Page 19 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

‘I don’t know where he lives. London somewhere. I am an idiot.’

Cora hugs me then. She doesn’t bristle like a stray cat the way she usually does. She just holds me and lets me cry and tells me she will do everything she can to help.

SEVEN

Ellie wakes during the night and I make it in to her room just as she throws up everywhere. Seeing a fizzy apple slushie for a second time at foura.m. makes my own stomach heave. I hold my breath as best I can, strip the bed and run a bath. Ellie thinks bathing in the middle of the night is the best thing ever and she’s wide awake and splashing. Kneeling at the edge of the bath on a damp mat, my eyes are burning and I can scarcely keep them open. Ellie shoves a rubber shark towards me, making a nom, nom, nom noise. I don’t budge. She drops the shark and it makes a small splash.

‘Mammy, aren’t you scared?’ she says, with her big, round eyes that her father gave her staring inquisitively at me.

I fetch the large, fluffy towel from the rack and scoop her up. She giggles and snuggles into me as I dry her.

‘C’mon, chickpea, you can sleep in my bed tonight.’

Ellie seems so small and delicate tucked up on Declan’s side of the bed. She’s asleep within minutes. My eyes still burn, but they are wide and staring at the ceiling now as sleep eludes me.

I get up and put the pukey bed linen in the washing machine and wash the floor in Ellie’s room. I climb back into bed beside Ellie and replay her words in my mind.

‘Mammy, aren’t you scared?’

Silently, as I watch my beautiful little girl sleep, I answer her question in my head. ‘Yes. So very scared.’

In the morning, Ellie and I walk to crèche and I’m hoping the fresh air will do me good. But I am like a zombie by the time I reach work. My shift drags and I consider napping in the supply closet on my break, but when I check my phone I’ve a missed call from Alannah and, instantly, I know what it’s about.

‘It’s spreading like wildfire,’ Alannah says when I call. ‘They all have it. Time of year. The little ones are always sick just before Santa comes. You’ll have to come get her. And keep her home. Not just until the puking stops, but until she’s been well for at least three days. I can’t tell you how many of them come back in here while they’re still dying. I’m sick of ringing parents to come get sick kids. We’re thinking about putting a fining system in place.’

Alannah would charge parents for the air their kids breathe if she thought she could, but nonetheless I agree to keep Ellie at home until she is better.

Elaine makes no effort to hide how put out she is when I explain.

‘Sick just before Christmas is coincidental, isn’t it? I mean, if I had a euro for everyone who called in sick and then suddenly had their Christmas shopping done, then I’d be a very rich woman.’

‘I really am sorry,’ I say, panicking about the wages I will lose while I miss work.

‘Is there no one else who could watch her?’

‘It’s just Ellie and me.’

I hope she doesn’t mention Declan. I got drunk at the last work party and made a big song and dance about how myboyfriend was a pilot. I was mortified for weeks afterwards, but I only did it to get under Elaine’s skin. She’d been sticking me with the worst shifts for weeks because she knew how badly I needed them. For once, her inability to listen serves me well. She has forgotten I ever mentioned Declan, as she says, ‘Well, go on then. Go pick Ellie up. But ring me as soon as she’s better. I need you back here as soon as possible.’

Outside, I’m surprised to find Malcolm in the usual spot, where the arms of the old oak tree stretch and yawn behind him. I wasn’t expecting to see him, since I’m leaving work so early, and I wonder how long he sits out here every day. Hours, perhaps? And I am more curious than ever about why. Once again, he is without a hat while the rest of him is well wrapped up for the weather. Today, his scarf is brown and burnt orange, like the leaves of the oak tree in autumn. He sits with his eyes closed, his head bowed and his gloved hands clasped on his lap. For a moment I envy his serenity. He’s so calm, he’s like a statue. A non-breathing statue. Before I have time to think, I find myself running towards him.

‘Malcolm. Malcolm. Malcolm,’ I call out, getting louder each time. ‘Oh God, Malcolm.’

Speed and an icy footpath is, as ever a menacing combination, and I find myself landing on my coccyx just as I reach him. He jolts and his eyes shoot open.

‘What are you doing down there?’

My butt burns, but not nearly as much as my face.

‘Slipped.’

‘Shoes.’ He points.

‘Shoes,’ I repeat. ‘Are you all right?’

His eyes widen. ‘Am I all right? I’m not the one on the ground.’

‘Yes. But—’ I cut myself off.

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