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

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.