Page 119 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

‘Oh.’ I swallow my shock. ‘You can take mine.’

I bend down and pass her my colourful kite.

She doesn’t say a word. Shayne seems lost for words also until he finally says, ‘You know, I could use the restroom too.’

Cora seems to catch on quickly. ‘Me too. I’m bursting.’

Malcolm and Elaine don’t seem to notice us leave. They stand facing each other, their kites by their sides like pistols, as if they are going to turn back to back, take ten paces, turn and shoot. Uncertainty swirls inside me as we gain distance on them. I squash it quickly, reminding myself that Elaine is Malcolm’s daughter. Nothing is going to happen to him because we take our eyes off him for a few minutes and leave them to talk.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Shayne says as we walk. ‘I wonder how she knew we were here.’

‘Didn’t she used to go kite-flying with Malcolm when she was a kid?’

Shayne’s eyes fill with tears and I feel awful. I thought I was resurfacing a happy memory.

‘Yeah,’ he says, sniffling.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘Mam’s here. They’re talking. Thank you,’ he says, a teary crackle breaking up his voice.

‘All I did was send a photo,’ I say.

‘And it was everything.’

FORTY-EIGHT

For the next six days, Malcolm, Shayne, Ellie, Elaine and I fly a kite in the park every single day. Elaine insisted we both take the week off work.

‘Claudia and Emer can handle things,’ she said, although I knew by the look on her face that she doubts very much that they can, but she also doesn’t think it is important any more.

There are other activities too. A horse-drawn carriage aroundSt. Stephen’s Green. Malcolm makes the driver stop halfway round.

‘It stinks,’ he says. ‘I’m getting off.’

He’s right, the horse is particularly potent, and although at one point I think Shayne might have to carry Malcolm home, the short walk back is delightful.

Ellie has loved sleeping in a bed again, although I have loved it less. Who knew a four-year-old could kick like a horse in their sleep? Elaine spends a lot of time in the kitchen; making soup Malcolm barely manages more than a mouthful of.

‘He’s not eating any of it,’ Shayne said once after a bath of potato and leek that the rest of us enjoyed immensely.

‘I don’t think it matters,’ I said, as I watched her lovingly add salt and pepper to a boiling pot while humming ‘Let’s Go Fly a Kite’.

On day seven, Ellie wakes before me and grabs her kite. She races into Malcolm’s room before I have a chance to catch her.

‘Ready?’ she chirps, far too bubbly for an hour of the morning that hasn’t seen the sun rise yet.

I race in after her.

‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s early. Go back to?—’

A shiver runs the length of my spine when I hear Malcolm’s laboured breathing, like a rusty hinge swinging. His face is chalky and the edges of his lips are tinged a bluish-green as if he’s cold. The heating woke me briefly earlier when it came on and air rattled through the pipes; despite the January cold outside, the house is toasty.

‘Get Shayne,’ I say, with a raspy voice crack.

Ellie takes a step back, narrowing her eyes, and her little face looks concerned.

‘It’s okay, chickpea,’ I whisper, taking care not to spook her. ‘I just need Shayne now. Can you wake him please?’

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