The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

Chapter 5

FIVE

The following morning, I take Ellie to crèche as usual. She holds my hand tightly, watches out for traffic the way I’ve taught her and skips contently alongside me all the way.

‘Baltic out there, isn’t it?’ Alannah says as soon as we arrive.

‘Freezing,’ I reply as I set about peeling off Ellie’s coat and hat and gloves and placing them in the small box with her name on it under the reception desk.

I kiss the tip of her nose that’s red from the cold and encourage her to run along and play with her friends.

‘She might be a little cranky today,’ I warn Alannah once Ellie is out of earshot. ‘It was late when she got to sleep last night.’

‘Oh. Okay. Not to worry. I just remind them all that Santa is watching and they need to be on their best behaviour. It usually does the trick.’

My heart pangs at the mention of Santa. Ellie wrote her letter weeks ago and we posted it in the glittery cardboard box outside our local Tesco. Ellie asked for a Barbie house and some Crayola. I have neither yet.

‘I’ll see you later,’ I tell Alannah, then pull out my phone and start walking towards work. StHelen’s is at the far side of the city, but I need to save the bus fare. Besides, it’s dry and crisp outside and I could use the fresh air as I work up the courage to message Declan.

Hello

He doesn’t reply, but I can see he’s online and soon two blue ticks appear below my message and I know he’s read it.

Can you pass me on the landlord’s contact details please?

This time, his reply is instant.

Why?

So I still have somewhere to live.

I’m going to rent the place myself.

BTW Ellie has asked for Barbie stuff and some crayons for Christmas.

Are you still buying them for her?

A cheaper flat would be better.

Somewhere nearer work.

I will send you money for Ellie’s gifts.

I don’t think where I live from now on is any of your business.

You dumped me. Remember?

My phone pings with a notification from Revolut. The money is already in my account. Down to the exact penny. He must have checked the prices online while we were messaging.

I wait for him to send on the landlord’s number or email but, when they don’t come by the time I’ve reached work, I send another message.

Thank you for the money.

Can you please forward the landlord details asap as I am anxious to get this sorted out.

Adam Shaw 082 65729921

Please don’t mention me.

I told Adam I was living alone so…

I don’t ask him why he concealed Ellie and me. It doesn’t really matter now; it was all just part of his big elaborate lie.

I won’t mention you.

Thank you.

And just so you know, I won’t be keeping this phone.

Are you changing your number?

No.

This is a second phone.

I don’t need it any more.

I’m sure you get what I mean.

I’m sorry.

Oh

I really am sorry Bea!

How will I reach you?

Like I said, forget me.

But I don’t know where you live? Or anything about your life in London. What if I need to get in touch about Ellie? What if she is sick or something? You’d want to know right?

I’m sorry Bea.

Good luck with the apartment.

Goodbye.

I send several messages after that, in various tones. From pleading with him to forward some contact details – his address, his other number, even what area of London he’s in – to much more aggressive and angry messages calling him out on his horrendous behaviour. There are a lot of swear words and angry emojis in those messages. But none of them deliver and I can only guess he has switched his phone off. The sinking feeling that comes with knowing he won’t switch it on again almost drowns me.

I’m not late but Elaine is glaring at me with narrow eyes and folded arms as soon as I reach the ward.

‘What?’ I shrug.

‘Did you ask órlaith to check on a patient yesterday?’

‘Eh…’ I try to rewind my mind to the day just past, but all I can think about is Declan’s back as he walked out the door.

‘She said you rang and asked her to send security outside to check on an old man.’

‘Oh. Yes. I did,’ I say, remembering the man with scarcely any hair and no hat. ‘I was worried about him.’

‘Just not worried enough to check he was all right before you walked off.’

‘He said he wasn’t a patient.’

Elaine rolls her eyes.

‘I checked on him. I asked órlaith to send security to double-check. But it’s not my job to?—’

‘Oh, Bea, really. I thought you’d have more compassion.’

