That's odd, thought Joyce, and indeed it was, for not everyone found themselves in bed with a stranger at six o'clock in the morning. Not that there was anything wrong with him. He looked quite a nice man. His face was kind, if a little wrinkled. Strange, though, that he looked so tired when he was fast asleep - even more odd that he should be wearing pyjamas that were exactly the same as Fred's.
Neither was this the first curious thing that had happened to Joyce over the last few weeks. There had been that business last week when someone moved the bus-stop, and that had been really peculiar.
Everything had been all right when Joyce arrived at the supermarket. It was only when she left that this strangeness arose. She expected to find a bus waiting. It always was. But this time it was not there, - and somebody had moved the bus-stop too. Frantically, Joyce had looked around her. She might have been on a different planet, but for the life of her she did not know how she got there.
Fred had not been there on that occasion either. Joyce remembered being rescued by a nice man who gave her a lift in his car. He soon got her out of the frightening territory and brought her home. He even made her a nice cup of tea when they got there. Things had returned to normal for a few days after that. But now it seemed to Joyce that the strangeness that haunted her had followed her into the house and things were beginning to happen here.
She looked again at the unknown, but somehow familiar, figure sleeping beside her and thought she'd better get up. Goodness knows what Fred would say if he came in and discovered her in bed with a stranger. He wasn't a violent person, but then, he had never found his wife in bed with another man before, and truth to tell he had been a little irritable recently. Still, she wished he was here now. Perhaps he could explain the strange goings-on.
Joyce crept out of bed and crossed the room. She drew back the curtains and threw open the window. It was good to feel the warmth of the early morning sun and the gentle freshness of the breeze. She opened the front of her nightdress to allow the breeze to touch her bare body - and there was another curious thing. Why was that man on the other side of the road staring at her with his mouth open? Joyce poked out her tongue and watched as he scrambled into his car and drove away.
She closed the window and, after fastening her nightgown, went downstairs. She filled the electric kettle and put it on the table, then sat down to wait for it to boil. Thirty minutes later she was still sitting there, her mind alternating between a dreadful emptiness and an active struggle to make sense of the chaos that threatened to overtake her.
"Hello," said Joyce when the man came into the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?" She poured the cold water into the two mugs and pushed one towards him.
He nodded. "I didn't realise you were up," he muttered.
"Tea's not much good," she said as she sipped from the mug. "Not very hot."
"It's all right, love. I'll make some fresh."
Joyce watched as he busied himself about the kitchen. He seemed such a nice man, kind and gentle. She was sure Fred would like him, though he might not be too pleased about him taking over his position in the house - and her bed.
"Better get washed and dressed now, love," he said, when she had finished drinking her tea - such a good cup of tea - hot and sweet, just as she liked it. "I'll give you a hand."
Joyce was shocked. She stood up and, pressing her hands on the table, thrust her head towards him.
"I'm quite capable of washing myself," she said. "And what would Fred say if he found you helping me to dress? No, thank you; I'll do it myself."
The man sat down and, planting his elbows on the table, covered his face with his hands. He looked like a man who'd been beaten. But what did he expect? He couldn't come into the house and just take over everything. Joyce turned and went out of the room.
Washing herself was easy. Nobody had hidden the soap like they had yesterday. It was when she came to dress that everything got treacherous. The skirt and trousers lay before her. How could she possibly make a choice between the two? But the answer suddenly became blindingly obvious to Joyce - put on both of them. It was difficult to fit one waistband on top of the other, but that didn't matter, did it?
The man, though, was not pleased.
"You stupid woman," he muttered. "Can't you even dress yourself ?" Then he patted her arm gently as if apologising for his clumsy reaction. "Come on," he sighed. "Let's get the skirt off."
Joyce meekly allowed him to assist her. She felt as if all her resistance was melting away in the face of this increasing confusion. It was a relief to be able to sit in a familiar chair and just look out at the garden. It would be better still if Fred was sitting beside her.
This peace was not to last. Joyce was pleased that the man allowed her to peel the potatoes, and she managed to get the cloth on the table, though she did have trouble with the cutlery. It seemed to have a mind of its own, for no sooner had she set it down then it moved to a different place.
There was also that small event at about seven o'clock in the evening.
"Why are you laying the table?" asked the man as Joyce spread the cloth on the table.
Joyce was nonplussed. Why did he think she was doing it, if not for dinner? But suddenly she felt certain that she had already laid it. Had he cleared it again when she was not looking?
"Dinner?" she suggested tentatively, for she was sure of nothing any more.
"We've already had dinner," he replied.
"I don't think so," she said.
"We had that nice piece of chicken with some chips and peas. Don't you remember?"
No, Joyce did not remember, but she was not going to admit that to a stranger. She collapsed in the chair. This thing - this demon - it was taking her over, and she did not know where to turn. It would be different if Fred were here. He would understand - would help her get through this nightmare.
The night held particular fears. On previous nights she had been sure of having Fred in the bed beside her - as he had been for the last fifty years. But this new man. Would he be as tolerant and understanding as Fred? Joyce undressed with trepidation and surprised herself by getting her night-clothes on correctly. She lay awake waiting for the man to join her.
When he came, he did not turn on the light but got undressed in the dark. He got into bed beside her.
"I wish you was Fred," she whispered.
"But I am, love," he said, and for one blinding moment Joyce knew there was something familiar about this man. He might not be Fred, but he was kind.
She turned over and went to sleep in the happy belief that everything would be all right - just so long as Fred did not come home and find this strange man in her bed.