Page 4 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

His honesty surprises me.

‘Sit,’ he says again, rather sternly.

‘Okay,’ I say, walking carefully to the bench, overly aware that I could slip again at any second.

‘There you are,’ the man says, as I fill the space beside him. ‘I bet that’s much better. Was a nasty fall, that.’

I nod, wishing he would stop talking about it. ‘So, you’re really not a patient…’

‘Just visiting.’

‘Visiting MrSimmons?’ I wink.

He laughs. I like his laugh. It’s a croaky chuckle that sounds like rice rattling in a tin can and I can’t help but laugh along with him.

‘I’m Malcolm, by the way,’ he says, extending his hand.

I shake it, and wince as my shoulder twinges. ‘Bea.’

‘Bea.’ He pursues his lips, disapprovingly. ‘Short for something, or did your parents simply choose to name you after a winged insect?’

‘Beatrice.’ I giggle, unoffended. ‘But I’m just Bea.’

‘Okay, well, I’m not Mal. I’m Malcolm.’

‘It was very nice to meet you, Mal-Colm,’ I say, as I stand up.

‘You’re not leaving, are you?’

I glance at my watch. Five fifteen. I shrug. ‘’Fraid so. I’ve a bus to catch.’

Malcolm looks me up and down and nods.

‘Goodbye,’ I say, treading carefully as I walk away with the icy wind viciously nipping at the tip of my nose. I’ve barely taken a couple of steps when I glance over my shoulder and ask, ‘Are you getting the bus? Maybe we can walk together.’

‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ Malcolm says. ‘But I don’t need help. Beside, I’m not as clumsy as you. I’ve decent shoes on. See.’ He points towards the chunky boots on his feet that look sturdy enough to scale Everest. ‘Good night, Bea. And by the way, I quite like bees. Without them, humans would cease to exist in a matter of months.’

I know. I read something on Wikipedia about bees preventing famine of something like that.

I smile. ‘Good night, Malcolm.’

It takes longer than usual to reach the bus stop. I’m cautious about ending upon my back again. There are three of us waiting. A guy without gloves, sporadically blowing into his hands andrubbing them together. And a woman shifting from one foot to the other to stop her toes from cramping, while announcing every couple of minutes, ‘Christ, it’s cold.’

The bus arrives shortly with windows so fogged up they almost look frosted. I let the guy and the woman on first. It’s packed and they go straight upstairs. The doors close behind me and the bus begins to move, tossing me forward, and I shuffle along the aisle until I spy a seat down the back next to a woman with a duffle coat and a barrage of Penneys shopping bags.

‘Mind if I sit here?’ I ask, pointing to her bags taking up the seat beside her.

She groans, rolls her eyes and gathers her bags onto her lap.

‘Thank you,’ I say, as the moving bus shoves me into the seat.

She doesn’t reply as she uses the sleeve of her coat to wipe a circle in the condensation so she can stare out the window. My fingers tremble as they adjust from the cold outside to the heat of the bus. I almost drop my phone taking it out of my bag to call the crèche.

‘Hello, Little Apples, Alannah speaking.’

‘Alannah. It’s Bea, I’m so sorry but?—’

‘Take your time. Ellie is finishing a painting,’ Alannah says in that clipped tone that I know means, ‘Have fifteen quid ready when you get here,you’re late.’

---