The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

Chapter 20

TWENTY

Elaine asks me to stay late to make up the lost hour’s work this morning.

‘Two patients on StJohn’s ward have gone home, and their mattresses need scrubbing before we re-dress the beds.’

I think of the grubby, plastic-covered mattresses that must be as old as I am. I don’t mind washing them; the trouble is that I never feel I can get them fully clean. Even with the strongest antibacterial spay we have.

‘Is it MrCarter and MrFlynn?’ I ask.

Elaine’s eyes narrow.

‘Gone home,’ I clarify. ‘It’s just MrCarter has a new grandson, and he was so hoping to meet him this Christmas.’

Elaine’s lips curl into a smile so subtle that if I blinked, I’d have missed it.

‘Yes, MrCarter is gone home. But, really, Bea, patients’ family life isn’t our business.’ Her words are matronly but her tone is soft and her smile is widening. It’s a rare glimpse of her softer side and I can tell she is as happy for MrCarter as I am.

‘So, you’ll stay, then?’ she continues.

‘I would if I could,’ I say. ‘But I have to pick my daughter up?—’

‘Yes. Yes. At crèche,’ she cuts in.

‘I could come back,’ I add quickly and overly enthusiastically.

‘I didn’t think you had anyone to watch her?’

‘Oh. I don’t. But I could bring her here. She’s a great kid, and as quiet as a mouse if she has a colouring book.’

Elaine raises her hand to hush me. ‘No, no. Goodness, the wards are no place for a child. It’s fine, Bea. Go home.’

I swallow a lump of air that seems to stretch and burn on the way down. Suddenly, sneaking Ellie onto the ward this evening doesn’t seem like such a good plan. And yet, it remains my only plan. I just have to make sure Elaine doesn’t find out.

As I wrap up for the day, MrsMorgan sings Christmas carols at the top of her lungs. MrsBrennan tries to join in but just singing the chorus tires her out. Elaine places a portable radio next to the window and puts ChristmasFM on for them instead. I work as hard and fast as I can and I manage to free up time to wash the vacated mattresses before leaving to collect Ellie.

It’s finally stopped snowing, but I change into my red wellington boots all the same. The blanket of glistening, white, cloud-like snow that covered the ground so beautifully this morning has been disturbed by people, going about daily life, trying to get from one place to the next. The car park and the road have been cleared to make way for traffic. Mounds of mucky, slushy snow are piled high to the sides and everything and everywhere seems grubby. There’s a man sitting on the bench under the oak tree. For a moment my heart soars, but this man is wearing a woolly hat and petting the huge, black dog sitting at his feet. As I get closer, I take in his face. He’s about my age and it’s obvious it the dog who needs the sit-down and not him.

‘Hello,’ he says as I pass.

‘Hello.’

I pause for a moment but we don’t exchange more words. He doesn’t tell me to be careful because the footpath is slippery. He doesn’t comment on my footwear, or ask me if I’d like to sit down. He doesn’t really notice me at all. I wasn’t expecting him to, of course. But, still, I found myself longing to sit under the branches of the tired, old tree and chat.

Snowploughs have tidied the city and traffic moves freely. I’m on time for crèche, and relieved to save twenty-five quid. But my relief soon plummets when Ellie and I get back to the hospital and Elaine’s car is still in the car park.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I tell Ellie.

She shakes her head. ‘I’m hungry.’

I use the twenty-five euro I’ve saved to buy us both a McDonald’s and I splurge and add a coffee to the order. After, I swear out loud; Elaine’s car is still in the car park.

Ellie’s face is a picture, with round eyes and lips pulled into an ‘o’ shape, upon hearing my bad language.

‘Sorry, chickpea,’ I say, covering my mouth with my hand. ‘We mustn’t say that word.’

‘But you did,’ she tells me with a cheeky smirk.

‘I know. I’m very bold.’

I suggest a walk and Ellie protests with a stomp of her foot.

‘It’ll be fun,’ I lie, feeling every bit as fed up as my four-year-old. ‘We can go see the Christmas lights.

It is surprisingly fun. Grafton Street is beautiful after dark, as we walk up and down the pedestrianised shopping street with our necks craned back to take in the sparkling garlands that stretch from one side of the street to the other. Ellie counts them all. Other children walk alongside their parents doing exactly the same. I wonder if they are out on a winter’s evening for a pleasure stroll, or if they are out, like us, because they have nowhere else to go.

After an hour, Ellie is fed up and we are both cold. I scoop her into my arms and carry her for as long as my tired back will allow as we make our way back to the hospital. Thankfully, Elaine’s car is finally gone.

