Page 58 of The Secret Life of Beatrice Alright

‘That’s enough now,’ I warn, catching Ellie bending down to gather more snow from the corner of my eye.

Deflated, she stands up and dries her hands on her front, turning her minty-green coat teal in wet patches.

‘So can you?’ Malcolm asks, pulling my attention away from Ellie’s coat.

‘Cook?’ I ask, wondering if the wet patches will dry out and leave a stain. ‘I can cook.’

‘Are you any good?’

‘I think so,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’m no Gordon Ramsay or anything but?—’

‘Good,’ he says, getting to his feet. It takes some time for him to rise fully upright and Ellie finds the process fascinating and hilarious. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Me too,’ Ellie concurs.

I’m very hungry too but I don’t say anything. I’m not entirely sure what’s happening here.

‘My house isn’t far,’ Malcolm says, pointing as if I will find his home at the end of his finger. ‘I’ve nothing in, mind you. So we’ll have to do a shop first.’

‘Excuse me?’

I’m so confused.

‘We’re going shopping,’ Ellie pipes up as if she’s helping to explain.

‘You can cook. I can’t. Seem the logical solution is you come to my house and cook dinner?’ Malcolm says, and I swear his explanation is less helpful than Ellie’s. I stare blankly.

‘Look,’ he goes on. ‘I’m hungry. The kid is hungry. And I’ve a big kitchen. You said yourself you’d nowhere to go, so it all just makes sense, doesn’t it?’

‘You want me to come to your house and cook you Christmas dinner.’

‘Yes,’ he says, concisely.

That’s ridiculous, I think.It’s bonkers, awkward, weird, totally unexpected and simply batshit crazy.

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘let’s do it.’

The words that come out of my mouth are a direct contradiction to the thoughts swirling in my head. And yet, I think, I’m excited. The idea of a warm home and a big dinner are tantalising. More than that, I can tell how delighted Malcolm is by the prospect of sharing his table with Ellie and me.

‘The shops will all be closed,’ I say, and I watch his face fall. ‘But there’s a petrol station round the corner. I doubt we’ll get a turkey or ham, but I’m sure we’ll find something we can make work.’

‘Yay,’ Ellie cries excitedly, although I can tell she has no idea what is happening.

TWENTY-FOUR

I was wrong. The petrol station is selling off small turkeys for half price and the guy behind the counter throws in a free ham.

‘No one is going to want these after today,’ he says.

We buy potatoes, vegetables and chocolate cake for dessert. Malcolm insists on paying for everything. So, when his back is turned, I pick up a Christmas card and leave the exact amount of cash on the counter.

Malcolm wasn’t exaggerating when he said his house wasn’t far. It’s less than a ten-minute walk to his front door. And I know which house is his before he says a word. It’s a large, red-brick, Georgian house, identical to its neighbours that line both sides of the road. But while the other houses have been upgraded over the years with new, cream or grey windows, and had their large front gardens landscaped and tall, wrought-iron electric gates fitted, Malcolm’s house has a personality all of its own – standing out from the crowd, proudly and uniquely. The front grass is long enough to poke up through the layers of snow like tiny green spikes. The gate must be as old as Malcolm himself and it’s in need of a lick of paint. There’s a glass porch and inside is a free-standing coat rack that is home to several long chequered coats. There are pairs and pairs of wellington bootsscattered inside the porch too. I count them and get eight in total. And finally, there are some flower pots without flowers. Instead, some tennis rackets sit in the pots as if they have sprouted from racket seeds and grown into small racket trees. Rackets that I know Malcolm plucks at will and attaches to the bottom of his wellingtons.

‘This way,’ he says, with a plastic bag dragging from each hand. I worry that they were too heavy and offer to carry them, but he scowls at me and says, ‘My arms work just fine.’

I don’t bring the bags up again. Not even when we have to stop for a moment on the corner for him to catch his breath. There is a narrow path in the snow, leading from the gate to the door, and I wonder if Shayne hand-dug it. We have to walk single file to fit. Malcolm goes first, then Ellie and then me. The porch door slides back with a creak and Malcolm kicks his shoes off. Ellie and I do the same. The front door creaks even louder as it opens. Inside smells of an open fire and burnt toast.

‘Ew,’ Ellie says, holding her nose.

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