The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year

  What about Paracetamol?’ said Barry.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Eva, ‘but if you don’t die, you could poison your liver and suffer an agonising death a fortnight later. Or have your kidneys fail and end up on dialysis. Four hours a day, five times a week, with your own blood going round in plastic tubes in front of you.’

  Barry said, ‘Sounds easier to live.’ He gave a humourless laugh.

  Brian Junior said, morosely, ‘I could cave your head in with this cricket bat.’

  Barry laughed again. ‘No, I think I’ll leave it, thank you.’

  Eva said, ‘You might as well live, Barry. What’s the second worry on your list?’

  ‘How to make some real friends,’ said Barry.

  Eva asked, ‘Do you smoke?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, it’s a disgusting habit.’

  ‘You should take it up, and then you could join all the little groups standing outside their pubs and clubs. You’d be part of a despised minority, with a great sense of solidarity. You’d soon make friends. And you wouldn’t actually have to smoke the fags, just light them and hold them between your fingers.’

  Barry looked dubious.

  Eva said, ‘Don’t like that idea?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Eva snapped, ‘OK, so buy a dog.’

  Brian Junior said, ‘Have you got a computer, dude?’

  Barry was thrilled to be called ‘dude’. It had never happened to him before. ‘Yeah, I gotta laptop, but I only use it for DVD s.’

  Brian Junior was scandalised. ‘Don’t tell me that! It’s like only putting a toe in the water instead of swimming There’s another world, Barry. And I’m not talking about the deep web. Even a beginner can access amazing things, things that will change your life. There are millions of dudes like you online, you could connect with them. A couple of days and you’d have an entirely different perspective on your life. There are people out there who want to be your friend.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start,’ Barry said. ‘I’ve got the book that came with the computer, but it’s all a load of gobbledegook to me.’

  Brian Junior encouraged him, ‘It’s easy! You just press a few keys, and there it is — the internet, the world, laid out in front of you.’

  ‘Which keys?’

  Brian Junior was growing tired of Barry’s obduracy. ‘I can give you some guidance, a few sites, but don’t ask me to get involved with any of that emo suicide crap. I’d help you, man, but I’m so bored with hearing the same story. Fat, bad teeth, no friends, no girl at the prom. The end.’

  Barry ran his tongue over his derelict teeth.

  Eva said to Barry, ‘Ignore Brian Junior and his sister, they live in a very small world called the internet, where cynicism is the norm and cruelty has taken the place of humour.’

  Brian Junior agreed, ‘It’s undeniably true.’

  Eva said, ‘I can give you some practical advice, if you want it.’

  Barry nodded. ‘I’ll take anything that’s going.’

  When you’re in the bath,’ said Eva, ‘wash and rinse your hair properly and use a conditioner. And go to a barber’s and ask for a modern cut. And your clothes … don’t wear such childish colours. You’re not a presenter on kids’ TV.’

  Barry was leaning forward with his mouth slightly open, listening carefully.

  Eva continued, ‘Find a good NHS dentist and get those teeth fixed. And when you talk to women, remember that conversation is like ping pong. You say something, she says something. Then you respond to something she’s just said, then she bats it back. You ask her a question. She replies. Do you get the idea?’

  Barry nodded.

  ‘Get a good twenty-four-hour deodorant. And smile, Barry, show her those new teeth.’

  Barry said, ‘I should be writing this down.’

  Brian Junior was enjoying his role as an IT guru. ‘No need. There are websites for shut-ins. There’s a sort of guidebook for losers. Lots of useful information. For instance, it tells you how to walk down the street without scaring people: no direct eye contact with approaching women, and never walk behind a woman at night. Food: don’t choose spaghetti on a first date. Clothes: what colour socks to wear with brown shoes. Never wear grey shoes at any time. And stuff about sex, and so on.’

  Barry half smiled. ‘I’d better go home and chuck all my grey shoes out then.’

  Eva checked, ‘So, you’re not going to the railway line?’

  ‘No, I’m knackered. I’m gonna go home and get some sleep.’

  Brian Junior said, ‘The best website is basementdwellers dot org. It’s got an American bias, but ignore all the stuff about how to behave at a baseball game.’

