The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

Chapter 11

ELEVEN

We reach the apartment faster than I expect. Travelling by car instead of two buses and a Luas cuts travel time by more than half. Regardless, both Malcolm and Ellie are sound asleep. Ellie’s head is flopped on my shoulder and she is drooling. And Malcolm’s head is flopped back against the head rest and he is drooling.

‘The circle of life,’ Shayne jokes as he finds a parking spot almost directly outside the main doors to the apartment block.

I thank him sincerely, unhook my seat belt and get out. By the time I walk round the back of the car to fetch Ellie, Shayne is at her door, opening it for me. He shoves his hands into his pockets and shuffles his feet awkwardly. I have a horrible feeling that he is going to say something I don’t want to hear. Like ask me for money for fuel. Or even worse, ask me on a date. I bend into the car and take my time getting Ellie out, giving him time to work up the courage to spit whatever it is out. When he doesn’t say anything, I finally say, ‘Well, good night. And thank you again for the lift. I really do appreciate it.’

‘And I appreciate you taking care of him,’ he blurts.

I know he’s talking about Malcolm. But he’s also talking about Malcolm in the same way I talk about Ellie. He’s thanking me the way I thanked órlaith earlier for watching Ellie.

‘I’m not so sure who was taking care of who tonight,’ I say, honestly, thinking of the yummy sandwiches Malcolm bought. Or how he took Ellie’s hand and reassured her when my brain turned to mush over the flat scam. That reminds me, I really need to text that landlady and demand my money back. It wouldn’t get me a flat, but at least I’ll have a deposit to start looking again. ..

‘Look, I don’t know what he told you about why he was at the hospital?—’

‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ I say, quickly, picking up on the same undertone that was present between Malcolm and Shayne earlier when I thought they were arguing.

‘Oh. Erm. Okay.’

I can tell he’s instantly sorry he brought it up and I try to deflect. ‘It’s none of my business. Honestly.’

Shayne runs a hand through his hair and it must get caught in some curly knots at the back, because he makes a face before pulling his hand down.

‘It’s just. It’s complicated,’ he says.

Ellie stirs on my shoulder and I’m glad of the excuse to leave. ‘I better get her to bed,’ I say.

‘Yeah. Of course.’ He seems disappointed. ‘It was really nice meeting you, Bea.’

‘Yeah. You too. Take care of him, won’t you,’ I say with a sting of sadness as I glance into the car at a sleeping Malcolm. His mouth is gaping and his breathing sucks his bottom lip in and puffs it back out with a quiver. I suspect I won’t be seeing him on the hospital bench any more, now that Shayne has found him, and I find myself oddly discontented. As if I resent Shayne for taking Malcolm away. I know it’s a ridiculous feeling. Especially when just hours ago I was lecturing Ellie about talking to strangers. But something about this old man feels familiar. Maybe he just stirs a familiar feeling in me. The feeling of wishing for a family. Wishing for parents and grandparents. Wishing for a circle of people around me, who would be there for me at the best of times and the worst of times. Wonderful times like Ellie’s birth, or her first steps. As cherished as those memories are, they are tinged with sadness because they are my memories only. I was, as ever, alone for the majority of Ellie’s milestones. Declan was in the air for her birth – somewhere over Ohio, he would later explain. And her first birthday. He was in LA. He was there when she cut her first tooth, but it was a coincidence. He was on a layover between flights. I guess now he was on a layover from his wife. From his family. I’m not foolish enough to think that having loving parents, or even a somewhat cantankerous grandfather, would make Declan’s betrayal any easier. I still really, really wish I had family around me. People to love me, and hug me, and tell me it will be all right even if they are only lying and saying it simply because it’s what I need to hear.

