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

Eva agreed. ‘Yes – but Alexander is forty-nine years of age, Brianne.’

‘Forty-nine? That’s the new thirty!’

‘You once ranted that nobody over twenty-five should be allowed to wear jeans, or dance in public.’

‘But Alex looks so good in jeans, and he did A level maths, Mum! He understands nonhomogeneous equations!’

‘I can tell you’re fond of him,’ said Eva.

‘Fond?’ said Brianne. ‘I’m fond of Grandma Ruby, I’m fond of whiskers on kittens and bright copper kettles, but I’m passionately in fucking love with Alex Tate!’

Eva said, ‘Please! Don’t swear.’

‘You’re such a fucking hypocrite!’ yelled Brianne. ‘You swear! And you’re trying to spoil my relationship with Alex!’

‘There’s nothing to spoil. You’re not Juliet. This is not a Montague and Capulet situation. Does Alex even know you love him?’

Brianne said, defiantly, ‘Yes, he does.’

‘And?’

Brianne lowered her eyes. ‘He doesn’t love me, of course. He hasn’t had time to get to know me. But when I saw him struggling with that bookcase in Leeds, I knew immediately that he was the person I’ve been waiting for since I was a kid. I always wondered who it would be. Then he knocked on my door.’

Eva tried to hold Brianne’s hand, but she pulled it away and put it behind her back.

Eva asked, ‘And he was kind to you?’

‘I rang him three times on his mobile when he was on the motorway. He told me to go out more and meet people of my own age.’

Eva said, gently, ‘He is right, Brianne. His hair is grey. He has more in common with me than with you. We’ve both got Morrissey’s second solo album.’

Brianne said, ‘I know that. I know everything there is to know about him. I know his wife died in a car crash and that he was driving. I know that Tate was his family’s slave name. I know how much he earned in the noughties. And I know how much tax he paid. And which school his children go to, and what their grades are. I know his previous romantic history. I know he’s overdrawn by £77.1 5 and that he doesn’t have an agreed overdraft facility.’

‘And he told you all this?’

‘No, I’ve hardly spoken to him. I doxed him.’

What’s “doxed”?’

‘It’s like talking to Neanderthal woman! I’ve read every document about him. If there’s info I want, I can find it on the net. I’ve mapped the story of his life, and one day I’ll be part of it.’

‘But, Brianne, don’t forget his children. You don’t like children, remember?’

Brianne screamed, ‘I like his children!’

Eva had never seen her in such an emotional state. She heard Brian Junior’s bedroom door open, and seconds later he crashed into her room.

‘I can hear you slagging my sister off, Mum. Why don’t you butt out and leave us alone?’

The twins drew together, as they must have done in her womb.

She was glad when they went out, but she had never felt more alone. She heard them talking in Brian Junior’s bedroom. Their voices were low and insistent, as though they were conspirators plotting a political outrage.

Brian’s hand-held computer had fallen into the turkey gravy. He tried to pick it up with a pair of tongs but it fell back into the pan, splashing drops of boiling gravy on to his face. He screamed and splashed his face under the cold tap. He tried again with the tongs, and this time he managed to lift it out. He threw it into the already crowded sink. As he had expected, the screen had died.

Brian panicked.

What came next?

For how much longer should the turkey cook?

What time should he turn on the sprouts?

Should he take the Christmas pudding out of the steamer?

Was the bread sauce thick enough?

Where was the potato masher?

Ignoring the noises coming from the kitchen, including the faint screams and curses, Ruby and Yvonne lay back on comfortable armchairs in the sitting room, in front of a log fire, and reminisced about the many Christmas dinners they had cooked over the years.

Without the benefit of a computer,’ said Ruby. ‘Or a husband who would cook,’ said Yvonne.

Outside, Alexander was walking alongside his children in the middle of Bowling Green Road, watching out for cars. The pavements were still icy with flattened snow.

He was helping Venus to ride a new bicycle with stabilisers. Thomas was pushing a doll’s pram with a stuffed giraffe propped up against a pink pillow Alexander wondered if he had gone too far with the gender politics.

Stanley Crossley slammed his front door as they were passing his house. After congratulating the children on their Christmas presents, he said, ‘I hope I’m not too early.’

Alexander laughed and said, We may be eating a little later than was planned.’

‘It’s of no matter to me,’ said Stanley.

Outside the Beavers’ house, Thomas told Stanley that the giraffe’s name was Paul.

The old man remarked, ‘That’s an entirely suitable name for a giraffe.’

Venus stared at Stanley and asked, ‘Does your face hurt?’

‘Not now,’ he said. ‘But it looks horrible, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Venus. ‘If I was you, I would cover it in a mask.’

Stanley laughed, but Alexander was embarrassed and tried to apologise.

Stanley said forcefully, ‘That’s the child’s honest reaction. She’ll soon get used to me.’

Hearing the voices outside, Eva pushed the sash up and poked her head out. ‘Merry Christmas!’ she shouted.

They all looked up at the window and shouted, ‘Merry Christmas!’ back.

Alexander thought, ‘She looks beautiful – even with her mad hair on end.’

Stanley thought, ‘If Tiny Tim came hobbling round the corner now, one would not be surprised.’

They eventually sat down to dinner at 5.15 p.m. Brianne managed to secure a chair opposite Alexander.

Parts of the meal were quite edible.

Ruby said, after clearing her plate, ‘There were only a few things that let you down, Brian. Your roast potatoes were not crispy, they had no rustle to them, and the gravy had a funny taste.’

Yvonne said, ‘Plasticky.’

Brian Junior corrected her, ‘No, metallic.’

Stanley said, ‘I thought the turkey itself was quite superb. Many congratulations, Dr Beaver.’

Brian was exhausted. He had never been through such a physical and intellectual ordeal. Behind the closed kitchen door he had, in turn, wept, cursed, screamed, fallen into despair, and laughed hysterically as he struggled to serve everything together at the same time and keep it all hot. But he had heroically managed to get the thirteen main components of the meal into serving dishes and on to the table. Crackers had been pulled, paper hats worn and jokes groaned over.

Ruby congratulated Alexander on the polite behaviour of his children.

Venus said, ‘Daddy told us he would give us ten pounds if we were good.’

Alexander laughed and shook his head.

‘Define goodness!’ Brian Junior said to Venus.

Yvonne chided him, ‘The child is only seven years old, Brian Junior!’

Venus put her hand up and looked urgently at Brian Junior, who nodded.

She said, ‘Goodness means telling good lies, so that people won’t get hurt by true words.’

Brian said, ‘Venus, I would like to know your opinion on the meal that I cooked and you have just eaten.’

Venus asked, ‘Daddy, do I have to be good?’

‘No, just tell the truth, sweetheart.’

Venus placed her napkin on the table. She unrolled the white cotton square, revealing a burned stuffing ball, a charred chipolata, a fat-logged roast potato, three overcooked Brussels sprouts and an undercooked Yorkshire pudding.