  Barry admitted, ‘I’m not much good at reading, but I’ll give it a go. Thank you.’ He got to his feet and said to Eva, ‘I’m sorry for turning up like that. Can I come back at a proper time?’

  ‘Yes, we want to know how you get on, don’t we, Brian Junior?’

  Brian Junior said, ‘I have very little human curiosity, Barry, so I’m not especially bothered, but I know my mother would appreciate another fleeting visit. Perhaps when your teeth are fixed? I’ll show you downstairs, give you some internet basics and the web address.’

  At the door, Barry turned and flashed a smile at Eva. His mouth looked like the Colosseum without the cats.

  For a few minutes, there was a low mumbling from the hallway. When she heard the door slam, Eva moved to the window and waved Barry off.

  He started the engine, then did a three-point turn … and another … and another.

  She realised eventually that Barry was doing the taxi drivers’ equivalent of a victory roll.

  43

  The snow had disrupted the country. Transport and services, including postal deliveries, were erratic.

  At six thirty in the evening, a week later, a postcard from Alexander was pushed through the letter box, together with junk mail and bills. Brian took the post and sorted through it at the kitchen table. On one side of the postcard was a hand-painted watercolour snow scene of the Thames, with Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament.

  Brian turned the card over and read:

  Dear Eva,

  I am going crazy in my mother-in-law’s house, she insists we all start the day at 7 a.m., and that we are in bed by 9p.m. ‘to save on the electric’.

  I have sold four pictures since I’ve been here. Although my mother-in-law thinks that ‘daubing a bit of paint on paper is no way for a man to make a living’.

  We’re back in Leicester next week. I think about you every day.

  Brian looked at the small painting on the postcard and made a camel-like noise. It didn’t look much like the Houses of Parliament to him. And since when had the Thames been blue and spilled over on to the Embankment like that? He considered Impressionism to be cheating, in any case.

  He threw the postcard into the ‘miscellaneous’ drawer of the kitchen dresser, then turned back to the tray he was preparing for Eva. It held a plate of cheese sandwiches, an apple, an orange and half a packet of digestive biscuits.

  He filled a flask with hot tea, then took the tray upstairs to Eva, and said, ‘That will keep you going until I get back. Why the fuck did they have to go to Leeds? We’ve got two fine universities on our bloody doorstep. I can see them when I’m shaving!’

  There was silence in the car. Poppy was playing the penitent.

  Brian said to her, after a few miles, ‘You’re not your usual chatterbox self, Poppy.’

  Poppy said, quietly, ‘No, I’ve been meditating. I’m trying to find out who I am, Brian. I have individuation issues.’

  The twins sniggered.

  Brianne said, from the back seat, ‘I know exactly who you are, Poppy. Would you like me to tell you?’

  Poppy said, meekly, ‘No, but thank you, Brianne.’

  Brianne sat back in her seat, enjoying the moment.

  Brian Junior said, ‘I can’t take any more of this tension. It’s
not only that you’re a dangerous driver, Dad, it’s the knowledge that we all have this bitter internal monologue running inside our heads. Can we put some music on, please?’

  Brian said, ‘I’ll take criticism of my driving when you’ve been behind the wheel a good few years, son. And I’m still hopeful that we can forget Christmas and move forward. Why don’t we have an interesting conversation? I’ve chosen a few topics — would you like to hear them?’

  Poppy said, ‘Yes,’ while the twins said, ‘No,’ at the same time.

  Brian said, ‘OK, how about youth unemployment?’

  Nobody responded.

  ‘The euro?’

  Again, nobody responded.

  ‘All right, something for you young people. Which would kill you faster — a shark or a lion?’

  Brian Junior said, ‘A shark. By a fifteen-second leeway.’

  Brianne said, ‘How about, how long have you been shagging Titania? Let’s talk about that.’

  Brian said, ‘You’re not a man, Brianne. You wouldn’t understand.’

  Brian Junior stated blankly, ‘I’m a man, and I don’t understand.’

