Chapter 2
TWO
When my shift finally ends there’s a blister forming on my heel, and the distinctive smell of vomit and bleach sticks to my hair. I wait until I’m outside to slip off the offending shoe and give my foot a moment to breathe. There’s a hole in my tights and the chipped crimson nail polish on my big toe pokes out at me. Great! Sighing, I twist my foot at my ankle to draw an invisible circle in the air. My bone cracks and it’s both satisfactory and disturbing. I toss my black leather work shoe into my bag and swap it for the comfy runner that I pull out.
‘Whoah!’ I say, bending wobblily to pop my runner on the ground so I can wriggle into it without having to undo or retie the slack laces. The laces used to be white, but now they’re a creamy-yellowish-beige and I can’t remember the last time I actually tied or untied them. They’re certainly a well-loved runner, and most likely a million seasons out of fashion, if they were ever in. They are also the only pair of shoes, aside from my work shoes, that I own.
I press a hand against the wall to steady myself as I switch my foot in the air to slide the other shoe off. As I slip this runner on and straighten up too enthusiastically, I feel my nail snag the back of my tights. I wince, knowingly. When I gain my balance, I roll onto my tiptoe and twist my head over my shoulder to check the damage.
‘Oh no. No. No,’ I say, aloud but not talking to anyone except myself.
There’s an unmissable ladder running from my heel all the way up to the back of my knee. I’ll have to stop off in Tesco on the way home. I’m so tired I could sleep standing up, but I’ll need another pair of tights before my shift tomorrow. I bought the cheapest ones I could find last week. Barely There Black , it said on the box. They weren’t kidding. Although, in the interest of honest advertising, the box should have said, Barely There Dark Grey Things That Are So Flimsy You’ll Never Get Away Without Shaving Your Legs Underneath . Thankfully the hospital wards are roasting, even in mid-December, and I don’t need anything heavier. Or more expensive. I’ve got thirty-two euro to last me and Ellie until payday at the end of the week.
I make my way carefully down the concrete steps outside the main doors of StHelen’s. Someone has had the good sense to scatter salt all around, and the large grains crunch under my feet as they offer me grip. It’s not long after fivep.m. and it’s already dark. Although today was the type of day where it never really seemed to get bright. Thick clouds hung overhead all day and teased the idea of rain but never followed through and there’s a breeze now that MrsMorgan on StPaul’s ward told me earlier is a Nasty East Wind that could slice you in two. MrsBrennan argued that it is in fact the North Wind with its blade-like abilities. She then asked MrsMorgan what she knew about the weather anyway with her nose stuck in a book instead of frittering away the afternoon flicking through the news channels the way she did. Bickering escalated pretty quickly from there and I intervened with cookies and hot chocolate. Thankfully, by the time I was leaving my favourite patients had settled their argument and were enjoying a game of chess in the day room. I’ve no doubt I’ll hear a long story in the morning about who won, who cheated, and how they’re never playing with each other ever again. Until the next day, of course.
‘Wherever the wind is from it’s bloody cold,’ I say, again aloud but still not talking to anyone in particular.
A pair of doctors walk past me. A man and a woman. They’re not much older than me, I think. Mid-thirties, maybe. And I wonder if they’re a couple. Maybe they met at work. Or even earlier, in college, I muse. Their voices are loud and bulky as they chat about Christmas shopping and picking up a turkey and I decide that Yes! they are most definitely together. In the five years Declan and I have been a couple, we’ve never spent Christmas together. He’s always in the air on the day.
‘The money for flying on the twenty-fifth is too good to turn down,’ he tells me every year.
I don’t mind. Christmas was never my cup of tea. I bounced around from foster home to foster home as a kid and I always felt like an outsider at strangers’ tables no matter how hard they tried to make me feel welcome. But this year is Ellie’s first Christmas truly understanding the magic of Santa and I decide that she, Declan and I really need to spend the day together and start making some family memories. We need to be the happy people at the dinner table with colourful paper hats on our heads and bellies stuffed to the brim with turkey and ham. I make a mental note to talk to Declan about it when he gets home.
The couple smile at me and say something about the weather before getting into a large, expensive jeep. A sudden wave of jealousy washes over me and it’s even colder and nastier than the East, or North, or wherever-the-feck-it’s-from wind and I hate myself for it. It was my choice to have Ellie. And my choice to drop out of medical school. My choice to move in with Declan and shape a family. And it was the best decision I ever made. Ellie is the best part of my life. And, besides, I still get to work in a hospital, meeting lovely patients every day. It may not be how I planned things, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. The couple’s car purrs to life and I pull my coat a little tighter around me as they drive by. I tug the strap of my bag that insists on falling down my arm back onto my shoulder, lower my head so my face isn’t into the wind and walk.
