Sue Townsend - The Woman who Went to Bed for a Year

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?

Eva was entranced by her all-white room. Alexander had worked all day and into the evening, painting the ceiling, the walls, the woodwork around the window and the floorboards eggshell white. Eva had asked him to leave her bed up against the window From there she could see along the road and beyond, to the faint shadow of hills, the smudge of evergreens and the bare branches of deciduous trees.

The smell of fresh paint was overpowering when Brian eventually came home from work. He walked around the house, opening windows. He opened the door to what he was now trying to call ‘Eva’s room’. He was temporarily blinded by the dazzling whiteness of the space.

Eva said, ‘Don’t come in! The floor’s still wet!’

Brian’s right foot hovered over the sticky floor, but he managed to regain his balance.

Eva apologised. ‘Sorry!’

What are you sorry for?’ asked Brian.

‘I didn’t mean to be sharp with you.’

‘Do you think a few sharp words from you are going to hurt me, when you have already destroyed my life and our marriage?’ Brian was choking on his words.

A vision of orphaned Bambi came to him, and he almost lost control of his emotions.

Eva said, ‘I’ve got one word to say to you…’ She mouthed the ‘T’, but then bit it back. She knew that she was partly to blame for the situation they found themselves in.

She had known Brian intimately for neatly thirty years. He was part of her DNA.

Eventually, Brian said, ‘I’m dying for a pee.’

He looked longingly at the en suite, but the wet paint lay between them, like half-frozen water between two icebergs. Eva pulled the cord to turn the ceiling light off, and he left to use the family bathroom.

She turned towards the window.

There was almost a full moon, shining through the skeleton of the late autumn sycamore.

Brian sat downstairs in the sitting room. What had happened to the lovely comfortable home he had once enjoyed? He looked around the room. The plants were dead, as were the flowers still standing in slimy stinking water. The lamps which had once given the room a golden glow were also dead. He couldn’t be bothered to turn them on. There was no fire in the grate, and the colourful jewelled cushions that had once eased his comfort when he watched Newsnight at the end of the day were stacked on either side of the fireplace.

He looked up at the framed family photograph on the mantelpiece. It had been taken at Disney World. They had called in at Orlando after two weeks in Houston and he had bought Single Day Tickets. He’d been disappointed at Eva and the twins’ lacklustre response when he had revealed them, and had mimed playing and singing a trumpet fanfare.

Inside the theme park, when a giant Mickey Mouse had asked in a squeaky voice if they’d like a photographic memento of their visit, Brian had agreed and handed over twenty dollars.

They had struck a pose while Brian told Eva and the twins, ‘Give bigger smiles!’

The twins had bared their teeth like frightened chimpanzees, but Eva had looked steadily ahead, wondering how Mickey Mouse could manipulate the camera with his large, gloved pseudo-hands.

After the last shot, Goofy had approached, dragging his feet on the hot asphalt. Speaking through a gap between his flying-buttress teeth, he’d said to Mickey, ‘Man, I just fuckin’ quit.’

Mickey had answered, ‘Jeez, dude! What the fuck happened?’

‘That fuckin’ bitch, Cinderella, just kicked me in the fuckin’ balls again.’

Brian had said, ‘Do you mind? I’ve got my children with me!’

‘Children?’ scoffed Goofy. ‘You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me! They look old, British man. They got teeth like broken rocks!’

Brian had said to Goofy, ‘You can bloody talk – look at your bloody teeth! They’ll be on the fucking floor if you carry on insulting my children!’

Mickey had placed himself between Brian and Goofy, saying, Whoah! Whoah! Come on, this is Disney World!’

Brian got up and looked closely at Eva’s face in the photograph. Why hadn’t he noticed before that she looked so unhappy? He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and dusted the glass and the frame, then put it back where it had stood for six years.

The house was dead now that Eva had gone.

Brianne was sitting on her narrow bed, staring at the wall opposite. Alexander had left half an hour earlier, leaving the bookcase and the jewellery, but unwittingly taking Brianne’s previously unused heart with him. She was filled with the most amazing joy.

She said out loud, ‘I love him.’

She wished now that she had bothered to make some friends. She wanted to ring somebody and tell them her good news. Brian Junior would not be interested, Poppy would turn news to her advantage and her mother had gone mad. There was only him she could tell.

She picked up his business card and reached for her mobile. He answered immediately and illegally – he was doing 75 mph and was in the middle lane of the M1, going South.

White Van Man.’

‘Alexander?’

‘Brianne?’

‘Yes, I forgot to thank you for bringing Mum’s stuff up. It was very kind of you.’

‘It wasn’t kindness. It was work, Brianne. I’ll get paid for it.’

Where are you?’

‘I’ve just turned on to the motorway. I’m trapped between two lorries. If the front one brakes, I’m mincemeat.’

Brianne exclaimed, ‘Alexander, you must turn the phone off at once!’

She could imagine his mangled body on the motorway, surrounded by emergency vehicles. She could clearly see a helicopter hovering above him, waiting to take him to a specialist unit somewhere.

She said, ‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you? Your life is precious.’

He did as she had asked and switched his phone off. He didn’t know the girl had such strong feelings – she had shown very little emotion when he had handed over her mother’s jewellery.

Brianne went outside and walked briskly up and down in front of the accommodation block. It was a cold night and she was not dressed for the outdoors, but she didn’t care. The possibility of love had softened her face and straightened her back.

How could she have lived so long without knowing of his existence?