The Woman who Went to Bed for a Year

30

The next morning, Eva was sitting cross-legged on the bed as Alexander replaced the broken glass, squeezing putty around the pane like she used to squeeze pastry around the edge of a pie to make a fluted pattern.

She said, ‘Is there anything you can’t do?’

‘I can’t play the saxophone, I don’t know the rules of croquet, I can’t remember my wife’s face. My navigation is crap. I can’t pole-vault, and I’m hopeless at fist-fighting.’

Eva admitted, ‘I can’t tune a digital radio. I gave up after a day with my smartphone. On my computer the Microsoft wouldn’t engage with the internet, and neither could I. I couldn’t watch a film on an iPad – and why should I, when there’s a cinema half a mile away? I should have been born a hundred years ago. I can’t download on my MP3 machine. Why do people keep buying me these gadgets? I’d be happier with a simple radio, a television with knobs on the front, a Dansette record player and a phone like we had when I was a child. Something important that stood on the hall table. It rang so loudly that we could hear it all over the house and garden. And it only rang when there was something important to say. Somebody was ill. An arrangement had to be changed. Or the person who had been ill had died. People ring now to say that they’ve arrived in McDonald’s and are about to order a cheeseburger and fries.’

Alexander laughed. ‘You’re a technophobe like me, Eva. We’re happier with a simpler way of life. I should go back to Tobago.’

Eva said, vehemently, ‘No! You can’t!’

He laughed again. ‘Take it easy, Eva. I’m going nowhere. It costs a lot of money to have a slower pace of life, and I had my one shot at that.’

She asked, ‘Do you ever talk about your wife?’

‘No. Never. If the kids ask, I lie and say she’s gone to heaven. My children believe that she is up there in the arms of Jesus, and I ain’t gonna disabuse them of that comforting picture.’

‘Was your wife beautiful?’ Eva said, quietly.

‘No, not beautiful. Pretty, elegant – and she looked after herself. Her clothes were always good, she had her own style. Other women were a bit afraid of her. She never wore a tracksuit, didn’t own a pair of trainers. She didn’t do casual.’

Eva glanced at her ragged nails and slid them under the duvet.

The door opened abruptly, and Brianne said, ‘Oh, Alex, I didn’t know you were here. Would you like a cup of tea, or a drink perhaps? It is nearly Christmas, after all.’

‘Thank you, but I have to work and drive.’

Eva said, ‘I’d love a cup of tea.’

Brianne’s expression changed when she looked at her mother. Well, I am busy, but I’ll try to bring you one up.’

There were a few moments of awkwardness between the three of them.

Brianne said to Alexander, ‘Bye then. See you downstairs?’

He said, ‘Maybe,’ and turned back to the window ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea, Eva, when I’ve finished this.’

There was an uneasy atmosphere in the house over the next week.

There were silences and whisperings and slammed doors. The women circled around each other. Eva tried to interest them in decorating the house and stringing up the fairy lights, and they would agree with her that it should be done – however, nobody actually did anything.

Poppy had made her base in the sitting room. She had commandeered every item of furniture for her possessions and clothes, so the Beavers had taken to sitting in the kitchen. Whenever Brian and Poppy met accidentally in the house, they managed to touch each other briefly, and both enjoyed the conspiracy. Brian particularly relished the contact – especially on the nights when Titania was waiting for him in the shed.

On the evening of the 19th of December, Brian asked Eva, What are we doing for Christmas?’

Eva said, ‘I’ll be doing nothing at all.’

Brian was shocked. ‘So, you’re expecting me to do Christmas?’ He rose from the soup chair and walked up and down the room, looking like a prisoner on Death Row waiting for the dawn.

Eva forced herself to stay silent as Brian faced the awful fact that he might have to be responsible for Christmas, the Becher’s Brook of family festivals. Many good women, and a few men, have fallen due to the weight of expectation that rests on their shoulders.

‘I don’t even know where you keep Christmas,’ he said, as though in previous years Eva had deposited Christmas inside a locked container at an out-of-town storage depot, and all she had to do was pick Christmas up and take it home before December the 25th.

‘Do you want me to tell you how to do Christmas, Brian?’

‘I suppose so.’

Eva advised him, ‘You may want to take notes.’

