The Woman who Went to Bed for a Year

of her own knitting needles! Went straight through her heart. The question is who’s going to run the shop? Simon can’t do it in his condition. Anyway, funeral’s a week on Thursday. I shall wear black. I know it’s the trend to dress like clowns nowadays, but I’m too old to change now So, anyway… Oh, I hate these answering whatsits. I never know what to say!’

Eva imagined a Down’s Syndrome boy running a wool shop. And then wondered why the boy and his friends had an extra chromosome? Did we normal people lack a chromosome? Had nature miscalculated her ratios? Were the narrow-eyed kindly souls with their short tongues and ability to fall in and out of love in a day meant to rule the world?

Ruby’s old message played for two minutes, but when it finally ended the phone continued to ring. Eva reached down and pulled the cord from its wall socket. Then she thought about the children. How else would they reach her in an emergency? Her mobile had run out of battery and she had no intention of charging it. She reconnected the phone. It was still ringing. She picked up the receiver and waited for someone to speak.

Eventually, an educated voice said, ‘Hello, I’m Nicola Forester. Is this Mrs Eva Beaver breathing down the phone or is it a household pet?’

Eva said, ‘It’s me, Eva.’

The voice said, ‘Oh dear, and you sound so nice. I’m going to throw a bucket of cold water over your marriage, I’m afraid.’

Eva thought, ‘Why do posh people always bring bad news?’

The voice continued, ‘Your husband has been having an affair with my sister for the last eight years.

A few seconds of time stretched into an eternity. Eva’s brain could not quite compute the words she had just heard. Her first reaction was to laugh aloud at the thought of Brian cavorting with another woman in a house she did not know, with a person she had never met. It was impossible to think that Brian had a life outside of his work and their home.

She said to the woman, ‘Forgive me, but could you possibly ring back in ten minutes?’

Nicola said, ‘I realise that this must be a dreadful shock.’

Eva put the phone back into its cradle. She swung her legs out of bed and waited until she felt able to walk safely to the en suite, where she stayed upright by hanging on to the side of the washbasin. Then she started to transform her face, taking cosmetics from the grubby interior of her Mac make-up bag. She needed something to do with her hands. When she was finished, she went back to bed and waited.

When the phone rang again, Nicola said, ‘I’m dreadfully sorry for the way I blurted it out like that. It’s because I hate unpleasantness, so I have to get myself psyched up and it comes out rather brutally. I’m phoning you now because he’s led my sister on by promising her a happy family life and he’s blaming you for the fact that he’s not leaving.’

Eva said, ‘Me?’

‘Yes, apparently now you’ve taken to your bed, he feels obliged to stay and care for you. My sister is distraught.’

Eva said, ‘What’s your sister’s name?’

‘Titania. I’m awfully cross with her. It’s been one excuse after another. First it was he couldn’t leave because of the twins’ GCSEs, then it was A levels, then it was helping them to find a university. Titania thought that the day they left for Leeds was the day she and Brian would finally set up their own love nest, but once again the bastard let her down.’

Eva said, Are you sure that it’s my husband, Dr Brian Beaver, she’s carrying on with? Only, he’s not the type.’

‘He’s a man, isn’t he?’ said Nicola.

‘Have you met him?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Nicola, ‘I’ve met him many times. He’s not exactly girl bait… but my sister has always liked a clever chap and she’s a sucker for facial hair.’

Eva’s pulses were racing. She felt quite exhilarated. She realised she had been waiting for something like this to happen. She asked, ‘Do they work together? How often does he see her? Are they in love? Is he planning to leave us and live with her?’

Nicola said, ‘He’s been planning to leave you since they met. He sees her at least five times a week and the occasional weekend. She works with him at the National Space Centre. She calls herself a physicist, although she only completed her doctorate last year.’

Eva said, ‘Jesus Christ! How old is she?’

Nicola replied, ‘She’s no Lolita. She’s thirty-seven.’

‘He’s fifty-five,’ said Eva. ‘He’s got varicose veins. And two children! And he loves me.’

Nicola said, ‘Actually, he doesn’t love you. And he told my sister that he knows you don’t love him. Do you?’

Eva said, ‘I did once,’ and crashed the phone down into its nasty plastic holder.

Eva and Brian had met at the university library in Leicester, where Eva was a library assistant. Because she loved books, she forgot that a large part of her job would be sending stern letters to students and academics whose books were overdue or defaced – she had once found a large rubber condom being used as a bookmark in an early edition of On the Origin of Species.

Brian had received one of her letters and come in to complain. ‘My name is Dr Brian Beaver,’ he said, ‘and you wrote to me recently in very officious terms, claiming that I had not returned Dr Brady’s simplistic book The Universe Explained.’

Eva nodded.

He certainly sounded angry, but his face and neck were almost entirely hidden by a full black beard, a mass of wild hair, heavy horn-rimmed spectacles and a black polo-neck sweater.

He looked intellectual and French. She could imagine Brian lobbing cobbles at the despised gendarmerie as he and his fellow revolutionaries fought to overthrow social order.

‘I won’t be returning Brady’s book,’ he continued, ‘because it was so full of theoretical errors and textual buffoonery that I threw it into the River Soar. I cannot take the risk of it falling into the hands of my students.’

He looked at Eva intently as he waited for her reaction. He told her later, on their second date, that he thought she was OK in the looks department. A bit heavy around the haunches, perhaps, but he would soon get the weight off her.

‘Do you have a degree?’ he had asked.

‘No,’ she said. Then added, ‘Sorry.’

‘Do you smoke?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many a day?’

‘Fifteen,’ she lied.

‘You’ll have to stop that,’ he said. ‘My father burned to death because of a cigarette.’

‘One single cigarette?’ she asked.

‘Our house was unheated apart from the paraffin heater, which Dad would light when the temperature dropped below freezing. He’d been filling it with paraffin and had slopped some on to his trousers and shoes. Then he lit a cigarette, dropped the match and…’ Brian’s voice constricted. Alarmingly, tears brimmed in his eyes.

Eva said, ‘You don’t have to -’

‘The house smelled of Sunday roast for years,’ said Brian. ‘It was most disconcerting. I buried myself in books…’

Eva said, ‘My dad died at work. Nobody noticed until the chicken pies started coming down the conveyor without the mushrooms.’

Brian asked, ‘Was he a mushroom operative at Pukka Pies? I did a few shifts there myself when I was a student. I put the onions into the beef and onion.’

‘Yes,’ said Eva. ‘He was clever but left school at fourteen. He had a library card,’ she said in her dead father’s defence.

Brian said, ‘We were lucky. We baby boomers benefited from the welfare state. Free milk, orange juice, penicillin, free health care, free education.’