Page 20 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

‘Oh.’ He scoffs. ‘You thought I was dead, did you?’

‘Ha-ha. No. God no,’ I lie, my heart still racing a little from the fear of it. How would I ever explain something like that to Elaine?

‘You know old people sleep. And sometimes, we even wake up again.’

I don’t know what to say to that, so I simply admit, ‘Speaking of sleep. I didn’t get much myself last night.’ As if tiredness can explain a multitude. Falling over. Twice. Summer shoes in winter. Teary eyes. Assuming that all the elderly people I befriend will pass away. The latter is a downside to working on a ward for the old and frail, and I won’t lie, it causes plenty of the tears too.

‘Are you going to nap there?’ he asks, with a wide grin that exaggerates the lines and folds around his mouth, but nonetheless suits him.

‘Maybe. I’m getting used to it down here.’

He pats the bench beside him and my heart sinks when I must shake my head. ‘Afraid I can’t today.’

‘Oh.’

‘In a rush.’

‘Ah. That’s the thing with young people, isn’t it? Always so busy hurrying from one place to the next because you think you have all the time in the world. But, really, you’re just chasing your life away. I should know.’

I’d love to ask him what he means. It’s the nearest he’s come to telling me anything about himself, but I glance at my watch and I have mere minutes to catch the next bus.

‘You’re not going to start running again, are you?’ he asks, and he seems both disappointed and concerned that I might actually break my neck. I’m slightly concerned that he might be right.

‘I’m late.’

‘Thought as much. Right, then. You’ll be needing these.’ He leans forward and pulls out a pair of fire-engine-red wellington boots from behind his back. ‘They were my wife’s. For the garden. I reckon you’re about the same size.’

‘Oh.’

I think he wants me to take them. It makes a range of emotions swell in my near-empty stomach. Confusion. Awkwardness. Some sort of sweet gratitude.

‘They’re not going to fit me,’ he says. His grin falters slightly and I wonder if this is making him feel as weird as it’s making me.

‘I… I…’

‘Take them. Don’t put them on, if you’d rather not. But at least I’ve done my bit trying to keep you upright.’

He shoves the wellies towards me. They look brand new. There’s not a scuff mark anywhere and I think I catch a glimpse of a price tag stuck inside.

‘She didn’t have athlete’s foot or anything like that,’ he says, rather seriously, as if he’s concerned that foot fungus is the cause of my reluctance.

‘Oh. Erm, right, okay. Thank you.’

I take the bright wellies and, just as I thought, when I look inside there is a small price sticker on the insole.

‘Thank you very much, Malcolm. This is kind.’

‘This is sensible,’ he says, with a firm nod.

‘Yes. That too.’

‘Are you going inside?’ I ask, as I slip off my runners and pull on the wellies, which, surprisingly, are a good fit.

‘Not today.’

There are a million questions I want to ask this curious old man.Why don’t you wear a hat? Do you ever go inside? Why do you come here? How long do you stay? Why on earth did you buy brand-new wellies for someone who works here?

But all that I have time to say is, ‘Will I see you again?’

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