If I hurry I’ll catch the five-thirty bus, otherwise I’ll be waiting until six and traffic will be horrendous heading out of town by then. Today is 8December. Also known as Annual Stay The Hell Out Of Town Day because every man, women and child of the country has descended on Grafton Street to officially mark the start of Christmas shopping. Or something like that. It’s the same every year. They come to shop, mingle and of course take in the sights Dublin has to offer in the festive season. The city really is very beautiful in the festive period, if you have the time to enjoy it. Huge, fluffy green garlands stretch from one side of the streets to the other, lit up and sparkling after dark. And there’s a humongous, real tree, decorated from top to bottom, right outside the gates of StStephen’s Green Park. órlaith, the receptionist in work, said it’s a giving tree. You can take a card from one of the branches and inside is the name of a boy or a girl and their age. Then you buy an appropriate gift for a child in need, and lots of local businesses are drop-off points. It’s a lovely idea but I wish órlaith never told me about it. Every time I walk by and I can’t afford to take a card, my heart hurts.
Unfortunately, Christmas spirit seems to be passing me by. It has been for a few years, but I try not to dwell on that now. Every family has their share of troubles and I’m no special case. Most days I can remember that just fine, but at Christmas time I have to try harder.
I shove the sleeve of my coat up my arm just enough to glance at my watch. I’ve ten minutes to catch the bus, but the footpath is frosty. The further away from the hospital doors I walk, the more slippery the path becomes. There’s no salt scattered down here.
Nonetheless I hurry. I’m feeling the pressure of making it across town in awful traffic to pick my daughter up from crèche on time. I’ve already been late twice this week as I raced against a sea of enthusiastic carol singers. Alannah, the crèche manager, didn’t hesitate to inform me that Ellie cried her eyes out both times at ‘being the last child standing’.
Alannah is a terrible liar. Ellie almost never cries. Not even when she falls, or argues with her friends, or when I get unreasonably cross because I’m tired, or stressed out, or when Declan wants the noise in the apartment kept down but Ellie wants to sing the newest song she’s learned in crèche. On the rare occasion tears actually fall, her porcelain skin goes all red and splodgy for ages afterwards. Cora gave me some fancy vitamins for her and said she might be a little low in iron. Ellie is always clear-skinned and smiling when I pick her up from crèche, no matter what time.
I pull my coat tighter around me and hurry more, determined not to be late today.
‘I’m coming, Ellie.’
My legs fly into the air so suddenly that I don’t have time to screech before the thump of my back hitting the ground forces a huge puff of air out of me. I stare, wide-eyed, at the cloud of my own warm breath that hovers above my face.
‘Mind, it’s slippery,’ a husky voice says.
Sprawled on the icy footpath in the shape of a corkscrew, arms above my head either side and legs twisted around each other, I begin to laugh. It’s an embarrassed giggle, really, as the ice finds its way through my coat and my uniform to nibble at my back and I realise how ridiculous I must look. And how lucky I am that I’m not actually hurt. Well, except for my pride.
‘I’ve noticed,’ I say, sitting up and glancing around to find the owner of the pearls of wisdom.
I spot a man sitting on a nearby bench. He’s alone and somewhat melancholy looking. I didn’t notice him before as I tried to rush by.
‘Are you all right? Nothing hurt?’ he asks.
‘Yes. Fine, thank you.’ I blush as I drag myself to my feet and dust myself off.
‘Good. That’s good,’ he says.
I take in the sight of the concerned man speaking to me. A nearby streetlamp bathes him in hues of orange, highlighting the lines and folds that time has gradually etched into his face. His wrinkled brow and hunched shoulders match his husky voice and I realise he’s quite elderly. He’s decidedly dapper in a tweed trench coat in striking grey, black and red checks. A scarf hides the collar of his coat. It’s large and colourful. The type that someone has lovingly hand-knitted – his wife perhaps, I think. He’s not wearing a hat. He’s so well wrapped up for the elements, much better than me, that his bare head comes as a surprise. He’s mostly bald, but strands of silver sit above his ears and I imagine run around the back. A bunch of supermarket flowers is resting across his knees. They’re a jumble of colours and shapes and the Tesco sticker is big and bold on the front of the cellophane wrapper. But the most striking thing about the man, who watches me with equal curiosity, is his bright blue eyes hiding a spark of laughter that I suspect he’s too gentlemanly to let out.
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘You can laugh if you want to. I mean, I’m already mortified, you might as well go for it.’
‘I wasn’t going to laugh,’ he says, his brows arched. ‘Although now that I know you’re not hurt I am going to tell you that was as funny as hell. Probably the funniest thing I’ve seen all day, and I saw MrSimmons in room 84B piss his pants this morning at breakfast.’
‘You’re a patient,’ I say, suddenly very concerned that he shouldn’t be out here and especially not alone.
The man begins to laugh, at last. ‘No, sorry. That was mean. I’m only joking. I don’t know a MrSimmons. I was just trying to make you feel a little better.’
‘Oh,’ I say, still not sure if he’s a patient or not, and I wonder if I should call someone.
‘You’re a nurse?’ the man says. ‘Or, doctor?’
‘Eh. Neither,’ I say, rubbing my shoulder, which is sorer than I first realised.
‘But your uniform.’ He points.
‘Cleaner. I mop up vomit. Wipe bottoms. That sort of thing.’
