The Woman who Went to Bed for a Year

20

Ruby came the next morning with Eva and Brian’s washing. It was ironed and folded so immaculately in a raffia laundry basket that Alexander, who had arrived ten minutes earlier to remove the carpet in Eva’s bedroom, was touched almost to tears at the trouble she’d taken.

When Ruby asked, ‘Kids at school?’ he could hardly answer.

He had spent the first ten years of his life in dirt and chaos, getting up early enough to sift through the piles of clothes on the bedroom floor so that he could wear the least dirty items to school.

When Ruby hobbled upstairs, Alexander laid his face on the laundry and breathed in.

After manoeuvring Eva’s bed around the room with her in it, Alexander almost lost his patience, but all he said to her was, ‘It would be so much easier if you got out of bed.’

She said, ‘If you can’t do it alone, shall I ask Brian to help when he comes home from work?’

‘No,’ said Alexander. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

Eventually, after a lot of encouragement from Eva, he managed to roll the carpet up, tie it securely and throw it out of the window. He went downstairs and stuck a Post-it note under the string holding it together.

It said: ‘PLEASE HELP YOURSELF.’

By the time he’d made tea and toast and gone to the doorstep with an empty milk bottle, the carpet was gone.

On the reverse of the note was written in biro: ‘THANK YOU SO MUCH. YOU’VE NO IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS TO ME.’

While Alexander sanded down the old floorboards, Eva knelt on the bed and looked out over the open sash window. She was wearing an industrial respirator, which soon led to a rumour in the area – spread by Mrs Barthi, the newsagent’s wife – that Brian had contaminated his wife with some kind of moon bacteria, and that she had been confined to her room by the authorities.

Later that afternoon, Brian was mystified when the queue in the newsagent’s melted away as he joined it.

Mr Barthi covered his nose with a handkerchief and said, ‘Sir, you should not be out in our community spreading your unearthly moon germ s.’

Brian spent so long explaining the situation at home to Mr Barthi that the newsagent grew bored and longed for the bearded customer to leave the shop. But then, to his dismay, Dr Beaver gave a lengthy dissertation about the lack of germs on the moon, which somehow led to a monologue on the moon’s lack of atmosphere.

Eventually, after many hints, which included yawning in Brian’s face, Mr Barthi closed the shop early. ‘It was the only thing I could do to make him go away,’ he told his wife.

She turned the OPEN sign to face the street again and said, ‘So, why do you have tears on your face, you big fat booby?’

Mr Barthi said, ‘I know you will mock me, Sita, but I was actually bored to tears. The next time he comes into the shop you can serve him.’

Later, Brian came out of the butcher’s, where he had been buying a piece of rump steak for himself and eight chipolata sausages for Eva. He saw the lights in the newsagent’s flicker back on. He crossed the road and headed towards the shop. Mr Barthi saw Brian approaching, and had just enough time to turn the sign over and slide the bolt.

Brian banged on the door and shouted, ‘Mr Barthi! Are you there? I forgot my New Scientist.’

Mr Barthi was crouching behind the counter.

Brian shouted through the letter box, ‘Barthi, open the door, I know you’re there!’

When there was no response, Brian aimed one kick at the door, then turned away and walked back without his magazine to face the chaos at home.

Mr Barthi only raised his head when five minutes had passed.

Brian told Eva later that night that, in future, he would have his scientific journals posted directly to the house. He said, ‘Barthi is cracking up. He yawned in my face and then started to cry. He doesn’t deserve our patronage.’

Eva nodded, though she wasn’t really listening. She was thinking about Brian Junior and Brianne.

They knew she didn’t answer the phone any more, but there were other forms of communication.

Ho was in his room, writing to his parents using notepaper and a pen. He could not email them such news, they must be slightly prepared – when they saw the letter in his handwriting, they would know that he had something serious to tell them. He wrote:

My Dearest Mother and Father,

You have been excellent parents. I honour and love you. It hurts me to tell you that I have not been a good son.

I have fallen in love with an English girl called Poppy. I have given her my love, my body and everything I possess, including the money you both worked so hard for in the Croc Factory to send me to an English university.

Poppy’s parents are both in intensive care in a place called Dundee. She has spent all of her money, so I gave her my money until I had none left. Yesterday I asked her when she could pay the money back to me and she wept and said, ‘Never.’

Mother and Father, I don’t know what to do. I cannot live without her. Please don’t judge her too harshly. Poppy’s parents are rich important people who crashed their light aircraft into the side of the White Cliffs of Dover. They are both in a coma. Poppy says that doctors in England are corrupt, as they are at home. And they will only keep her parents alive if they are paid enough. If not, they will switch off the machines.

Will you please send me more money? Are you still thinking about selling the apartment? Or cashing in your pensions?

Poppy says an international money order made out to Poppy Roberts would be best. Please help me, my parents - if I lose her love, I will kill myself

I hope you are both well and happy.

Greetings from your son,

Ho

Ho went downstairs and posted the letter in one of those red cylindrical structures that the English call a ‘box’. He was on his way back to the accommodation block when he bumped into Brian Junior who was, as usual, walking along the pavement while simultaneously reading a book of equations and listening to an MP3 player through over-ear headphones. A snatch of music could be heard faintly – it sounded to Ho like Bach.

Brian Junior acknowledged Ho’s presence by blinking his eyes rapidly and grunting an approximation of, ‘Hello.’

Ho looked up at Brian Junior and wished he was as tall as him and had such a handsome face. He would also like that thick blond hair, and those teeth! And how was it possible that Brian Junior’s cheap shabby clothes looked so good on him?

If Ho had been English, he would have worn the clothes of a gentleman. Burberry tweeds and shirts from Savile Row Shoes from Church’s. His parents had bought him clothes to wear at his English university, but the clothing they’d chosen was that of the proletariat. It was most difficult wearing a Manchester United football shirt in Leeds. Strangers accosted him and called him names. It was good that he had Poppy to love him.

He said, ‘Brian Junior. Could I speak to you about money?’

‘Money?’ repeated Brian Junior, as though he had never heard the word before. Brian Junior had never spent a day worrying about money, and he assumed -was absolutely certain – that he would be independently wealthy one day.

Ho said, ‘I think you have money. And I do not. So, if you give me some of the money you have, we will both be happy, yes?’

Brian Junior mumbled, ‘Cool.’ Then he turned round and walked back in the direction he’d just come from, his face blazing with embarrassment. He couldn’t bear Ho’s humiliation.

Later that night, there was a knock on Ho’s door.

It was Brian Junior, clutching a handful of banknotes. He shoved them at Ho and ran back to his room.

Ho counted the notes on his bed. There was £70. It was nothing, nothing!

It would buy rice and vegetables for him, but what about Poppy?

How could he tell her that he had no money for the corrupt English doctors?