Eva thought, ‘Thank you, Titania. I’m truly grateful. I’ll never have to go through that weekly ordeal again.
Why are you walking backwards, Brian?’ she laughed. ‘You look as if you’ve just laid a wreath at the Cenotaph.’
The answer to Eva’s question was that Brian no longer felt safe to turn his back on her. She was no longer the compliant woman he had married, and he feared her mockery — her two fingers gesturing behind his back. He couldn’t allow that, especially not after his recent humiliation at work when Mrs Hordern, the cleaner, had discovered Titania and himself engaged in a sex act involving a model of the Large Hadron Collider.
Brian said, ‘I’m glad you find it amusing. Haven’t you noticed that my health is suffering? And, unbearably, my paper on Olympus Mons has been discredited by Professor Lichtenstein. I’m on the edge, Eva.’
‘You look all right to me. Energetic, virile … positively brimming with testosterone.’
Brian looked at his wife. ‘Virile? I’m exhausted. Why does housework take up so much time?’
Eva said, ‘It’s not the housework that’s exhausting you.’
They stared at each other.
Eventually, Brian dropped his gaze and said, ‘I’ve hardly been in the sheds.’ He carried on aggressively, ‘But I’m going now. The ironing can wait.’ He stamped down the stairs and went out of the back door.
The house had an unusually large garden. The original owner, a Mr Tobias Harold Eddison, had taken advantage of his immediate neighbours’ post-World War One financial difficulties and, over time, had induced them to sell small parcels of land — until he had enough to plant a small orchard, build a large ornamental fish pond and, unusual for the times, a children’s tree house.
Brian’s sheds were at the very bottom of the garden, shielded by a row of holly trees which bore a heavy crop of red berries in the winter months.
Over the years Brian had built a model of the solar system in his original shed, using reinforced drinking straws, ping-pong balls and further assorted spherical objects, such as the fruit he had bought from Leicester market and which had been given many coats of varnish until they were rock hard. Jupiter had been a problem — but then, Jupiter’s huge dimensions were always a problem. He had tried using a modified Space Hopper, cutting off the horns, applying increasingly stronger patches, but Jupiter continued losing atmospheric pressure — or, as the ordinary bloke in the street called it, air.
Brian’s three-dimensional interpretation had been slowly superseded by a network of computers and projection screens that attempted to model the visible universe, but he often looked back fondly to those nights when he had painted his planets to the accompaniment of Radio 4.
At the Space Centre he was one of the masters of the banks of mainframe computers and the encrypted information they held. But the sheds were where his heart was. As the known universe expanded, so did Brian’s mother shed, which was now connected to three slightly smaller sheds. Brian had built doorways and corridors and laid an electricity cable from the house. And four years ago, after complaints from Titania that she had hurt her back after making love on a computer desk, Brian had bought two massive floor cushions — pink for her, blue for him. These had also been superseded by a standard double bed, smuggled into the shed complex when Eva was at work.
The original shed had a retractable roof, which allowed his home-built telescope to scan the night skies. There had been complaints from the neighbours — the ratcheting noise that the roof made when it was opening or closing ‘could be annoying’, Brian had conceded, as could the grinding of the gears as the instrument slewed across the sky. But didn’t ‘those intellectual pygmies’ understand? They were rubbing shoulders with Brian Beaver, a true space explorer. There was nothing on the earth left to find — not when remote South American primitives were smoking Marlboro Lights.
Brian wanted something named after him, and any old star wouldn’t do. After all, you could name one for f 50 and give the certificate to your wife for Christmas. Brian had given Eva such a certificate on her fortieth birthday. She hadn’t looked as thrilled as he had hoped —especially when he told her that Eva Beaver, the star, more usually known as SAO 101276, had died 380 million years ago and that it was only the ghostly light that could be seen from the earth.
No, Brian wanted something truly remarkable to bear his name, something that would bring him respect from the worldwide astronomical community. When he was a little boy of ten, he had watched some of the Nobel Prize awards ceremony on television with his mother.
