Alexander asked Brian if he could get him anything. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘No!’ Brian snapped. ‘All I want, chap, is to see you and your offspring leave my premises.’
Eva said to Alexander, ‘I’m so sorry, but he has had an awful lot to take on in the past couple of weeks.’
Alexander said, ‘I’m working for Eva,’ and got back to work, prising staples out of the carpet.
All that could be heard was Eva crunching on toast. Brian wanted to knock the toast out of Eva’s mouth. She picked up her cup and unintentionally made an inelegant slurping noise. Brian could not control himself any longer. He walked up and down the bedroom floor, swerving past Alexander, who was still on his hands and knees.
‘What is this bloody obsession with beverages? Do you know how many units of heat energy are squandered on making a single cup of tea? Well, you wouldn’t understand, but I’ll tell you, it’s a lot! Multiply that by sixty-four million, which is the population of Great Britain, and it’s even more! And don’t even talk to me about the time wasted waiting for kettles to boil, the drink to cool down and the sipping time. Meanwhile, in the workplace, machines are turned off, there’s nobody to fill the supermarket shelves, lorries are parked up on their bays. And what about our trade union brothers? Their tea breaks are enshrined in law! Who knows how many objects we’ve missed at the Space Centre because some bloody telescope operative has turned his back on the screen just as an important piece of space junk goes by! And all because somebody wanted to drink an infusion of leaves or beans during working hours! It’s a national disgrace!’
Alexander said to Brian, ‘So, I take it you don’t want a hot drink?’
Eva said, ‘There’s more to a cup of tea than hot water and leaves. You’re such a reductionist, Brian. I remember the night you said, “I don’t know why people get so hot and bothered about sex. It’s only the insertion of a penis into a nearby vagina.”‘
Alexander was gathering his tools together and laughed. ‘Nice to know romance ain’t dead. Shall I still come tomorrow, Eva?’
‘Please.’
Eva waited until she could hear Alexander’s laughter in the kitchen, then said, ‘Brian, do you still love me?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Would you do anything for me?’
Well, I wouldn’t wrestle a crocodile.’
‘No, but I’ve been wondering if you would sleep in your shed for a while.’
‘How long is “a while”?’ asked Brian aggressively.
‘I don’t know,’ said Eva. ‘It could be a week, a month, a year?’
‘A year? I’m not sleeping in the bloody shed for a year!’
‘I can’t think with you in the house.’
He said, ‘Look, can we stop fart-arsing around? What have you got to think about?’
‘Everything. Do elephants sweat? Is the moon a construct of songwriters? Were we ever happy together?’
Brian said, softly, ‘I’m the Mensa member. I can do your thinking for you.’
‘Brian, I can hear you breathing through the wall.’
He said, coldly, ‘So, if you won’t get out of bed, how will you feed yourself? Because I’m not feeding you. Are you hoping that a fluffy mummy bird will keep you supplied with worms, if you cheep loudly enough?’
She didn’t know who would feed her, so she said nothing.
He combed his beard and then left the room, banging the door so loudly that the frame shook. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could no longer hold on to his temper, and shouted, ‘You’re bloody mad! You need medication! I’m ringing the surgery for an appointment! It’s time they heard my point of view’
A few minutes later, the smell of frying bacon stole up the stairs.
Eva’s mouth watered. Brian knew her weakness for bacon, it was the reason she was a lapsed vegetarian. She had gone as far as buying bacon by post from a prestigious pig farm in Scotland. There was a little speech she gave whenever somebody found out that Eva paid for bacon by direct debit. She would say, ‘I don’t drink or smoke [a lie] and I spend nothing on myself [untrue], so I think I’m entitled to a few rashers of bacon.’
She lay in bed, watching the light fade, and noticed one dying leaf still attached to a branch of the sycamore. She came to the conclusion that she wouldn’t make the bacon speech again. It was banal and boring – and it wasn’t true, anyway.
Downstairs in the kitchen Brian confronted Alexander. Will you please stop feeding my wife? You’re encouraging her to stay in bed. And I can tell you now, it’ll end in tears.’
Venus and Thomas looked up from their homework. Ruby, who was at the sink, turned, alerted by the confrontational tone in Brian’s voice.
Alexander held his arms open and said, quietly, ‘I can’t leave her hungry and thirsty, can I?’
‘Yes! Yes, you can!’ shouted Brian. ‘Perhaps then she would drag her lazy arse downstairs and into the kitchen!’
Alexander said, ‘Hush, keep your voice down, man, my kids are here.’ He continued, ‘Eva’s on a sabbatical. She needs to think.’
Well, she’s not thinking about me, is she? I don’t know what’s happened to her. I think she’s going mad.’
Alexander shrugged and said, ‘I’m no psychiatrist. I drive a van, and I’m taking your wife’s carpet up tomorrow.’
‘You’re bloody well not! If you try to come back to this house, I’ll call the police!’ said Brian.
Ruby said, ‘Steady on, Brian. We’ve never had a policeman cross this threshold, and we’re not starting now’ She said to the children, ‘If I were you, duckies, I’d put your coats on. I think your daddy’s ready to go.’
Alexander nodded, and passed his children their coats. As they struggled into them, he went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted, ‘Bye, Eva! See you tomorrow!’ He waited for a reply.
When none came, he shepherded his children to the front door.
Brian followed. With Alexander and the children on the doorstep, he said, ‘You bloody well won’t see her tomorrow. So, goodbye! And have a nice life!’
17
Growing up in Leicester, Brian had been a clever little boy. As soon as he was able to manipulate his twenty-six alphabet blocks he began to arrange them into patterns. Two, four, six, eight were his favourites. He then proceeded to build – at first, a trembling brick tower which he never once knocked over. Then, one day, just before his third birthday, to the amazement of everyone who saw it, he spelled out the sentence ‘I am bored’.
His father, Leonard, began to teach little Brian simple sums. The infant was soon adding, multiplying and dividing. Always in silence. His father worked long hours in a hosiery factory and got home long after Brian had been put to bed. Unfortunately, Yvonne did not speak to her little son. She moved around the house with grim determination, a duster in one hand, a damp cloth in the other. An Embassy Filter cigarette was permanently stuck in the corner of her mouth. She was not a demonstrative woman, but occasionally she shot Brian a look of such malevolence that he fell briefly into a trance-like state.
On his first day of nursery school he clung to Yvonne’s legs. When she bent down to peel his hands away, a large piece of burning ash fell from her cigarette and on to his head. Yvonne tried to knock it off but succeeded only in scattering the ash on to his face and neck. A piece smouldered in his hair, so Brian’s first morning was taken up with first aid and an enforced rest on a camp bed in the corner of the classroom. His teacher was a pretty girl with golden hair who told Brian to call her Miss Nightingale.
It wasn’t until the afternoon, when the other children were colouring with wax crayons on sugar paper and Brian was filling his piece of paper with geometric shapes, using a freshly sharpened pencil, that Miss Nightingale and the school discovered they had a prodigy on their hands.