I place my finger over my lips and tell Ellie to be quiet as we go inside. The usually busy reception area is painfully quiet and without any people it appears larger than usual too. I take a deep breath, hold Ellie tight in my arms and keep my head down as I rush past reception. I don’t recognise the woman on the desk and I rehearse something about forgetting my bag in my head in case she stops me, but she doesn’t look up from her computer.

I hurry into the lift and my insides are making a fuss as we hop out on the fourth floor and duck into the storage room in one fast-paced charge.

‘Here we are, chickpea,’ I say, stopping short of adding Home Sweet Home.

I wait for Ellie to mention the distinctive smell of hospital cleaning products, or to complain about the cramped space, that, although there is room for her little body to lie out flat on the floor, there really isn’t room for me to do the same. But she doesn’t say a word. She cuddles me tight and I slide to the floor, rocking gently back and forth until she is asleep in my arms. Every day won’t be like this, I tell myself. Although, away from Finton’s pointed glares and Cora’s walking on eggshells between him and us, I already feel better.

I wait until Ellie is soundly asleep before I lie her on the ground and scurry around to find what we need. I take blankets off an empty, freshly made bed and I fill us two large glasses of water from the water cooler in the hall. I even sneak a couple of chocolates from the box of Milk Tray on MrsMorgan’s bedside locker. She’s always trying to feed me chocolate, but although I’m sure she won’t mind, the sneaky act, while she lies sleeping, still makes my stomach flip.

Back in the storage room, I make a comfortable space for Ellie. I fold blankets for under and over her and I lift her into her makeshift bed. Then I find a spot for myself next to the sweeping brushes. I sit with my back to the wall, tuck my knees against my chest and cover myself with a blanket. Minutes turn to hours, but I can’t sleep. There’s a hum of something electrical coming from the hall and it buzzes like a bee in summer. I smile. The thought reminds me of Malcolm.

I eat the chocolate and then, wide awake, I once again sneak into the hall. The wards are eerie at night as the sound of fluorescent lights overhead battle for space to be heard over snoring. It’s harder than I thought to walk around unnoticed, as nurses patrol the wards, appearing sporadically to check on patients. I duck in and out of the toilets, or hide behind a trolley. But, inspired by my Milk Tray heist, I nab some tinsel from the hall – a sparkly, green strip – and I manage to pick up a red strip round the corner. There’s an artificial tree at the end of the corridor and I slide a handful of decorations off and stuff them into my pocket. I turn round to retreat to the storage room with my haul, then stop in my tracks and jump.

‘Elaine!’ I squeak when I see her standing in front of me with her arms folded.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asks.

‘Forgot my keys,’ I say without pausing.

She tilts her head. ‘But you said you don’t drive.’

‘House keys,’ I go on, as a slight wobble creeps into my voice.

‘Where’s your daughter?’

‘Oh, erm.’ Heat creeps up my neck. ‘Not with me.’

Her lips twist to one side and her expression says, I can see that. The air is thick with tension as I cut through it, saying, ‘Well, I better get going.’

Elaine’s eyes drop to the green and red, glittery tinsel in my hand. Her folded arms pull a fraction closer to her chest.

‘For MrsBrennan,’ I say. ‘She’s been so poorly lately, I thought I could decorate her bedside locker to cheer her up.’ The lie leaves an instant bad taste in my mouth. The tinsel is not for MrsBrennan, but the way Elaine’s expression softens tells me she doesn’t know that.

‘Okay, well, bye then,’ I say, walking away brimful of guilt for using a poor old lady’s health as a cover-up for my stealing.

‘Bea?’ Elaine calls after me.

I stop in my tracks and inhale sharply before I turn round.

‘Yeah?’

Elaine’s arms hang by her sides now and she’s looking at me with the concerned expression of a parent, or a caring teacher. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Hmm?’

‘It’s just, you don’t seem yourself lately and if there’s anything?—’

‘Everything is fine,’ I say much too quickly and eagerly.

Her face is saying a million things all at once and yet I’m not entirely sure what any of those things are. We’ve never really spoken outside of discussing which cleaner brand to switch to to save on the budget, or checking the roster, or buying new bed pans. I’ve never actually thought of Elaine as a person outside of work. She has existed to me only as my boss. A woman who tells me where to go and what to do for eight hours a day. I never imagined her with a life, or a family or friends outside of work. But the way she is looking at me now tells me she has thought those things about me. Has she thought about my daughter, and the man I wanted to marry, the life I believed I had and would have? Can she tell it’s all gone? Does she know everything is all gone?

‘Okay. If you’re sure,’ she says.

‘Mm-hmm,’ I say, choking up.

I’m not sure how I feel about this side of Elaine. If she wants to be a concerned colleague, now, with my small child stashed and sleeping in the storage closet, is the worst possible time.