She had said, ‘If you work hard at your science, Brian, you could win the Nobel Prize. That would make Mummy very happy.’
Brian had taught himself to say, in Swedish, ‘I could not have discovered [blank] without the backing of my mother, Yvonne Beaver.’
Swedish was a very difficult language. He wasn’t sure about his pronunciation, and was unable to check. Real Swedish people were thin on the ground in Leicester in those days.
Brian had worked so hard at school that he had alienated his fellow pupils, but he soared academically. Now, in late middle age, he had hit the ground and come to the cruel realisation that he was no longer especially gifted, was one of many clever scientists whose name the public would never know, and that he had been a fool to imagine that he could ever win the Nobel Prize.
He went to his sheds every night at eight thirty and every weekend afternoon.
Brianne had once said to Eva, ‘For years I thought Dad was going to a place called Inished.’
Only recently — without Eva’s knowledge — Brian had knocked two of the smaller sheds through and installed a new, supremely comfortable king-sized bed, two armchairs, a fridge and a small dining table, making a compact but stylish garden flat.
Titania often joined him, unlocking the garden gate that led on to the jitty at the back of the house, and tiptoeing through the open door of one of the sheds. The twins and Eva knew never to disturb him when the red light went on above the mother-shed doors and he was ‘working’.
Now Eva lay awake in the dark.
‘Working,’ she said to herself. ‘All those hours, all those years, and he chose to spend them with a stranger called Titania.’
10
Brian Junior was waiting outside the seminar room where Professor Nikitanova was due to meet her new students.
Brianne had just said, ‘Butch up, our kid. Promise me you won’t run away when I’ve gone.’
Brian Junior said, ‘Our kid? Why are you talking like a Coronation Street actor?’
Brianne said, lowering her voice and turning away from the other students, ‘Bri, we’ve got to normalise. Use a few more colloquialisms. You know? Like “cool.”, “random”, “chill out”, “dude”, “you guys”, “devastated”, “amazing”, “sick’, …’
Brian Junior nodded.
When Brianne tried to leave for her own tutor meeting, he grabbed the leather sleeve of her jacket and said, ‘Brianne, stay with me, my hands and feet have gone numb. I think I may have compromised my nervous system and suffered permanent neurological damage.’
Brianne was used to this manifestation of Brian Junior’s anxiety when faced with a new experience. She said, ‘Do your primes, Bri, and try to relax.’
There was a confusion of noise and people at the end of the corridor. Professor Nikitanova strode towards her students on peacock-blue five-inch heels, followed by the Vice Chancellor and her team of teaching assistants.
Brianne took in the bouncy blonde hair, the black jumpsuit, the scarlet mouth from which hung a forbidden lighted cigarette, and marvelled. She had met the rest of the Astrophysics faculty. It was headed by Professor Partridge, a man in a cardigan his wife had knitted with hair belonging to various family pets.
Nikitanova gave Brian Junior the keys and, while he fumbled at the lock, she said, ‘Darling, slow down! Two years we have together, unless I tire of you.
She laughed, and Brian Junior remembered the internet rumour — tha
t Nikitanova’s husband was a cultured oligarch who had ex-KGB Special Forces operatives guarding his brilliant, beautiful and good-natured wife. The operatives knew that should anything — anything —untoward happen to her, then they would die screaming (but grateful that their ordeal would soon be over).
Later that night, Brian was lying on his bed trying to find a solution to a problem Nikitanova had given her group —’To give exercise to the brains’ — when somebody rapped on the door.
It was Poppy.
She started talking before she was even in the room. ‘I can’t sleep, so I’ve come to dialogue with you … sweet Jesus, it’s hot in here?’
She was wearing a winceyette nightgown, similar to the one traditionally worn by the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. To Brian Junior’s alarm she dipped down, took hold of the hem in both hands, peeled the nightgown off and threw it into a corner.
The only naked women Brian Junior had seen before were in pornographic magazines and internet videos, and the bodies in these were the colour of lightly roasted chicken and devoid of body hair, so it was a shock to see the wild black thatch of hair between her sinewy white thighs and the tufts under her arms.
