Page 71 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

‘So, you’ll come? I booked the Silly Hen on Camden Street. I have no idea if it’s good, but the Tripadvisor reviews are great so…’

He trails off, no doubt seeing the look on my face.

‘It’s really good,’ I say, which I realise makes it sound like I’ve actually been there myself and not just heard the doctors and nurses here rave about the great food. I can only imagine what a place like that costs, with its urban minimalist décor and Moët sign in the window.

‘I’d love to, but I have Ellie,’ I say, giving him the first excuse that comes into my head.

‘Bring her.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m sure they have a kids’ menu.’

I make a face that confirms a place like that definitely does not serve nuggets and chips.

‘Okay. We’ll book somewhere else. Where does Ellie like?’

My budget can just about stretch as far as McDonald’s, but it means dipping into my flat deposit savings and I just can’t, not when anyone could discover us in the storage room any day.

‘It’s a lovely offer, thank you. But I have plans this evening.’

I watch Shayne deflate like someone letting the air out of a balloon. He can tell I’m lying and I hate myself for it. I wish he knew how much I’d love to join them. But I can’t possibly tell him that, without explaining that I’m just too broke.

‘Okay. No problem. Maybe another time.’

The generic phrase makes me sad. We both know, that more often than not,maybe another timemeansnever another time.

‘Well, like I said,’ he says, as he begins to walk away. ‘This was great, but I better get Grandad home.’

‘You’ll come back though, right? You’ll bring him back tomorrow?’

Shayne nods. ‘Sure.’

TWENTY-NINE

Despite Órlaith’s best Angela Lansbury impersonation, she doesn’t find out much about John. She knows he was discharged after twenty-four hours and someone organised for him to go to a charity-run homeless shelter. She doesn’t know if he actually made it there, or how long he can stay. I’m filled with sadness to think John may end up on the streets again. And if he does, in this weather the outcome won’t be as good next time.

I find that the first person I want to tell is Shayne, but I don’t have his number, and calling round to Malcolm’s house to deliver something that may be bad news or may be just plain gossip doesn’t feel right. I try to keep busy, which is easy with every bed on every ward full, and cross my fingers that Shayne brings Malcolm back today.

Thankfully, just after lunchtime I hear the familiar gruff voice and someone saying, ‘No, Grandad, I can’t ask them for an armchair.’

On the ward, I find Malcolm sitting next to MrsMorgan’s bed again. He’s shifting in the plastic chair and complaining. ‘This thing is as hard as a rock. I better not get haemorrhoids, I tell ya.’

‘Grandad!’

‘The beds aren’t much better,’ MrsBrennan croaks across the ward.

‘Oh, stop complaining,’ MrsMorgan grouses back. ‘Settle down, Malcolm. Rest your bones.’

‘Or sit here,’ MrsBrennan says, pointing to the chair beside her bed. ‘It’s softer. Better for the…you know…the situation.’

The chair beside MrsBrennan’s bed is identical in size, shape, colour and texture. In fact, I’m willing to guess every chair in the hospital is the same, solid bluey-grey plastic.

Malcolm picks up the chair beside MrsMorgan’s bed and attempts to carry it across the ward. He makes it halfway before he needs to set it down to catch his breath. Shayne hurries over to help.

‘Where do you want it, Grandad?’ he asks.

Malcolm points to MrsBrennan’s bed and then returns to MrsMorgan’s bed and extends his hand. She looks at him, and I can almost see time rewind in her eyes. As if she’s a young woman, being asked by a handsome young man to dance.

‘Will you join me?’ he asks.

She smiles and take his hand. He helps her into her fluffy maroon slippers, and holds her dressing gown open so she can slip her arms in. Then they walk over hand in hand and sit down on the waiting seats beside MrsBrennan’s bed.

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