I’m a terrible judge of ages. When I was in junior cycle in secondary school, I used to think my English teacher was at least sixty. She wore cardigans and runners in the late noughties, while everyone else was layering tops and struggling to walk in chunky high heels. A few years after I finished school she got married and had a load of kids, so she must have been half as old as I thought. Still, I take a stab at guessing Shayne’s age. He has fine lines around his sea-grey eyes, but nothing deep. And although there is the odd fleck of grey hidden in his hair, his scraggy beard is grey-free. I assume he’s about my age. Certainly, no older than his mid-thirties. Thirty-four, I decide. As my imagination places a solid age stamp on him, my gut aches and I realise I’m jealous. Shayne Fairbanks is thirty-four years old and he still has his grandfather in his life. I haven’t even had parents since I was eleven. Grumpy or not, Shayne doesn’t know how lucky he is to have Malcolm.

‘You take care of him,’ I find myself saying again, with a wagging finger pointed towards the car.

‘I try to.’

My finger stills and I lower my hand. Try harder , I want to say, thinking of the snowflakes that stick to Malcolm’s bare head in the cold. Instead, I say, ‘Get him to wear a hat.’

‘I can’t. I knitted this for him.’ Shayne pulls the colourful woolly hat from his pocket again to show me.

‘You knitted it?’

‘You sound surprised,’ he says.

And he sounds offended.

Nonetheless, I am honest. ‘I am. You don’t seem like a knitter.’

‘Don’t I?’ He taps his chest. ‘Why not?’

I don’t tell him that I invented an imaginary wife for Malcolm who lovingly knitted his scarf and hat while sitting by an open fire in their lovely home. I don’t tell him because I know it’s not normal to create imaginary families for people. But it’s a bad habit. When I see people sitting alone on the bus, or in the hospital waiting room, or even ordering a coffee, I like to create friends and family for them. Just as I used to create a family for me in my mind. I’m very good at it. Straight after my parents’ crash I invented a little sister. She looked just like my mam, because I looked just like my dad. Our neighbour, whose name I can’t remember but I know she had a lot of cats, came to tell me that my parents were gone. She said people would come and get me soon and I would have a new family. I spent my first night in foster care that night. Three days later I went to my parents’ funeral. I was terrified. But at least I wasn’t alone. I brought my imaginary sister with me. I bounced around several foster homes after that, keeping little sis with me always. Right up until my eighteenth birthday, when the state was no longer paying for me and the family I had been with for three years let me go. I got a job in retail, started medical school and shared a flat with Cora and some of the other girls from college. College life was wild. I balanced hours on the wards with a stupid amount of study. Any hours that were left over, I was working to make rent. I rarely slept and survived on a diet of black coffee and rich tea biscuits and, although I was tired, I was never exhausted. And still, through it all, I kept my imaginary sister. She wasn’t as present as during those years in foster care, but she was there. Like a security blanket in the back of my mind. But I realise now that I haven’t thought about her in a long time. Not since the day I found out I was pregnant with Ellie. Not since the day I was going to have a family again.

‘You okay?’ I hear Shayne ask, and I wonder how long I’ve been zoned out.

‘Scarf,’ I blurt.

‘Sorry?’

Ellie grows heavy in my arms and I readjust my grip. My back cracks, and I exhale, feeling more comfortable now.

‘Did you knit the scarf too? All the scarves? They’ve very nice.’

Shayne unzips a smile. ‘No. Grandad knits those himself.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Nope. Grandad taught me to knit when I was a kid. I wasn’t sporty like all the other boys in my school.’

‘So, he thought he’d toughen you up with knitting skills,’ I tease.

‘Something like that. Yeah.’

‘Well, I think it’s brilliant.’

‘You do?’

‘Sure. The world needs more male knitters.’

‘Erm. Sure,’ he says.

‘I’m joking.’ I smile. ‘It doesn’t really matter if you’re male or female when it comes to knitting, does it? Although, I don’t knit, so maybe…’

He laughs, and I’m glad.

‘No. It really doesn’t matter. And, erm, could we keep this knitting thing between us?’

‘Sure.’ I nod.