Brian took out of his pocket the little black notebook with moleskin covers that Eva had bought for him as compensation for fading his motorcycle exam. (He had argued with the examiner over the precise meaning of the phrase ‘full throttle’.) He unclipped his fountain pen (a school prize) and waited.

‘OK,’ said Eva. ‘I’m going to talk you through. Stop me at any time.’

Brian sat back down in the soup chair with his pen poised above his notebook.

Eva took a breath and started.

‘You’ll find the Christmas card list in the bureau in the sitting room, together with stamps and unused cards. Write them tonight, before you go to bed. After work tomorrow, drive around garden centres and garage forecourts looking at Christmas trees. In your mind’s eye you are seeing a perfect tree, lushly green and aromatic, rounded at the bottom and rising in ever-decreasing circles until topped with a single branch. However, there are no such trees. You drive around all week and fail to find one. At nine p.m. the day before Christmas Eve, just as Homebase is closing, you will panic and push through the doors and snatch at the nearest tree. Do not be too disappointed when you end up with a tree a social worker would describe as “fading to thrive”.’

Brian said, ‘For Christ’s sake, Eva, stick to the bloody list!’

Eva closed her eyes and tried to discipline herself to keep to the bare facts of how she had prepared for Christmas 2010.

‘Tree decorations in box marked “TD”. Fairy lights for tree in box marked “FLFT”. Fairy lights for sitting room, kitchen, dining room, hall stairs, outdoor porch in box named “FL General”. Do not throw horrible papier-mâché bells or similar cack-handed ornaments away. Brian Junior and Brianne made them in infants school before they fully discovered maths. NB – box of extension leads and multiple plug sockets in box marked “Christmas Electricals”. Note – spare bulbs for FLs in here. All boxes to be found in attic next to wooden giraffe. Stepladder in cellar. Buy firelighters, kindling and logs from Farm Shop in Charnwood Forest. Pick three bags of coal up from BP garage. Buy candles for candlesticks – open bracket, check widths, close bracket.

‘Drive into countryside for mistletoe, ivy, pine cones, branches and seed heads. Dry out on radiators. Buy silver and gold spray paint. Spray dried-out foliage, et cetera. Clear out fridge – use disparate leftovers to make strange little meals, flavours disguised by chilli flakes and garlic. Go to local butcher, order a turkey. Watch him laugh in your face. Go to supermarket, try to order a turkey. Leave to the sound of laughter from the poultry department. Buy ten tins of Quality Street for fifty quid. Queue for an hour and ten minutes to pay for them. Decide how much to spend on distant or near relations, trawl round shops, ignore present list and make ludicrous impulse buys. Arrive home, unload presents, immediately suffer from buyer’s remorse. Take everything back the following day and buy twenty-seven pairs of red fleece socks with reindeer motif. Go online, order latest technical must-have gadget for Brian and twins, find that there are none left in the country, go to Currys and get told by youth that a container ship has just docked at Harwich and lorry is due to deliver on 23rd December. Ask if you can order three of the latest must-haves. Currys youth advises you to join queue at five thirty a.m. as this will be your only chance.’

Brian said, ‘Eva, that was last Christmas! I need to focus on this year! Half of your advice is redundant!’

But Eva was reliving the nightmare of Christmas 2010. ‘Go late-night shopping for Christmas outfit for self, to prevent row like last year’s when Brian said, “Eva, you can’t wear jeans on Christmas day.” Make impulse buy of red sequinned cardigan and black lace skirt. In Marks, buy twins pyjamas and dressing gowns, ditto Brian. In food hall, buy ingredients for Christmas dinner for six, plus cakes, biscuits, flans, mince pies, sliced bread for sandwiches, salmon, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera -Brian interjected, panicking now, ‘How can one person possibly deal with all those different components?’

But Eva couldn’t stop.

‘Poultry supervisor says must queue from four a.m. to guarantee getting a turkey. Stagger outside with bags, cannot find car, ring police to report stolen car, then remember just before police arrive that came by taxi, ring taxi firm for return journey, harassed-sounding man says, “Not a chance, we’re fully booked for office parties.” Ring friends, they have all had a drink, ring relatives, Ruby says, “It’s eleven thirty. How can I help? I haven’t got a car.” Phone runs out of battery, hurl it in temper into prickly car-park bush. Calm down and search for phone. Find phone but scratched and bleeding from search. Eventually husband reports you missing, police say they will keep an eye out, patrol car delivers you home at one thirty a.m. Snatch two hours’ sleep before driving car to Marks & Spencer to join queue. At four a.m. nineteenth in queue. Dressed turkey’s gone, no choice but to buy undressed turkey with head, neck and claws attached. Its eyes stare at you with unbearable sadness, you apologise to it – in your mind, you think. Actually, you have spoken aloud, and people around you think you are a madwoman because you said, “I’m so sorry, turkey, that you had to be murdered for the sake of tradition.”‘

Brian gave a deep sigh and said, ‘Eva, Eva, Eva.’

