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

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

It was teatime on Christmas Eve and snow was still falling. Eva liked the snow – the beauty of it, the interruption it made to daily life – and she enjoyed the chaos it caused. She was looking out of the window for Stanley Crossley, who had sent a message that he wanted to talk to her. It was a meeting she dreaded. To divert herself she concentrated on the outside window sill, where flakes were settling and intermingling, all the time forming an even, white ledge.

It reminded her of the time she had thrown the ten-year-old twins out into the snow when they carried on bickering after she had asked them to stop. They had knocked on the sitting-room window and pleaded to be let back in while Eva pretended to read Vogue. A few minutes later, Brian had arrived home from work to find his son and daughter shivering, coatless in their school uniforms, while his wife sat by a crackling log fire reading a magazine, apparently oblivious to her children’s misery.

Brian had bellowed, ‘Our children could end up in the care of the local authority! You know how many social workers live around here.’

It was true – there were a disproportionate number of new-model Volkswagen Beetles parked in the surrounding streets.

Eva laughed aloud at the memory.

The twins had been forced to huddle together for warmth before Brian let them back inside the house. She told Brian that it had been a bonding exercise – and since he had only just returned from a team-building trip to the Brecon Beacons, where he had been forced to catch, skin, cook and eat a rabbit, he had believed her.

She saw Stanley approaching the house and watched as he hesitated at the gate. He was entirely coated in snow, from his trilby hat to his black brogues. She came away from the window and heard him stamping his feet in the porch. The doorbell rang as Eva got into bed and readied herself for whatever was coming. She had asked Brian to make sure that Poppy was out of the house.

Brian had said, ‘The only way I can guarantee that is to take her out somewhere myself. It will be a bloody nuisance, but I suppose I’ll have to do it.’

Even though Stanley had been released without charge, Eva didn’t want to risk him bumping into Poppy. There was no guarantee that she would not make the same accusations again. Eva would have to explain that the false stalking was only one of many such painful Poppy dramas. The hypochondria, the deep-black lies, the hysteria if anybody touched ‘her things’, the household items that had gone missing…

Had Stanley come to burden her with an account of his near-death experience inside a burning Spitfire? Would he sob as he recounted how his face had melted and fallen away? Would he try to describe his agony?

It was the details Eva feared.

Brianne led Stanley up the stairs. She was mute with embarrassment and horror. ‘His face is gross,’ she thought. ‘Poor Mr Crossley. If I was him, I’d wear a sort of mask.’ She wanted to tell him that she was not Poppy’s friend, that she hated Poppy, didn’t want her in the house and couldn’t understand why her parents didn’t throw her out. But, as usual, the words wouldn’t come. When they got to the top of the landing, she called, ‘Mum! Mr Crossley is here.’

Stanley stepped into a white space in which the only colour was a yellow embroidered armchair with an orange and red stain that reminded him of a dawn sky. He gave a slight bow and held his hand out. Eva took it and held on to it for a fraction longer than was usual.

Brianne said, ‘Can I take your coat and hat?’

As Stanley struggled out of his coat and handed Brianne his hat, Eva saw from the light above his head that his scalp was a relief map of scars. ‘Do sit down, Mr Crossley.’

He said, ‘Had I known you were indisposed, Mrs Beaver, I would have waited until you were better.’

‘I’m not indisposed,’ said Eva. ‘I’m giving myself a break from the usual routine.’

‘Yes, it’s rather good for one, it shakes one up and invigorates mind and body.’

She told him that Brianne could bring tea, coffee or some of the mulled wine that Brian had simmered overnight.

He waved the suggestion away, saying, ‘You’re too kind. Thank you, but no.’

Eva said, ‘I’m glad you came. I want to apologize to you for what happened the other day.’

‘You mustn’t apologise, Mrs Beaver.’

‘That girl is a guest in my house. I feel responsible.’

‘She’s obviously troubled,’ Stanley said.

Eva agreed. ‘Troubled and dangerous.’

‘It was very good of you to take her in.’

‘Not good… I had no power to stop it. I’ve got nothing but contempt for her.’

Stanley said, ‘We’re all fragile, and that is why I’m here. It’s important to me that you understand, I did nothing at all to frighten the girl. I did glance at her extraordinary clothes, but I did nothing more than that.’

Eva said, ‘You don’t have to tell me this. I know you are a man of honour, and I imagine you live by the strictest of principles.’

‘I have not spoken to a living soul since I returned from the police station. This is a statement, I am not asking you to pity me. I have many friends I can call on, and I’m a member of many clubs and institutions, but as you can clearly see, my face is not my fortune.’ He laughed. ‘I confess to wallowing in self-pity during the early days, after my little accident with my plane – most of us did. There were a few who denied they were in pain – sang, whistled – at least, those with lips. They were the ones who tended to crack. The smell of rotting flesh was indescribable. They tried to disguise it with Izal disinfectant – made from coal, I believe – but… it was always there, in your mouth, on your uniform. But we laughed a lot. We called ourselves Guinea Pigs. Because Sir Archie McIndoe experimented on us, told us he was pushing the parameters of plastic surgery -which he was, of course. For six weeks I had a skin flap from my upper arm attached to where my nose used to be.

‘Archie was very fond of us boys. Actually, I think he did love us like a father. He used to laugh and say, “Marry a girl with terrible eyesight.” A lot of the boys married the nurses, but I followed his advice and married a lovely poor-sighted girl, Peggy. We helped each other. Both of us were normal in the dark.’

Eva said, ‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m going to say it anyway. I think you’re incredibly brave, and I hope we will be friends.’

Stanley looked out of the window and shook his head. ‘The uncomfortable truth is, Mrs Beaver, that I took advantage of my wife’s lack of sight and I…’ He broke off and looked around the room, searching for something for his eyes to settle on. He found it impossible to look Eva in the face. ‘During my marriage, starting when we returned from a fortnight’s honeymoon, I visited a very respectable lady once a week and paid her rather a lot of money to have sex with me.’

Eva’s eyes widened. After a few moments, she said, ‘I have known for some time that my husband has been having an affair with a woman he works with called Dr Titania Noble-Forester.’

Stanley felt sufficiently emboldened by this confidence to tell Eva more. ‘I have been in a rage since 1941. I was irritated beyond telling when my wife dropped something or spilled her tea or knocked over a glass of water. She was always blundering into the furniture and tripping over rugs, and she refused to use any of those gadgets that are designed to help. She knew Braille. God knows why she learned it – I sent for the books but she wouldn’t touch them. But I loved her dearly, and when she died I couldn’t see the point of carrying on. With her by my side in bed, the horrible dreams were almost tolerable. I would cry out and wake and my dear wife would hold my hand and talk to me about the things we had done together, the countries we had visited.’ He gave a tight smile, which he seemed to use as a form of punctuation.