Although I know as soon as I go inside I am going to call Cora and tell her about my horrible day. The day I hid my daughter in a cupboard. Lost her. Got scammed out of my last penny. Ate a particularly delicious sandwich with an old man on a roadside bench, and finally got chauffeured across the city by a male knitter. We’ll laugh for a while. And then I’ll probably cry. Actually, I will definitely cry. I decide I need to stop thinking about it right now, because I’m already starting to feel tears swell.

‘Well, you take care of that grandfather of yours, won’t you?’

‘You said that already,’ he reminds me.

‘I did?’

‘You did. Twice. And I will. I promise. I’ll stick a hat to his head, if I have to.’

I laugh. It’s a genuine hearty giggle and it’s the first time since Declan walked out that anything has made me feel light enough, even for a moment, to giggle.

It starts to snow again, heavier than before, and Shayne looks at Ellie sleeping on my shoulder.

‘You gotta get her inside.’

‘I do,’ I say, but suddenly I don’t want to go.

I want to hear more about his knitting and what type of glue he might use to secure a woollen hat to a bare head.

‘Goodbye, Bea.’

‘Bye, Shayne. Maybe I’ll see you around,’ I say, although I doubt it.

He smiles in a way that says he doubts it too. I watch as he walks back to the car, starts the engine and drives off, taking care as the roads grow slippery under falling snow.

‘Goodbye, Malcolm,’ I whisper, then I pull Ellie close to me and hold her so tightly she wriggles in her sleep.

I am more grateful than ever for the perfect little girl in my arms. I can cope with anything as long as I have my Ellie, I tell myself. Then I go inside, put her to bed and change out of my uniform into my favourite fluffy pyjamas with a cute tiger on the front of the top and a matching tiger print on the bottoms. Then I remember that Declan bought me these pyjamas for my birthday a couple of months ago, and I think about taking them off. But I’m too comfortable and too tired. I settle for calling him all sorts of names under my breath and plodding in my bare feet into the kitchen. I fetch a wine glass, open the fridge and pour Pinot Grigio from the bottle that has been open for more than a week. It’s bitter, and doesn’t even taste like wine any more, but even so I take the glass to the couch, curl up with a blanket and take out my phone to call Cora.

As usual I am distracted by a barrage of notifications from the crèche app. I exhale wearily and click into each one. Something about an outbreak of head lice and advising on the best, no doubt very expensive, shampoo to use to get rid of them. There’s something long and rambling about lost hats and gloves. And, finally, there is a reminder that tomorrow is Christmas jumper day. The children should wear their brightest and favourite jumper, apparently.

We are kindly asking for a donation of €5 from each child, which will be passed on to charity. Happy Christmas.

The message is signed off by Alannah and her name is followed by xoxo as if she’s the star of Gossip Girl .

I breathe a sigh of relief that there is actually a bright side to being unable to send Ellie to crèche tomorrow: I don’t have to worry about Christmas jumper day for another year. The round neck of my pyjamas suddenly feels tight and I tug it away from my neck. I can’t imagine what next week will look like without a new flat lined up. It’s beyond impossible to imagine how Ellie’s and my life will look this time next year. I have to imagine it will be better. I have to.

I’m barely a half glass in when the wine hits and in a fit of temper I message the scamming landlady.

I want my money back!!!

I wait a moment, and when there is no reply I knock back the remainder of my glass of wine and type again.

I know you scammed me. I want my money back!!!!

I add an extra exclamation mark for firm effect.

Hello????

Answer me????

You stole my money!!!

I’m going to the police!!!

It takes my winey brain several messages to realise that there is only a single grey tick appearing after the message sends.

‘She blocked me,’ I say with a gasp, as if anyone can hear me. ‘She bloody blocked me. Of course she did.’

Feeling smaller and stupider than ever, I call Cora. The phone rings for a few seconds before she picks up.

‘Hello,’ she says, sounding slightly out of breath.

‘Hey.’

‘Hi.’

‘Can you talk?’ I ask.

There’s some giggling and I think Cora is covering the phone with her hand as she says something incoherent to someone in the background.

