Pretty Lady (3 page)

‘Done!' He beamed at her and she smiled back, feeling the ache begin in her jaw from clenching her teeth too much.

The maid left them and she switched off her smile, consciously trying to relax her jaw. She mustn't let her nerves get the better of her. Not at this stage. Now that she had made the decision, however, it was hard to go on as before. But she must, while she tried to work out the details, to decide how it could be done with safety ... for her.

Keith began reading his post, the smile still loitering foolishly on his face. Why shouldn't it? He had everything
he
wanted. Money, and the power that went with it, and ... her.

He looked up, and she smiled quickly. That was part of her job – and she
was
the best paid of his employees.
And
, a bit more warmth crept into her smile, hers was the best pension scheme. Widow's pension, of course.

‘Nice day for a walk, looks like,' he said.

'All the flowers are coming out now,' she agreed. ‘It should be lovely ... along the river.'

There was a puppy frisking along on the other side of the low hedge, whimpering for attention. Denny knew he shouldn't stop to pat him. People came to their doors sometimes and shouted at him when he did things like that. Mum had explained it to him. Big boys didn't touch other people's property.

Denny hesitated and looked over his shoulder. The puppy, sensing victory, began a shrill high yapping, leaping up as though determined to clear the hedge.

‘Hello, boy!' Denny reached over the hedge, patting the eager head. ‘Hello, there.'

It was too bad Mum wouldn't let him have a dog. He wouldn't take care of it properly, she said, and it would just be more work for her, and God knew she had enough.

He
would
take care of a dog, though. He'd train it never to chase birds or cats. And they could go for runs in the park – even grown-ups were allowed to run when they had a dog with them.

The puppy would love to come out for a run. His wistful whimper told Denny so. If he was only a little bigger, he could jump over the hedge. As it was, someone had to open the gate for him before he could come out to play.

Denny's hand went to the gate, almost as though it had a will of its own. The puppy watched, whining hopefully.

At the window, a curtain twitched suddenly. Denny's hand drew back. He knew what that meant. A movement of a curtain was followed by the window being flung up, or the door opening. In either case, people shouted at you.

Uneasily, Denny began to move along, the puppy moving with him to the end of the hedge, still hoping he'd change his mind. He could feel the unseen eyes following him, too, making sure he went away.

‘That's a good boy, Denny.' He jumped as the familiar voice sounded at his elbow. He had been so intent upon the puppy that he hadn't seen Constable Pete approaching.

‘Hello, Pete.' He couldn't quite shake off the guilty feeling. Had Pete known how close he'd come to letting the puppy out? To touching other people's property?

‘It's a nice day for a walk.' Constable Pete fell into step beside him. ‘Going far?'

‘Going to feed the ducks,' Denny said.

‘Ah.' Constable Pete nodded. ‘By the lake, eh? Fine families of little ducklings they've got there this year.'

‘By the river,' Denny said, already wondering whether he should go to the lake, instead. ‘Lots of little ducklings.' Maybe he could go to the river tomorrow. Or maybe he ought to go to the lake tomorrow. He frowned, struggling to make the decision.

‘I saw your artist friend, earlier,' Constable Pete said. ‘He was setting up for business down in front of the Odeon Cinema.'

‘Rembrandt?' Denny brightened, remembering that he had been hoping to find Rembrandt today.

‘Is that the name he gave you?' Constable Pete laughed. ‘Well, it's a good one, all right. They don't come much better. Maybe he's got the right idea.'

‘Rembrandt is my friend,' Denny said proudly.

‘We're all your friends, Denny,' Constable Pete said. ‘Just you remember that.'

Denny nodded obligingly, stifling a sigh. There were always so many things people wanted him to remember.

‘I turn off here, Denny. Have a good day.' Constable Pete watched Denny safely off his beat, returning his goodbye wave.

Good day.
Denny walked faster.
The Odeon Cinema.
That was where he'd find Rembrandt.

It was going to be a good day, after all.

The waves of heat and food odours beat at her as she moved slowly past the steam table in the hospital canteen. It was a long slow queue and she gripped her tray tightly, leaning on it under the guise of sliding it along the rails.

She had a milk pudding on her tray and, at the end of the counter, she would collect a cup of tea. It was more than she wanted, but she had to force herself to eat. She had to keep going. For a while longer.

‘Mrs O'Magnon, are you all right?' Teapot poised over the empty cup, the canteen helper stared at her anxiously.

‘Just a bit tired, that's all.' Polly tried to smile.