‘Ah, so you’re the poor sod who’d have the pleasure of changing MrSimmons’ pissy pants?’
I laugh. ‘Yes. If MrSimmons, his pee or his pants were real. Then yes. I’d change them.’
‘Bet you’re glad I made him up then, eh?’
I smile.
‘Are you going to sit down?’ the man asks, shuffling from the middle to the end of the bench.
I glance at my watch and sigh. I’ve only minutes left to catch the bus, and my shoulder is really starting to ache.
‘You should. You look awful.’
His honesty surprises me.
‘Sit,’ he says again, rather sternly.
‘Okay,’ I say, walking carefully to the bench, overly aware that I could slip again at any second.
‘There you are,’ the man says, as I fill the space beside him. ‘I bet that’s much better. Was a nasty fall, that.’
I nod, wishing he would stop talking about it. ‘So, you’re really not a patient…’
‘Just visiting.’
‘Visiting MrSimmons?’ I wink.
He laughs. I like his laugh. It’s a croaky chuckle that sounds like rice rattling in a tin can and I can’t help but laugh along with him.
‘I’m Malcolm, by the way,’ he says, extending his hand.
I shake it, and wince as my shoulder twinges. ‘Bea.’
‘Bea.’ He pursues his lips, disapprovingly. ‘Short for something, or did your parents simply choose to name you after a winged insect?’
‘Beatrice.’ I giggle, unoffended. ‘But I’m just Bea.’
‘Okay, well, I’m not Mal. I’m Malcolm.’
‘It was very nice to meet you, Mal-Colm,’ I say, as I stand up.
‘You’re not leaving, are you?’
I glance at my watch. Five fifteen. I shrug. ‘’Fraid so. I’ve a bus to catch.’
Malcolm looks me up and down and nods.
‘Goodbye,’ I say, treading carefully as I walk away with the icy wind viciously nipping at the tip of my nose. I’ve barely taken a couple of steps when I glance over my shoulder and ask, ‘Are you getting the bus? Maybe we can walk together.’
‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ Malcolm says. ‘But I don’t need help. Beside, I’m not as clumsy as you. I’ve decent shoes on. See.’ He points towards the chunky boots on his feet that look sturdy enough to scale Everest. ‘Good night, Bea. And by the way, I quite like bees. Without them, humans would cease to exist in a matter of months.’
I know. I read something on Wikipedia about bees preventing famine of something like that.
I smile. ‘Good night, Malcolm.’
It takes longer than usual to reach the bus stop. I’m cautious about ending upon my back again. There are three of us waiting. A guy without gloves, sporadically blowing into his hands and rubbing them together. And a woman shifting from one foot to the other to stop her toes from cramping, while announcing every couple of minutes, ‘Christ, it’s cold.’
The bus arrives shortly with windows so fogged up they almost look frosted. I let the guy and the woman on first. It’s packed and they go straight upstairs. The doors close behind me and the bus begins to move, tossing me forward, and I shuffle along the aisle until I spy a seat down the back next to a woman with a duffle coat and a barrage of Penneys shopping bags.
‘Mind if I sit here?’ I ask, pointing to her bags taking up the seat beside her.
She groans, rolls her eyes and gathers her bags onto her lap.
‘Thank you,’ I say, as the moving bus shoves me into the seat.
She doesn’t reply as she uses the sleeve of her coat to wipe a circle in the condensation so she can stare out the window. My fingers tremble as they adjust from the cold outside to the heat of the bus. I almost drop my phone taking it out of my bag to call the crèche.
‘Hello, Little Apples, Alannah speaking.’
‘Alannah. It’s Bea, I’m so sorry but?—’
‘Take your time. Ellie is finishing a painting,’ Alannah says in that clipped tone that I know means, ‘Have fifteen quid ready when you get here, you’re late. ’
I hang up and am about to slide my phone into my pocket when instead I pause and call reception at the hospital.
‘Hello, St Helen’s. ‘
‘Hi, órlaith.’
‘Oh, Bea. Hi,’ my favourite receptionist says. ‘Everything okay? Didn’t I see you leave?’
‘Yeah. I’m on the bus now. Listen, órlaith,’ I say, shuffling closer to the edge of the seat as bags challenge me for space. ‘There’s an elderly man sitting on a bench not far from the main doors. I don’t think he’s a patient but it’s so cold and icy. I fell already.’
‘Oh, you didn’t. You’re not hurt, are you?’
‘No. No. I’m fine. But the path isn’t salted down there and, well…’
‘Oh, Bea, what are we going to do with you? You really are a worrier, aren’t you?’
‘He says he’s fine. But if he fell, he could be there for a while and no one would even know.’
‘Okay. Okay,’ órlaith says, and I can tell she’s smiling. ‘I’ll have one of the porters walk down, have a little look around, make sure everything is okay.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Now, go home and run yourself a warm bath. Sounds like you need it.’
I close my eyes. The wet patch on my coat and uniform nips at my back and I fantasise about a hot bubble bath. ‘Good night, órlaith,’ I say.
‘Na’night, love.’