Brian Junior sat on the side of his bed and began to run through the potentially infinite list of prime numbers in his head:
2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, 71, 73, 79, 83, 89, 97, 101, 103, 107, 109, 113, 127, 131, 137 …
Poppy’s breasts were thin and pendulous as she roamed around the tiny room, moving his toiletries and the equipment on his desk.
Brian Junior could not think of a single word to say. He wanted to climb back into bed and go to sleep. He felt that something very terrible lay ahead.
She came and sat cross-legged on the floor at his feet. ‘You’re a virgin, aren’t you, my darling?’
Brian Junior scooted to the end of the bed and began to straighten the desk, lining up pens, pencils and high-lighters. Alongside his laptop and notebooks his hand moved over a transparent box of paper clips, wondering where to place them satisfactorily. He tipped them out of their box and started to group the paper clips together in lines of ten.
Poppy crawled up to him, wrapped her arms around his legs and began to cry. ‘I loved you the moment I saw your face.’
Brian Junior was left with a single paper clip. This was bad. One paper clip could not be allowed to exist. It did not fit in with the groups. It grabbed all the attention — it was selfish, thinking only of itself. Brian Junior looked at his face in the mirror above the desk. He knew he was unusually handsome. It was very annoying He also knew that Poppy had stolen and misquoted her declaration of love from a song by Roberta Flack. It was one of his mother’s favourites. She had sung it to him and Brianne when they were little kids.
He looked down at her and said, ‘Ewan MacColl composed it in 1957. Roberta Flack recorded it in 1972. Coldcut used the Joanna Law a cappella in 70 Minutes of Madness. Mixed with Luke Slater and Harold Budd.’
Poppy wondered when he would stop going on and on about the stupid record.
He looked down at her again and said, with some animation, ‘It’s the greatest mix tape ever made.’
Eventually, she lifted her head, took his hand and placed it over her left breast. She looked into his face and said, ‘My love, it’s like the beating throat of a cag-ed bird.’
Brian Junior was repulsed and quickly removed his hand. Some of her hair was stuck to the snot above her top lip. He could not bear to look at it. He took the strands and tucked them behind her left ear.
She said, ‘I think our joy will fill the earth and last till the end of time.’
Brian Junior said, ‘I know it won’t.’
Poppy asked, ‘What won’t?’
Brian Junior said, ‘Our joy. We have no joy to fill the earth and last till the end of time. In addition, both of these things are impossibilities. Joy cannot fill the earth. And neither can joy last till the end of time. Since time can never end.’
Poppy mimed an extravagant yawn.
He wanted to ask her to leave but didn’t know how He did not want to hurt or offend her, but he was desperate for escape and sleep. He got up, extricated himself from her and picked up her nightgown. It was cold and damp.
He handed it to her and said, ‘I want to show you something.’
Poppy stopped crying.
He held out a hand, pulled her to her feet and indicated the rows of paper clips, then picked up the single one and said, ‘Where would you place this?’
She stared down at the paper clips, then back up at his face. And then, in a voice he had not heard before, she said, ‘I’d stick it up your fucking arse!’
She let herself out into the corridor, still naked.
Brian heard her banging on the door of the next room where Ho, the Chinese boy, lived. Brian had exchanged a nervous smile with Ho that first afternoon, when they were unpacking their food into the large fridge and their allocated cupboards. Now he heard him open the door, then he heard Poppy sobbing.
He went back to bed but couldn’t sleep. He had the single paper clip in his hand and he twisted it into a tiny spear. He knew that, unless he placed it somewhere, he would be awake until daybreak.
He opened the window as far as it would go and flicked the twisted paper clip into the cold night. Before he closed the window he looked up at the clear sky, where hundreds of stars were shining down on him. He looked away quickly — before he had time to start identifying them, or could think too deeply about the billions that remained invisible.