‘Hey. Hey. Yeah. Sorry. You okay?’

‘I—’

There’s more giggling and Cora playfully says, ‘Stop it. stop it. It’s Bea. I gotta take this.’

I hear a grumble of frustration, at which Cora covers the phone again, but I can still hear her promise she’ll be quick.

‘If it’s a bad time?—’

‘No, no, it’s fine.’

She’s definitely out of breath and it sounds like she’s been running. Cora does not run. Even brisk walking bothers her. I cringe when I realise that I’m disturbing her and Finton having sex. I am beyond glad I didn’t video call her.

‘I can go,’ I say quickly. ‘Sorry. Forget I called.’

‘Bea. Stop. It’s fine. Finton is going out now anyway. I can talk. You sound off. What’s wrong?’

I know Finton is not going out. I can only imagine him sitting beside Cora on the couch or in bed or splayed across the kitchen table, rolling his eyes and cursing me. But I know that, even if I hang up now, Cora will call me back. And so, I let it all out. There are times where I am crying so hard I’m an incoherent mess and yet Cora seems to hear and understand everything.

‘Right. That’s it,’ she says. ‘We’re going to the guards about this scamming bitch.’

I agree, although since I don’t actually know her name, where she lives or even if she really is a she, I doubt there is much they can do.

‘And you and Ellie are coming to stay here.’

I don’t have time to thank her before she’s jumping in to reassure me, as if I might decline the offer. She could suggest Ellie and I sleep in the shed at the base of the garden and I wouldn’t decline.

‘It’ll be just like when we were in college again. God, those days were the best, weren’t they?’

My mind floods with memories. Five students crammed into a two-bedroomed apartment overlooking the canal, within walking distance of Trinity College. Dishes stacked in the sink. Empty vodka bottles lined up next to the bin, waiting until they took over almost the entire floor space before someone caved and took them to the recycling bank. Hair straighteners left next to random sockets. Half-eaten takeaways littering the coffee table. Make-up stains on the carpet that we covered up with a rug. Five girls who I thought were the family I had long hoped for. But, over the years in college, I slowly remembered what I knew all along. People leave . First it was Jessica. She didn’t pass her second-year exams and she moved home to Galway to work on her parents’ farm. We all texted for a while, but she reconnected with her school friends and things fizzled. Lorna was next to go. She met a guy studying bio-something-or-other and they took a year out to travel Australia. I saw her back on campus the following year. She had several new piercings, a smattering of tattoos and a new-found love of pottery. She transferred into a different degree and we lost touch. Andi left soon after that. She never actually gave us a reason. She simply stopped coming to lectures. One day, Cora and I came home to find her stuff gone and key left on the table. We tried texting and calling but she never replied or picked up. There was a rumour that she had an affair with one of our married professors. I remember hoping it wasn’t true, because what kind of self-respecting girl would do that? I think of Andi now, more than I ever have before. I guess because we’re more similar than we ever were before. I wonder what she is doing now. I wonder if she is okay? God, I hope so. For both our sakes.

I cry harder than ever as I remember a time my life was better than it ever had been before. I was a somebody. I had great friends. I was on the path to a wonderful career and stability for the first time since I was eleven years old. And then along came Declan. Declan with his beautiful face and sexy uniform. Declan with his charm and charisma. I was never looking for a fast pass to the perfect life. But then came Ellie with her beautiful face and Declan’s eyes and it felt as if the perfect life just sort of landed in my path. A voice inside my head taps at my brain like a tiny woodpecker. This is all your fault, you know. Tap, tap, tap . You let this happen. Tap, tap, tap . You left college to look after Ellie. You let Declan pay the rent and the bills because you took the first job you could get and you couldn’t match his big salary. You believed him when he said he wished he could be home more but his work made him so busy. You are the problem, Bea. You . Ellie deserves so much better.

I don’t say goodbye to Cora. The wine and exhaustion finally get the better of me and I fall asleep on the couch with the phone mashed against my face.