Page 113 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

‘Bea. Go!’ Elaine snaps, pointing a ridged finger towards the door.

I sigh, bow my head and walk away. On the corridor, bright fluorescent lights hit me. One of the lights is wonky. The bulb flickers sporadically and it makes a buzzing sound as I pass under. I freeze on the spot and listen to the hum. Like a bee in summer working hard to collect nectar from a sunflower. My mind races. A busy bee. Malcolm’s nickname for me. The bench in the car park where he sat alone for hours. Snowflakes melting on his bare head as he waited for the courage to step inside. Wellington boots and hand-knit scarves. A chequered coat and a petrol-station Christmas card. Disney movies. Tennis rackets in flower pots and kite-flying. Malcolm may only have been in my life a matter of weeks, but already my head is full of memories and my heart is full of love. I can only imagine what my life would have been like with a grandad like him caring for me.

I turn quickly and my heels make a squeaking sound against the floor that I polished yesterday and I march back towards Elaine.

Her face is in her hands when I find her. She doesn’t look up when she sees me, although I know she’s aware I’m here.

‘Do you know why I spent the last two weeks locked away in a closet?’ I say.

She still doesn’t look up.

‘Because I had nowhere else to go. I don’t have a family. I don’t have anyone who loves me. There is no one to care if I sleep in a closet, or on the street, or even if I sleep at all. Do you knowwhat I would give to have someone love me the way your father loves you?’

Elaine lowers her hands and when her eyes meet mine I can see they are teary.

‘You have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she says.

‘I know he waited outside in the snow for a chance to bump into you.’

Surprise flashes in her eyes.

‘And not just once. He sat out there day after day. He was desperate to fix things. And I don’t know what’s broken between you. It’s none of my business. But he’s your father and, whatever it is, don’t you want to talk it out?’

Elaine sighs. ‘We can’t talk it out.’

‘Sure you can. And with Shayne’s help?—’

‘Bea!’ She cuts me off. ‘We can’t. I don’t remember what it is.’

‘Oh.’

‘Lots of little things. After my mam died, we sort of sparked off each other. One thing after another. One harsh word after another, until one day he said he wished I’d died instead.’

I gasp.

‘So, you see…’ She shakes her head. ‘Not talking is easier than talking, if all you ever say upsets each other.’

‘He couldn’t have meant what he said.’

Elaine makes a face. ‘He missed my mam. And I was hard work. Always so opinionated.’

I smile, meekly, knowing who she inherited that trait from.

‘He’s sorry,’ I tell her. ‘He’s heartbroken. I think he has been for years.’

‘No!’ she says with a loud sigh that seems to let all the air out of her and shrink her, and I can tell she is heartbroken too.

‘I’d give anything to have a family. And you’re throwing yours away,’ I say, and once again I turn and walk away.

FORTY-FIVE

ONE WEEK LATER

By mid-January it is as if Christmas never happened. The decorations are taken down and put away for another year. The buzz and excitement of the festive period has been replaced with complaining about the cold weather and counting down the days until spring. Ellie is back in crèche, I am back at work and Malcolm is back at home. There was nothing more the doctors could do for him, and they promised Shayne he would be more comfortable in his own bed. They were right. Shayne brought the television upstairs. It took us hours to figure the wiring out, but finally we got it connected and it sits proudly in the corner of Malcolm’s bedroom. He and Ellie watch Disney movies most evenings after crèche. Shayne and I take turns cooking, or we cook together. Malcolm rarely manages more than a bite or two. Ellie and I share a double bed in the spare room. Ellie says it’s like sleeping in the garden, with pink-and-lilac floral curtains, a cerise-pink carpet and embossed multicoloured wallpaper. Shayne says he remembers his grandmother choosing the colour scheme when he was just a child and Malcolm never wanted to change it. I imagine the whole house is the same as when Elaine grew up here.

Elaine and I do not speak at work. She emails my cleaning schedule to me in advance and she turns her back if she meets me on the corridor. The storage room is locked and if I need anything I have to ask the other cleaners, who’ve been given keys, to fetch it for me.

‘What’s up Elaine’s ass?’ I overhear Claudia, one of the senior cleaners, ask, shouting over the sound of the hoover.

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