the turkey cook?

What time should he turn on the sprouts?

Should he take the Christmas pudding out of the
steamer?

Was the bread sauce thick enough?

Where was the potato masher?

Ignoring the noises coming from the kitchen, including
the faint screams and curses, Ruby and Yvonne lay back on comfortable armchairs
in the sitting room, in front of a log fire, and reminisced about the many
Christmas dinners they had cooked over the years.

Without the benefit of a computer,’ said Ruby. ‘Or a
husband who would cook,’ said Yvonne.

Outside,
Alexander was walking alongside his children in the middle of Bowling Green
Road, watching out for cars. The pavements were still icy with flattened snow.

He was helping Venus to ride a new bicycle with
stabilisers. Thomas was pushing a doll’s pram with a stuffed giraffe propped
up against a pink pillow Alexander wondered if he had gone too far with the
gender politics.

Stanley Crossley slammed his front door as they were
passing his house. After congratulating the children on their Christmas
presents, he said, ‘I hope I’m not too early.’

Alexander laughed and said, We may be eating a
little later than was planned.’

‘It’s of no matter to me,’ said Stanley.

Outside the Beavers’ house, Thomas told Stanley that
the giraffe’s name was Paul.

The old man remarked, ‘That’s an entirely suitable
name for a giraffe.’

Venus stared at Stanley and asked, ‘Does your face
hurt?’

‘Not now,’ he said. ‘But it looks horrible, doesn’t
it?’

‘Yes,’ said Venus. ‘If I was you, I would cover it
in a mask.’

Stanley laughed, but Alexander was embarrassed and
tried to apologise.

Stanley said forcefully, ‘That’s the child’s honest
reaction. She’ll soon get used to me.’

Hearing the voices outside, Eva pushed the sash up
and poked her head out. ‘Merry Christmas!’ she shouted.

They all looked up at the window and shouted, ‘Merry
Christmas!’ back.

Alexander thought, ‘She looks beautiful — even with
her mad hair on end.’

Stanley thought, ‘If Tiny Tim came hobbling round
the corner now, one would not be surprised.’

They
eventually sat down to dinner at 5.15 p.m. Brianne managed to secure a chair
opposite Alexander.

Parts of the meal were quite edible.

Ruby said, after clearing her plate, ‘There were
only a few things that let you down, Brian. Your roast potatoes were not
crispy, they had no rustle to them, and the gravy had a funny taste.’

Yvonne said, ‘Plasticky.’

Brian Junior corrected her, ‘No, metallic.’

Stanley said, ‘I thought the turkey itself was quite
superb. Many congratulations, Dr Beaver.’

Brian was exhausted. He had never been through such
a physical and intellectual ordeal. Behind the closed kitchen door he had, in
turn, wept, cursed, screamed, fallen into despair, and laughed hysterically as
he struggled to serve everything together at the same time and keep it all
hot. But he had heroically managed to get the thirteen main components of the
meal into serving dishes and on to the table. Crackers had been pulled, paper
hats worn and jokes groaned over.

Ruby congratulated Alexander on the polite behaviour
of his children.

Venus said, ‘Daddy told us he would give us ten
pounds if we were good.’

Alexander laughed and shook his head.