  ‘You’re a boy,’ said Brian. ‘And, Brian Junior, I suspect you’ll be a boy for the rest of your life.’

  ‘That’s an incredibly hurtful thing to say,’ observed Brian Junior, ‘especially coming from a man who sometimes wears a baseball cap backwards.’

  Brianne added, ‘Who listens to Rice Krispies after the milk has been poured, and sings a little song, “Snap Crackle and Pop”.’

  Poppy said, in her breathy voice, ‘I never met a more mature man in my life. I wish that I’d had you for a father, Brian.’ She placed her hand on top of Brian’s, which was resting on the gearstick.

  Brian made no move to free himself from her little hand. When he changed gear, he took Poppy’s with him.

  Brianne asked, ‘How can you prefer Titania to Mum? Mum is still beautiful. And she’s kind, and interested in people. Titania looks like the contents of a specimen jar, and she’s not kind, Dad. She calls Alexander “Magnum Man” behind his back. She says he’s dark brown and chocolatey on the outside, white ice cream in the middle.’

  Brian laughed and said, ‘You must admit, Brianne, that he does sound and behave like minor royalty by way of Scarborough, Tobago.’

  Brianne shouted, ‘He was adopted by an English couple who sent him to Charterhouse. He can’t help the way he speaks!’

  Brian was trying to move a juggernaut into the middle lane by the use of his lights and tailgating. He shouted over the crashing of gears, ‘Methinks she doth protest too much. You sound as though you’ve got quite a crush on him.’

  ‘It’s more than a crush. I love him.’

  Brian lost concentration on the road, and had to jerk on the steering wheel to bring the car back into line. He said, ‘He’s thirty-two years older than you, Brianne!’

  She said, ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You’ll care when you’re wiping his ancient arse, and his teeth are in a glass by the side of your bed. Does he return your love, Brianne?’

  Brianne looked out of the window through the snow at the halo of tail lights ahead. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ repeated Brian, ‘because you’re an infatuated stupid teenager. You’re just a kid.’

  Brian Junior leaned forward until his mouth was very near to Brian’s ear and said, quietly, ‘And you’re a hypocrite. You’re eighteen years older than Titania.’

  Brian gesticulated despairingly as he roared, ‘Do you think I don’t know that? For years I was terrified that she’d leave me for a younger man.’

  The car swayed from side to side.

  Poppy removed her hand from Brian’s and squealed, ‘Please, put both hands back on the steering wheel!’

  Brian Junior said, ‘I want to know when exactly you fell out of love with Mum. I want to know how long you’ve been lying to our family.’

  ‘I haven’t fallen of out of love with your mum. Adults’ lives are complicated.’ After a long silence, Brian continued, ‘We should have stuck to “The Euro — Fight or Flight?” It does nobody any good to pick at old scabs.’

  Brianne said, ‘I love picking at scabs. It’s so satisfying when they come away and you see the fresh skin beneath.’

  Brian exploded, ‘All right! You’re both so fucking mature! I’ll tell you exactly how it was with me and Titania! Ask me anything you like!’

  The twins were silent.

  Poppy said, ‘Was it wonderfully romantic? Did you fall for her at first sight?’

  ‘It was more of a slow burn. I was impressed with her intelligence, and her brilliant research. She was like a terrier, clinging on to what she knew to be right. She made herself unpopular, but not with me.’

  The twins exchanged a mocking glance.

  Poppy said, ‘How did you first get together?’

  Brian smiled in the dark. ‘One night in the University Library, amongst the Philosophy stacks …

  ‘In the library?’ Brianne was horrified. ‘That’s where Mum worked! That is gross!’

  Brian said, ‘Couldn’t do it now, bloody CCTV cameras everywhere.’

  Brian Junior asked, ‘When was this?’

  ‘It was around about the time of the Columbia disaster.’

  ‘So, you’ve been having an affair with Titania since 2003?’

  ‘The disaster hit me hard, son. I was in a very vulnerable state. Your mother didn’t seem to understand my distress. But Titania was there, equally upset. It was Columbia that brought us together. We found solace in each other.’

  Brian Junior said, ‘Yeah, but it didn’t take you eight years to get over a failed shuttle re-entry, did it?’

