Page 69 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

‘You see there’s this patient, MrsMorgan, a lovely woman,’ I begin, and I can tell I’m losing him. I speed up. ‘Anyway, she is a great chess player. Too great. No one can beat her.’ There’s a twinkle in his eyes and I can see a slight spark of interest emerge.‘I’d love if she could play someone on her level, you know, like a real challenge.’

‘A worthy adversary,’ he says.

‘Yes. Exactly.’

He taps his chest again. ‘And you think that someone is me?’

‘I hope so.’

‘And this has nothing to do with getting me inside for my appointment.’

‘Oh, it has everything to do with getting you inside for your appointment,’ I confess. ‘But it’s also about MrsMorgan and chess.’

‘I’m old, Busy Bea, I didn’t think I was senile, but for the life of me I can’t see how chess and seeing my doctor are related.’

‘Well, there needs to be a prize to make it worth your while, right?’

He cocks his head in a way that says,This just got interesting.

‘If you win, Shayne has to back off about any and all medical appointments.’

His eyes twinkle, intrigued.

‘But if you lose?—’

‘I won’t lose.’

‘If you do…then you go see this doctor. See what they have to say.’

Malcolm inhales sharply. My teeth chatter harder than ever and Shayne says, ‘Sounds like a fair deal. What do you say, Grandad?’

Malcolm slides his arms into the sleeves of his coat and rolls his shoulders to settle it into place. ‘Fine. Let’s play.’

TWENTY-EIGHT

It takes me ages to find the chessboard, and I’m worried that Malcolm will lose patience and leave. But I needn’t have been concerned. When I finally find the games, under a stack of papers in the nurses’ station, and return to the ward, I find Malcolm sitting in a plastic chair by MrsMorgan’s bed and they are deep in conversation about politics. I hate to interrupt them, but I am anxious to get the game played before Malcolm’s appointment time.

‘Okay,’ I say, balancing the board and all the pieces on the edge of MrsMorgan’s bed. ‘When you’re ready, players, make your move.’

The game begins and soon the level of concentration consumes the room. I prop MrsBrennan up with several pillows so she can watch from her bed, and some patients from the other wards trickle in to observe masters at work.

Soon, there is a semicircle of patients around Malcolm and MrsMorgan. It’s the most excitement we’ve had on the ward in months. Shayne and I fall to the back of the small crowd.

‘Thank you,’ he whispers.

‘Don’t thank me yet,’ I say. ‘He might win.’

‘That’s okay,’ Shayne says, ‘I’ve already spoken with the doctor. I have his prescription here.’ He pats his pocket. ‘I’ll pick it up in the pharmacy downstairs on our way home.’

My heart soars, relieved that, however the game goes, Malcolm is going to get his medicine.

‘I haven’t seen him smile like this in a long time,’ Shayne says, his voice cracking.

‘I knew they’d hit it off,’ I say, quietly confident that Malcolm has made a new friend in MrsMorgan. And possibly MrsBrennan too, who shouts sporadically, ‘Finish her,’ with as much vigour as if we were locked in a real-life battle ofMortal Kombatinstead of one of the most reserved board games you can get.

‘Did you hear anything about our friend John?’ Shayne asks.

‘Not yet. But my friend on reception is looking into it.’

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