Eva said, struggling to keep her voice even, ‘That is a myth perpetuated by old-age pensioners. You cannot catch pneumonia from wearing damp socks and trousers. If that were the case, my whole school would have contracted pneumonia after a wet playtime.’ Her temper began to struggle out of her throat. ‘I spent half of my childhood wet or damp. A gaberdine mac is not impervious to snowstorms or torrential rain. I slept in a room with a bucket in the corner because the fucking roof leaked. So, Barry, go downstairs with Yvonne and Angelica, put on your damp clothes, and leave!’
Barry was near to tears, he’d thought that Eva was his friend. This was a big blow.
Angelica switched off the little Sony machine that had been recording in the top pocket of her cowboy shirt.
Yvonne said to her daughter-in-law, We haven’t seen Mr Temper for a long time, have we, Eva? No, and Mr Temper hasn’t got a leg to stand on. I’ve lost count of my relatives, friends and acquaintances who’ve contracted pneumonia because they didn’t sufficiently air their washing!’
Eva yelled back, ‘And that myth is why we had to put up with bloody washing hanging around the house until Saturday! It would be washing on Monday, drying in front of the coal fire on Tuesday, folding on Wednesday, ironing on Thursday, and airing on Friday and Saturday. Put the clothes away on Sunday, and start all over again on Monday! And, on each of those bloody days, my mother was a martyr. It was like living in a Chinese laundry!’
Angelica said, Well, I’ve got to go back to work anyway.
Barry said sadly, ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
Yvonne said, ‘Goodbye, Eva, you may not see me for a while. I’ve been extremely hurt by your remarks. I’ve been badly done by.’
Eva said, ‘Barry, you look fantastic, a different man. I’m sorry I’ve been such a cow If you’re driving and you see me at the window, give me a wave. I’d like to see your lights in the dark. It’ll reassure me you’re still around.’
Barry said, ‘You are a lovely woman, Eva. I want to buy you a present. What do you like?’
‘I like everything. Anything you choose, Barry, would be gratefully received.’
Eva watched Barry and Angelica drive away.
A few minutes later, Yvonne left the house.
Eva saw with dismay that she was limping heavily. She was wearing her knitted beret with the pompom back to front. Eva thought about opening the window and telling her so, but she did not want to risk Yvonne thinking that she was mocking her in any way.
After three days had passed and Yvonne had not returned, Brian went to find out why.
He came back, looking worried, saying, ‘Mother seems to have developed an obsession with Alan Titchmarsh, and is threatening to make Mr Titchmarsh a beneficiary in her will.’ He added, ‘She wasn’t wearing any make-up, I didn’t recognise her at first.’ Then, sadly, ‘I think she might be losing her marbles.’
46
The next day, when Brian was at work, Mrs Hordern came into his office and said, ‘Your wife’s on the front of the Mercury.’
Brian grabbed the local paper, and saw that the front page was dominated by a blurry, wide-angle photograph of Eva sitting up in bed. The headline said: ‘MAN SAVED BY “SAINT”.’
Brian turned to page three, and read:
Local woman, Eva Beaver (50), of Bowling Green Road, Leicester, has, according to suicidal black cab driver, Barry Wooton (36), ‘a special gift’.
‘She saved my life,’ said the burly cabby. (See above, top right.) ‘She is a saint.’
There was a murky black and white photograph of Barry, looking like Fungus the Bogeyman. Brian read on, with mounting incredulity:
‘On Friday night, I was desperate,’ Barry told Mercury reporter Angelica Hedge, talking in the neat lounge of his flat at Arthur Court, Glenfield Estate. ‘I was low, and thought that my life was not worth living.’
Barry’s eyes filled with tears as he told of the calamities that had brought him to such a desperate state: ‘I ran over my own dog, Sindy, gas and electric went up, my heating’s broke, yobs slashed the leather seats in the back of the cab, and I’ve spent a fortune on lonely heart adverts and I’ve still not found a wife.’ Barry explained that he was ‘drawn’ to Mrs Beaver’s house. ‘She is bedridden and I’d often seen her at her window in the small hours. I was on my way to the railway line to put my head on the rails, when I felt something pulling me towards her house. It was 3.27 a.m. but I rang her bell.’
Brian read on, and discovered that his wife was ‘an angel’, ‘a saviour’, ‘a miracle worker’ and ‘a saint’. He, Brian Beaver (75), was ‘a top nuclear scientist’ and they had ‘18-year-old triplets, Poppy, Brianne and Brian Junior’. He immediately sat down at his desk and typed an email to the editor.
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.
47
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.’