‘Are about to drive home when remember have to queue for latest device. Drive to Currys to find queue already snaking round car park. To join it or not – that is the question. While try to decide, fall asleep at wheel of car causing very slight damage to Renault in front of you. Renault driver reacts badly, as though you have injured his children and killed his dog Swap insurance details then realise insurance out of date. Decide to join queue and suffer the unbearable tension of wondering if Currys will run out of devices before you reach the front door. Manage to get to counter before must-have gadgets sell out. Try to pay, card rejected by machine, given lecture by twelve-year-old cashier who says, “If you keep it loose in your bag, it’s bound to get scratched. Why didn’t you keep it in the cardholder compartment in your purse?” Tell child that I will be as disorganised as I want to be. She says, “Do you have another card?” Say, ‘Yes,” and forage inside bra cups, searching for other card. Give it to cashier who says card is warm, won’t work until is cold. We wait and wait. People in queue behind protest loudly at delay. Shout at queue, queue shouts back, supervisor brings tray of mini mince pies to placate cold and tired customers. Man chokes on raisin inside mince pie. Eventually, card is cool enough to insert into machine and is declined for purchase of must-have gadgets.’

Eva started to cry.

Brian took her hand and said, ‘Eva, darling, I had no idea. Why didn’t you say? I didn’t want that bloody iPhone 4, it’s been in a drawer since Boxing Day.’

But Eva was inconsolable. ‘Beg cashier to try one more time. She does – but mutters under her breath – think she used the f-word, this against Currys policy. Tell her so, consider making formal complaint, but brain and mouth not working, so let it go. Machine accepts card, weep with relief. Drive home with turkey and must-have gadgets on passenger seat, held secure with seatbelt. Return home and, through fog of anxiety and sleep deprivation, unpack turkey, leave on kitchen table. Drag stepladder up cellar stairs, untangle fairy lights, drape along picture rails, start with artistic plan in head, end with fairy lights thrown over any ledge or surface. Bulbs go, search for replacements. Ask for help to decorate the tree. Twins and Brian traumatised by the sadness in turkey’s eyes and claim to be incapable of movement, swear they will never touch any kind of meat again. Cross pork joint and gammon off Christmas food list. Go into kitchen, find next-door’s cat mauling turkey’s head, turkey’s eyes expressing woes of world. For once don’t hit cat with wooden spoon but usher cat and turkey head outside. There are seventeen carrier bags on kitchen table. Bite into a carrot, pour tiny amount of whisky into small glass, take bite out of mince pie, arrange on a festive plate, bring through to sitting-room fireplace. Will I still be doing this when twins are thirty-five?’

‘Eva, I can see you’re tired. I can google the rest… There must be a Delia’s Christmas app -Eva said, ‘No, let me finish doing Christmas Day.

Cook full English breakfast. Drink toast with Buck’s Fizz. Open presents. Pick up wrapping paper, fold and place in recycling bin. Ring and thank relatives for presents. Change from dressing gown into sequinned cardigan and lace skirt, Brian says look like madam of whorehouse, change into jeans.’

Brian said, ‘Eva, that lace skirt barely covered your bum!’

‘Cook Christmas dinner, almost collapse after assembling food on table. Drink too much, ask Brian to help wash up, he says, “Later.” Twins gone somewhere, make Christmas tea, turkey sandwiches, trifle, Christmas cake. Twins come back, refuse to play games, play maths games with Brian. Refuse to watch Christmas TV, all three watch DVD lecture series on advanced topology from MIT. Eat half tin of Quality Street. Prepare supper. Drink self into stupor. Feel sick from Quality Street and vodka, go to bed.

‘So, that was my Christmas last year. You may find it useful,’ Eva concluded. ‘And, Brian, I am. Never. Doing. Christmas. Again.’