‘I do,’ I say, as a mix of anger and upset swirls inside me. ‘I was in a hurry to get to the crèche to pick my daughter up and I had to go. Is he all right? Did something happen?’

Elaine puffs out. ‘Did you know MrFlynn went walkabout last night?’

I search my brain for a MrFlynn but an image won’t come.

‘Room 115. Tall man. Kidney stones and dementia.’

Panic flashes inside me like a bolt of lightning. I’ve worked on the geriatric ward for three years, and I’ve been warned over and over that all eyes must be kept on senile patients. I try to remember if Malcolm was tall. He was sitting but his legs didn’t seem particularly long. And he seemed fully lucid to me. If he was at all confused, I wouldn’t have left him.

‘Did you find him?’ I ask, worried.

‘MrFlynn. Yes, we found him. Turns out he was locked in MrsWard’s bathroom.’

‘Oh. That’s good.’

‘We didn’t find your friend in the car park though. Turns out, this time, he really wasn’t a patient. But for heaven’s sake, Bea. If you are ever unsure again. Do. Not. Walk. Away.’

I nod. Accepting the scolding and regretting asking órlaith for help.

‘Now, let’s forget about all this and get to work, yeah?’ Elaine says, unfolding her stiff arms and smiling.

The day passes in a decidedly average way. I wash floors, change bed linen, clean bathrooms and unblock stubborn shower drains. At some point between it all I text the landlord.

Hello. My name is Beatrice Alright and I am interested in renting your apartment. I work at StHelen’s Hospital and I have a 4yr old daughter. I am very tidy and have no pets. Please could you let me know how much it would cost monthly? Thank you!

His reply is almost instant.

Hello Beatrice. Which apartment are you interested in?

I blush, and realise that he owns more than one apartment in the city. I imagine he’s rather wealthy and there’s a pang of envy in my gut for this stranger.

Number 17 Burken Cross please.

No.17 is available from Dec 18th. I will need a reference and a direct debit set up. I have a lot of interest so whoever sends me the deposit and one month’s rent in advance first gets it. Rent is 3000 per month. Bills extra. Let me know if you would like to proceed and I will send you my bank details. Regards, Adam

I almost drop my phone. I have never had six thousand euro in my bank account. Ever. It would take me years to save up that much. Even if I rent both bedrooms, a section of the hall and the bloody balcony I still can’t come up with funds like that. Declan was right, I was wasting my time texting Adam. I text him again with my fingers shaking as the harsh reality of my predicament grips me.

I can’t afford it, I’m afraid. But thank you.

No worries. Best of luck finding something in your budget.

His final message is kind and encouraging but it fills me with overwhelming stress. I suspect it will be near impossible to find something I can afford. Panic sets in and I find myself sitting on the floor of the cleaning closet for at least half an hour, simply rocking back and forth with my knees tucked against my chest. Thankfully, almost no one comes in here except me, so it’s the perfect place to hide while the panic subsides. I’m glad when I find I’ve no appetite, and I think of the money I will save not buying lunch. I spend the other half an hour of my break searching the internet for flats anywhere and everywhere in a remotely commutable distance from work. I send several enquiring emails and finish my shift.

When I return to the closet at the end of work to fetch my bag and my phone, I am met by countless helpful and friendly emails. But one after another confirms that their properties are too expensive. Even flats in areas of town I’d be afraid to live are more than I can afford. I move on to enquiring about sharing with others. The ads almost all insist that pets are not welcome, but none of them say anything about kids. There’s a couple of places that I could just about afford, if I stopped getting the bus and walked everywhere, but as soon as I mention Ellie they ghost me.

I don’t notice I’m crying as I leave work, but when I face into the wind and start walking a voice calls after me, asking, ‘Bad day?’

I stop and turn to find Malcolm sitting on the same bench as yesterday. His head is once again hatless, but he’s wrapped in another colourful scarf. A grass green, like a summer’s day. It’s bright and cheery against the otherwise grey world. The grey car park, the grey hospital, the grey sky. My grey life.

‘Yes. Pretty bad.’ I sniffle.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tissue. I don’t move.

