Page 1 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

ONE

I pause outside the main hospital entrance. Icy wind claws at my cheeks and I cup my hands, bring them to my mouth and blow hard. Eccles Street is beautifully still, as if the usual hustle of Dublin city is on mute. Moonlight shines through a blanket of cloud, casting shadows at my feet. Inside my head is blissfully silent too. And I know to enjoy it. The sweet spot of calm when one day winds to an end before another begins never lasts long.

An approaching siren slices through the air in the distance. I glance overhead as clouds part. The sun will be up soon. I take a deep breath and step forward. The huge, glass automatic doors part and a grey-haired man in chequered pyjamas shuffles out. He slips a cigarette between his lips and bobs his head up and down as he asks, ‘Do you have a lighter, love?’

‘I don’t smoke, sorry,’ I say. ‘But I think they sell matches in the tuck shop. It’s open after nine.’ I glance at my watch and realise that’s more than an hour away. ‘Or they might be able to help at the nurses’ station.’

Without a word, he turns and shuffles back inside, struggling to keep his slippers on.

A lady in a black bomber jacket and with car keys in her hand races towards me from the car park.

‘Are you a nurse?’ she asks, breathless. ‘Where should I go?’

I cup my ear to hear her better as the siren grows louder.

‘It’s my grandfather. He had a fall. They asked me to hurry. Room 114, they said. Or 124. I can’t remember.’

‘MrCullen,’ I say, thinking of the jolly ninety-six-year-old who loves to dance, even an IV line and oxygen tank not slowing him down. My heart pinches, knowing that, if someone called his granddaughter at this hour, his time is limited.

She nods and her keys rattle in her shaking hand. ‘Yes. Yes. Tom Cullen. Do you know where he is?’

I smile, happy to help at a time I can only imagine must be so difficult for her. ‘Room 124. Reception is just through here, on the right.’ I point over my shoulder at the glass door behind us. ‘You have to check in there first.’ I look at her teary eyes and shaking hands, and realise she’s not taking in a word I’m saying. ‘I can show you, if it helps.’

She nods and we jump aside together as the ambulance comes skidding into the bay. Blue scrubs and white coats hurry out of the doors to meet the paramedics and the patient and I know the chaos of another day at StHelen’s Hospital has begun.

Inside, I leave MrCullen’s granddaughter in the capable hands of Órlaith at reception. Grab a coffee from the vending machine in the hall and glance at my watch. If I pick my feet up, I won’t be late. I hurry inside, taking large strides; my mind is already on the ward and the day ahead when I feel someone grab my arm. A young woman, I guess about my age, in her late twenties or early thirties. She lets go as suddenly as she clutched on and apologises as she wipes her hands against her jeans.

She looks my uniform up and down – a navy, knee-length skirt and matching short-sleeve top, that I layer over a once-white, but edging towards cream, long-sleeve. ‘How bad is it in here?’

The chunky bangles around her wrist chime as she continues to rub her palms against her thighs until they must burn.

‘How bad is what?’

My mouth gapes, and I don’t mean to stare but she’s a dead ringer for Ginger Spice back in the day. Her head-to-toe light-blue denim and dyed, pomegranate-red hair is ultra-cool.

‘The germs.’ She whispers as if the word itself is dirty.

Her eyes are locked on mine and her back is poker straight as she keeps one foot jutted forward, as if she’s ready to make a run for it at any moment.

‘Just be honest,’ she begs. ‘Is this place crawling?’

‘I hope not. I’m the one who cleans it.’ I smile, proudly.

She visibly deflates. ‘You’re not staff?’

‘I am. Just not medical.’

‘Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just…your uniform.’ She points.

I scrunch my nose. ‘Confuses a lot of people, don’t worry.’ I tilt my head towards a nearby automatic hand sanitiser and she races towards it like a greyhound desperate for water. I’m about to take my coffee upstairs and clock in when she bursts into tears and tells me she wants to visit her boyfriend but she had such bad OCD she can’t bring herself to take another step.

‘I’m not family, so they won’t tell me anything over the phone,’ she says, sobbing, and I try to pass her a tissue but she shakes her head. I shove the tissue back into my pocket and guide her towards a waiting area, taking care not to touch her. She doesn’t take a seat. But she does give me her mobile number and her boyfriend’s name.

I promise to investigate and message her later with news. I skid onto the ward fifteen minutes late and of course bump into Elaine as I round the corner.

‘You’re late,’ she says, in theI’m-the-ward-manager-and-your-bosstone that she rarely uses.

I open my mouth to explain but before I have a chance she says, ‘Oh, Bea. C’mon. Third time this week.’

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