Page 3 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

I shove the sleeve of my coat up my arm just enough to glance at my watch. I’ve ten minutes to catch the bus, but the footpath isfrosty. The further away from the hospital doors I walk, the more slippery the path becomes. There’s no salt scattered down here.

Nonetheless I hurry. I’m feeling the pressure of making it across town in awful traffic to pick my daughter up from crèche on time. I’ve already been late twice this week as I raced against a sea of enthusiastic carol singers. Alannah, the crèche manager, didn’t hesitate to inform me that Ellie cried her eyes out both times at ‘being the last child standing’.

Alannah is a terrible liar. Ellie almost never cries. Not even when she falls, or argues with her friends, or when I get unreasonably cross because I’m tired, or stressed out, or when Declan wants the noise in the apartment kept down but Ellie wants to sing the newest song she’s learned in crèche. On the rare occasion tears actually fall, her porcelain skin goes all red and splodgy for ages afterwards. Cora gave me some fancy vitamins for her and said she might be a little low in iron. Ellie is always clear-skinned and smiling when I pick her up from crèche, no matter what time.

I pull my coat tighter around me and hurry more, determined not to be late today.

‘I’m coming, Ellie.’

My legs fly into the air so suddenly that I don’t have time to screech before the thump of my back hitting the ground forces a huge puff of air out of me. I stare, wide-eyed, at the cloud of my own warm breath that hovers above my face.

‘Mind, it’s slippery,’ a husky voice says.

Sprawled on the icy footpath in the shape of a corkscrew, arms above my head either side and legs twisted around each other, I begin to laugh. It’s an embarrassed giggle, really, as the ice finds its way through my coat and my uniform to nibble at my back and I realise how ridiculous I must look. And how lucky I am that I’m not actually hurt. Well, except for my pride.

‘I’ve noticed,’ I say, sitting up and glancing around to find the owner of the pearls of wisdom.

I spot a man sitting on a nearby bench. He’s alone and somewhat melancholy looking. I didn’t notice him before as I tried to rush by.

‘Are you all right? Nothing hurt?’ he asks.

‘Yes. Fine, thank you.’ I blush as I drag myself to my feet and dust myself off.

‘Good. That’s good,’ he says.

I take in the sight of the concerned man speaking to me. A nearby streetlamp bathes him in hues of orange, highlighting the lines and folds that time has gradually etched into his face. His wrinkled brow and hunched shoulders match his husky voice and I realise he’s quite elderly. He’s decidedly dapper in a tweed trench coat in striking grey, black and red checks. A scarf hides the collar of his coat. It’s large and colourful. The type that someone has lovingly hand-knitted – his wife perhaps, I think. He’s not wearing a hat. He’s so well wrapped up for the elements, much better than me, that his bare head comes as a surprise. He’s mostly bald, but strands of silver sit above his ears and I imagine run around the back. A bunch of supermarket flowers is resting across his knees. They’re a jumble of colours and shapes and the Tesco sticker is big and bold on the front of the cellophane wrapper. But the most striking thing about the man, who watches me with equal curiosity, is his bright blue eyes hiding a spark of laughter that I suspect he’s too gentlemanly to let out.

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘You can laugh if you want to. I mean, I’m already mortified, you might as well go for it.’

‘I wasn’t going to laugh,’ he says, his brows arched. ‘Although now that I know you’re not hurt I am going to tell you that was as funny as hell. Probably the funniest thing I’ve seen all day, andI saw MrSimmons in room 84B piss his pants this morning at breakfast.’

‘You’re a patient,’ I say, suddenly very concerned that he shouldn’t be out here and especially not alone.

The man begins to laugh, at last. ‘No, sorry. That was mean. I’m only joking. I don’t know a MrSimmons. I was just trying to make you feel a little better.’

‘Oh,’ I say, still not sure if he’s a patient or not, and I wonder if I should call someone.

‘You’re a nurse?’ the man says. ‘Or, doctor?’

‘Eh. Neither,’ I say, rubbing my shoulder, which is sorer than I first realised.

‘But your uniform.’ He points.

‘Cleaner. I mop up vomit. Wipe bottoms. That sort of thing.’

‘Ah, so you’re the poor sod who’d have the pleasure of changing MrSimmons’ pissy pants?’

I laugh. ‘Yes. If MrSimmons, his pee or his pants were real. Then yes. I’d change them.’

‘Bet you’re glad I made him up then, eh?’

I smile.

‘Are you going to sit down?’ the man asks, shuffling from the middle to the end of the bench.

I glance at my watch and sigh. I’ve only minutes left to catch the bus, and my shoulder is really starting to ache.

‘You should. You look awful.’

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