‘I haven’t blown my nose in it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

I wasn’t.

‘It’s clean,’ he says. ‘And you look like you need it more than I do.’

I shuffle towards him, wondering if this winter frost will ever thaw.

‘Still in those silly things?’ he says, pointing at my runners that the grip is long worn down on. ‘In my day people dressed for the weather. Not any more, though. Young people are a slave to fashion.’

I glance at my worn-out runners and wonder how anyone could possibly consider them a thing of fashion.

‘I don’t have different ones,’ I find myself confessing out of nowhere as I take his tissue and dab under my eyes. I crumple it up and shove it in my pocket.

I wait for him to blush, or feel uncomfortable the way most people do when they realise someone else’s misfortune. Or, worse still, I wait for him to pity me. But he doesn’t.

He pats the empty space of the bench beside him and says, ‘Sit,’ the same way you might command a dog, perhaps.

I check my watch. I don’t really have time to pause. But I think about the money I saved skipping lunch. I could treat myself to a trip on the Luas. I’d be at the crèche in half the time.

‘Thank you, Malcolm,’ I say.

‘You don’t need to thank me. This bench doesn’t belong to me. It’s public property. You can sit if you want to.’

I sit in the empty space beside him and bop my knees up and down to keep warm.

‘That’s unpleasant,’ he says, shortly.

‘Excuse me?’

‘If I wanted to bounce around like a fella at sea in a storm, I’d set sail. But I don’t. I want to sit here on my bench. Nice and still.’

I notice my nervous twitching and steady myself. I’m blushing when I say, ‘I thought it wasn’t your bench.’

He chuckles. But it’s quickly followed by a chesty cough that shakes the bench more than I ever could. It takes some time but, finally, his coughing fit subsides and we sit as we are. Two strangers, on a wooden bench, under an old oak tree that guards the hospital like a huge, strong security guard. Lost in silent thought, tears once again trickle down my cheek and I’m about to excuse myself when he says, ‘Do you want to tell me why you’re crying?’

I wipe around my eyes with the tissue again, embarrassed. ‘Oh, you really don’t want to know. Trust me.’

‘I can’t trust you. I don’t know you,’ he says, matter-of-factly. ‘Likewise, you can’t possibly know what I do and don’t want to discuss. You don’t know me.’

His blunt honesty shocks me. My tears stop and I find myself smiling, curious about this old man.

‘You’re right. I don’t know you. So, how about you tell me something about yourself.’

‘No thank you.’ He folds his arms firmly.

‘Really?’ I pull my head back until I have three chins. ‘You’re seriously not going to share a single detail about yourself.’

‘No thank you.’

I huff out. This man is infuriating, and yet I’m reluctant to get up and walk away.

‘What’s your favourite colour?’ I ask.

He takes a deep breath, but doesn’t open his mouth.

‘Is it green?’ I point to his scarf.

He makes a face.

‘Okay, fine. Not green. Red, then?’ I redirect my pointing to the red strip in his chequered coat.

He rolls his eyes.

‘Blue?’

Nothing.

‘Black?’

He moves, but only to tighten his folded arms.

‘Yellow? Purple? Silver? Bloody magenta? Seriously, you’re not going to share your favourite?’

He doesn’t reply.

I puff out and get to my feet. ‘Okay, well, thank you for sharing your non-bench with me. I best be off.’

I could swear I see disappointment flash across his face as I stand up.

‘Oh, and for the record,’ I say, taking care to get my balance, ‘I think your favourite colour is green . Like your scarf. And like your eyes.’

He smiles and I know I’m right.

‘Goodbye, Bea,’ he says. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’

I’m startled for a moment as I realise that he plans to sit on this same bench again tomorrow as my shift ends. I’m riddled with curiosity about why, but I know it’s pointless asking. If I can’t get his favourite colour out of him, I doubt he’ll tell me anything as private as what he is doing out there every evening. And even more curiously, I find I’m already looking forward to seeing him again when he does.

‘Goodbye, Malcolm.’