Brian Junior woke at dawn, feeling agitated. He got out of bed and went outside to look for the paper clip. It didn’t take long to find it. When he came to the main door, he couldn’t get back inside. He had forgotten his key, as he had done at least twice a week since he was thirteen.
He sat on the cold concrete doorstep, and waited.
It was Ho who let him in and volunteered the information that he had been sent down by Poppy to buy breakfast for her. A double latte and an Early Bird Breakfast. Then, from the newsagent, twenty Silk Cut, Hello! and The Sun. I make joke with Poppy. I say to her, “Cannot buy Sun.”. She say, “Why not?” Then — this is my joke — I say, “Nobody can buy Sun, it too far away and too hot!”‘
Ho’s round face beamed.
He was delighted with his joke, until they heard Poppy shouting through the crack in Ho’s window, ‘Yo! Ho! Get a fucking move on!’
Ho let Brian Junior into the building, then broke into a run as he headed for the shops.
11
After Eva had been in bed for a week, Ruby sent for Dr Bridges.
Eva could hear her mother talking to the doctor as they ascended the stairs.
‘She’s very highly strung. Her dad used to say that you could play a violin concerto on her nerve endings. My legs are very bad, Doctor. The veins on my inner thighs look like a bunch of purple grapes. Perhaps you could have a quick gander at them before you go?’
Eva didn’t know whether to lie down or sit up. She was anxious that Dr Bridges would think she was wasting his time.
‘Here’s the doctor. You walked through the snow when she was ten and had meningitis, didn’t you, Dr Bridges?’
Eva could see that Dr Bridges had tired of Ruby’s imagined intimacy years ago. She sat up and hugged a pillow in front of her chest.
Dr Bridges loomed over her. With his tweed cap and Barbour jacket, he looked more like a gentleman farmer than a GP. He said, in his booming voice, ‘Good morning. Your mother tells me that you have been in bed for a week, is that right?’
Eva said, ‘Yes.’
Ruby sat on the side of the bed and held Eva’s hand. ‘She’s always been a healthy girl, Doctor. I breastfed her for two and a half years. She ruined my poor boobies. They look like them balloons what have lost most of their air.’
Dr Bridges examined Ruby with a professional eye. An overactive thyroid,’ he thought, ‘and a red face —probably a drinker. And
that black hair! Who does she think she’s fooling?’ He said to Eva, ‘I’d like to take a look at you.’ Then he turned to Ruby. ‘Would you mind leaving the room?’
Ruby was hurt and disappointed. She was looking forward to giving the doctor the details of Eva’s medical history. She reluctantly went out on to the landing. ‘There’ll be a cup of tea waiting for you when you’re done, Doctor.’
Dr Bridges turned his attention back to Eva. ‘Your mother tells me there is nothing wrong with you …’ He paused and added, ‘Physically.’ Then he continued, ‘I looked at your notes just now and I see that you haven’t consulted me for fifteen years. Can you explain to me why you’ve been in bed for a week?’
‘No, I can’t explain,’ Eva said. ‘I’m tired — but everybody I know is tired.’
‘How long have you felt like this?’ the doctor asked.
‘For seventeen years. Ever since the twins were born.’
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘the twins. They’re both gifted children, aren’t they?’
Ruby said from the landing, ‘You should see my front room, it’s full of the lovely maths trophies they’ve won.’
This came as no surprise to the doctor, who had always thought that the Beaver twins belonged somewhere on the autistic spectrum. However, Dr Bridges was a firm non-interventionist. If his patents were uncomplaining, he left them alone.
Ruby, who was now pretending to dust the banisters while looking through the gap in the door, said, ‘My blood pressure’s terrible. The last time I had it took the black doctor at the hospital said he’d never seen anything like it — it’s lower than a centipede’s arse. He took a photo of the result with his phone.’ She pushed the door open and continued, ‘Sorry, but I’ve got to sit down.’ She swayed towards the bed. ‘It’s a miracle I’m still here. I’ve died two or three times.’
Eva said irritably, ‘So, how many times is it you’ve died? Two or three? You shouldn’t be so casual about your own death, Mum.’