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

Sir,

I wish to protest in the strongest possible manner about your front-page article concerning my wife, Eva Beaver. It contains many falsehoods and inaccuracies, e.g. I am not a nuclear scientist. I work in astronomy and I am 55 years of age. There is a compulsory retirement age at my place of work. I would certainly not be allowed to carry on at the age of 75 years.

I am not the father of triplets. The Poppy you refer to is a house guest and not one of my progeny.

Furthermore, my wife is certainly not ‘an angel’, ‘a saviour’, ‘a miracle worker’ or ‘a saint’, and neither is she ‘bedridden’. She has chosen to take to her bed for reasons of her own.

You will be hearing from my lawyers in due course.

Yours faithfully,

Dr Brian Beaver, BSc, MSc, D Phil (Oxon)

When he had pressed ‘send’, Brian hurried along the corridor to show Titania the front page. She laughed all the way through the article, and had a mild form of hysterics when she read that Brian was seventy-five.

When Brian told her that he had emailed a letter to the editor of the paper, she said, ‘You fool! That will keep the whole bloody thing going.’

One of Titania’s young interns, Jack Box, said, ‘It’s already on Twitter. The hashtag’s “womaninbed”. Do you want me to bring it up?’

Brian and Titania had never sent a tweet before, and neither had they read one.

Jack Box’s fingers flew over the keyboard. He said, ‘There have been three posted over the last hour.’

Brian read, in descending order:

Eva Beaver a saint? I don’t think so, she’s a slag.

I need your help Eva, I want to kill myself, where are you?

Die! Brine Beevar!!! y ru stil aliv 75 yr old man!! newcleer enege wil kill uz al! an diform are babis!!!!

Brian said, ‘Hate mail now, Tit. And does Eva care? No, she is indifferent to my suffering.’

He read on:

#WomanInBed, are you reading this? I wish I was in bed with you. You look fit.

As they watched the screen, it displayed: ‘One more tweet available.’

Jack Box clicked the mouse and the Tweet popped up, from GreenMan2478:

#WomanInBed. I understand your need for spiritual replenishment. Remember, we are all made from stars, but you are sprinkled with stardust. Go Well Sister.

Brian said, ‘Stardust, my arse. If Eva were to be covered in residue from a supernova, she wouldn’t last long.’

By 10 p.m. that night, there had been 157 tweets, and by 6 a.m. the next day, this figure had almost trebled.

One tweeter asked the simple question, ‘Why is she in bed?’

Suggestions came from across the world.

The next day, a Friday, a regional television team of two turned up at the door, requesting an interview with Eva.

Ruby, who had answered the door, said, ‘I’m her mother. I’m Ruby Brown-Bird.’ She immediately recognised the presenter. ‘You’re Derek Plimsoll. I’m a big fan of yours, I watch you every night on the news.’

This was true. Ruby was a great admirer of his. He was so handsome and funny, and always made a little joke at the end of his six o’clock news round-up. Over the years, she had watched his black hair turn grey and his body spread, but he still wore lovely pastel suits and jazzy ties. When he interviewed politicians, he was very respectful. He was never irritated by them when they wouldn’t answer a question – not like that Jeremy Paxman. He was like an old familiar pal. And sometimes, when he said, ‘Goodnight, East Midlands, see you tomorrow,’ she would speak to the screen, and say, ‘Yes, see you tomorrow, Derek.’

The girl with him, who was carrying the camera on a tripod, said, ‘And I’m Jo.’

Ruby didn’t take to her. She was one of those women like Poppy, who wore bright-red lipstick and big boots. Ruby couldn’t make head nor tail of young women today.

She asked them into the kitchen and apologised for the non-existent mess.

Derek wrinkled his suntanned nose and said, ‘What is that delicious smell?’

Ruby said, ‘I’ve got a cake in the oven.’

‘A cake!’ he said, sounding both amazed and delighted. He wagged a plump finger at Ruby and said, ‘Are you sure you’ve not got a bun in the oven?’

Ruby screeched with laughter and put her hands over her face. ‘Me, have a bun in the oven?’ She shrieked again, ‘I’m seventy-nine! I’ve had my womb took away!’

Derek said, ‘I bet you were a proper minx, Ruby. Oh, just the thought of you, my dear, and I’m getting excited.’

Jo rolled her eyes and said to Ruby, ‘D’you see what I have to put up with? He’s an unreconstructed nuisance.’

Derek said, ‘We’re old school, aren’t we, Ruby? We used to enjoy a bit of sexual banter without the Sex Police rounding us up.’

Ruby agreed. ‘I’m scared to open my mouth, these days. Every time I do, I seem to offend somebody or other. I’ve no idea what to call black people any more.’

Jo said, flatly, ‘Black. You call them black.’

Derek said, affecting a West Indian accent, ‘No, we is persons of colour now, innit?’

When Ruby poured the tea, Derek rhapsodised over the teapot. He exclaimed, ‘A teapot, a milk jug, a sugar bowl, china cups and saucers, and apostle spoons!’

Ruby was thrilled that here, at least, was a person who appreciated the niceties of life.

Jo stood the camera on its three legs and fiddled with the lens. She mumbled to Derek, ‘The light is good,’ and switched on.

Derek said to Ruby, ‘Can I ask you a few questions about your daughter?’

Ruby was flattered. ‘Of course you can.’ It had always been her ambition to appear on television.

Derek motioned towards Jo, and said, ‘She’ll need to thread a wire through your clothes, so watch out, Ruby, she bats for the other side.’

Ruby was baffled.

Jo said, ‘He’s trying to tell you that I’m a lesbian, and implying that I would like to sexually assault you.’

Ruby looked a little fearful.

Derek said, ‘It’s all right, Ruby, our Jo has got what they call a “same-sex life partner”, she’s not on the pull.’

After Ruby had applied her fuchsia-pink lipstick, and a small microphone had been clipped on to the neck of her blouse, the interview began.

Derek said, ‘We need to check for sound level. Mrs Brown-Bird, what did you have for breakfast?’

Ruby recited, ‘Two cups of tea, cornflakes, egg, bacon, sausages, black pudding, grilled tomato, fried bread, beans, mushrooms and toast.’

Upstairs, Eva woke from an uneasy dream. She had been running away from Michael Parkinson.

When she was fully awake, she went into her normal routine. She shook her duvet, straightened the pillows and looked out of the window She saw a Mercedes van with East Midlands Tonight written on the side, parked opposite. She could hear voices coming from the kitchen, including her mother’s.

She shouted, ‘Mum!’

After a moment, she heard the kitchen door open, and footsteps in the hall.

Her mother’s voice reached her, complaining about the stairs. ‘These bleddy things will be the death of me.’ She staggered into Eva’s room and sat down heavily on the soup chair. Why don’t you get a stair lift?’ she panted. ‘I can’t go on doing this five or six times a day.’

Eva asked, ‘Who’s downstairs?’

‘Derek Plimsoll and a lesbian.’

Eva looked blank.

‘Derek Plimsoll. You know the one. He’s on the telly. East Midlands Tonight. He makes a joke and taps his papers together at the end.’

Eva nodded.

Well, it’s him, and a lesbian. I’ve just done an interview with them.’ She touched the clip-on microphone.

Eva said, ‘Have you won the accumulator on the Bingo?’