  Brian turned to look at his son. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I admit it. There was passion there, and physics. I was the unstoppable force, and Titania was the immovable object.’

  The driver of a dangerously close Scandinavian articulated lorry sounded his klaxon. Brian braked so hard that Poppy immediately thought of whiplash and a possible claim for damages.

  When they were calm again, Brian Junior said, ‘So, first we discover that you’re an adulterer, and now we realise that you are intellectually bankrupt. The analogy you used, your supposed gravitational force, could only have issued from the mouth of an intellectual pygmy. Your pop-science analogy is misapplied and your faulty logic is as dangerous as your driving. Millions have died because of so-called scientists like you.’

  ‘Go, Bri,’ said Brianne.

  The ensuing argument developed quickly and raged back and forth, reaching towering peaks of misunderstanding, until eventually father and son found themselves on a scientific plateau, discussing six-dimensional space.

  Poppy was bored. To pass the interminable time (they were only at the junction for East Midlands Airport, for God’s sake) she allowed herself a fantasy, imagining herself as Brian’s child bride. Standing at the altar, she would look spectacular in her white lace next to his bulky, bearded self. She would make him sell the house, with Eva in it, finish with prune-face Titania and buy a loft apartment in the middle of town. She would charm his faculty into realising his ambition of a full professorship. She would insist that he fork out £3 50 to have his hair and beard trimmed by Nicky Clarke. After fitting him out with a casual academic uniform (corduroy trousers, suede brogues, soft tweed jacket, horn-rimmed spectacles), she would act as his agent, get him television work, and they would eventually move in celebrity circles. She had always wanted to meet Katie Price and the Dalai Lama. She would insist on Brian having a vasectomy. She would charge him for sex, and later — when he was frail, or starting to lose his marbles — she would put him into a home. Although there was always the possibility of a mercy killing. She would wear deep black at the trial, and a modest little hat. She would clutch a white linen handkerchief and occasionally dab her eyes. When the foreman of the jury pronounced, ‘Not Guilty,’ she would faint very prettily in the dock. By the time they reached the Ikea turn
-off, she had married, reconstructed and buried Brian.

  He drove on, oblivious to his fate.

  Poppy came out of her reverie to interrupt Brian Junior, who was droning on about something she could not and did not want to understand.

  ‘It’s obvious to me that your father was deeply in love with Titania. She must have been beautiful then. Was she, Brian?’

  Brian hesitated. ‘Not beautiful, not even pretty. And I wouldn’t have called her handsome either. But she understood my passion for my subject. If I arrived home late, Eva showed no curiosity in what I’d been doing. She would barely look up from her sodding embroidery.

  Yes, if the world was about to end, there she’d be … stitch, stitch, stitch.’

  Brianne said, sadly, ‘All those lies, Dad, for all those years.

  Poppy shifted round in her seat to face Brian. Her Shantung silk skirt fell away. Brian caught a glimpse of her pale-green French knickers.

  They travelled a mile in silence.

  Brian said, ‘Time for music.’

  He pushed a button on the CD player and the Nelson Riddle Orchestra filled the car. This was torture for his children, but it became worse when Brian and Poppy started to sing along with Sinatra to ‘Strangers In The Night’. Brian sang with a pseudo-American accent, and Poppy’s falsetto was painfully out of tune.

  The twins put their fingers down their throats and clapped their noise-cancelling headphones firmly on to their ears. By the time the car passed the sign for the Leeds turn-off, Brian and Poppy were serenading each other with ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’.

  As soon as Brian had dropped them outside Sentinel Towers, the twins headed towards the lift, to put their Christmas presents from their family on eBay — the second-hand iPad is were laughably out of date and irrelevant to their needs. The iPads lay at the bottom of a black plastic bag together with the scarf Ruby had knitted for Brian Junior and the Tony Blair autobiography, inscribed on the title page: ‘To Brianne, Happy Christmas from Grandma Yvonne’.

  But Poppy lingered and tried to convey by the use of her eyes that Brian was the most fascinating man she’d ever known and that she could not bear to drag herself away from him.