The Woman who Went to Bed for a Year

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?’