‘Glory be to God! – that's never all you're eating? It wouldn't keep a bird alive.'

‘It's as much as I want right now.' Polly bit down on her irritation. The woman meant well, there was no point in taking it out on her. ‘I'll be having a big tea when I get home tonight.'

‘Well ...' Reluctantly, the woman tilted the teapot and let the dark liquid pour into the waiting cup. ‘If you're sure ...'

‘I had a big breakfast, too,' Polly lied reassuringly. ‘I'll survive.' For a little while longer.

‘I don't like your colour – and that's a fact. You're pale as death.'

‘I'm all right.' Polly reached out and firmly took the cup of tea from her hand. With conscious effort, she straightened and carried her tray to an unoccupied table in the far corner of the canteen, walking briskly.

Once there, she sank into the chair limply, closing her eyes. The spurts of effort cost more every time.

‘You look like death-warmed-over.' The sharp voice cut at her. ‘Are those pills doing you any good at all?'

‘I'm all right.' She picked up her cup with both hands, steadying it against Vera's sharp, prying eyes. This was the second person within a few minutes to speak of death – was it written so prominently on her features already?

‘Those pills,' Vera kept probing. ‘Are you taking them the way you ought?'

‘I have been.' She didn't look up. ‘I've only just run out. I'll be going to the doctor's tonight and getting some more. Then I'll be fine.'

‘You ought to ask him for something stronger. I don't believe those are helping at all. Make him give you something different. If you want my opinion –'

No one ever wanted Vera's opinion, but she gave it anyway. She was a good soul, basically.

‘I think you ought to see Mr Brady.'

Mr Brady was a surgeon.
Polly stiffened and saw the small sharp eyes sparkling as Vera realized she'd struck home.

‘You've got to look after yourself, you know.'

Polly recognized her mood. Vera was determined to say her say. You could not tell Vera to mind her own business. She considered this her business. Vera had not only got her the job at the hospital, but she was Brian's eldest sister – the only one in this country.

Vera's interference was sanctioned by ties of family and friendship. Sometimes she pushed them too far. This was going to be one of those times.

‘You've got to think of the children, you know.'

As though I thought of anything else.
‘I do,' she said. Anyone else would have been warned off by her tone. But not Vera.

‘How
is
poor Denny?' It was why she had come over, the subject she was determined to re-open and pursue. ‘Is he any better?'

‘He isn't any worse.' That was what Vera really wanted to know. Vera had never been able to reconcile herself to Denny's condition, had never brought herself to accept the fact that there would never be any change in it. There would be no great dramatic recovery in which Denny suddenly would achieve a forward stride to bring him into step with his generation. Nor would there be any rapid degeneration leading to debilitation and death. Denny was Denny –and always would be. He was perfectly happy in his own way, he was strong and healthy. He was just ... wanting.

‘Have you heard any more about that Mary-Maureen? How she is? Sure –' Vera sighed deeply – ‘that was a terrible thing. It was only God's own mercy the child didn't die.'

That was Vera's idea of being oblique, of subtly pointing out the dangers in allowing the mentally deficient to live among and associate with the rest of the community.

‘Mary-Maureen is a different case entirely.' Tired as she was, she could not allow it to pass without a fight. ‘Mary-Maureen was always a rough child. She was always getting over-excited and taking it out on the other children. There was violence in her from the beginning.'

‘That's what I mean –' Vera closed in eagerly to make her point. ‘She should have been put away as soon as she got too big to control. It was her parents' fault, as much as hers. Letting her roam around free and play with the children in the neighbourhood, as though she were a child herself. Of course children play rough and get over-excited – and push. It's lucky the lights had been red and the cars hadn't had time to get up any speed when she pushed that little girl into the traffic. Both her legs broken, wasn't it?'

“That's right.' She tried to leave it there, but Vera wouldn't have it.

‘Well, then.' Vera nodded sagely. ‘It just goes to show, doesn't it?'

‘To show what?' She faced Vera squarely – she'd make her
say
it, and enough of this pussyfooting around.

‘You ought to think of Sheila more.' Vera backed off and attacked on the flank. ‘She's getting on. Twenty-five, isn't it? And not married. Nor likely to be, with Denny hanging about where any boys could see him when they came to call. It puts them off – to see someone like that in a girl's family.'

‘Denny
is
a part of the family. Sheila has always accepted that.'

‘We're not talking about what Sheila accepts, we're talking about what a
man
will accept. You're ruining her chances.'

‘Sheila would never marry a man under false pretences, anyway. If Denny weren't there, she'd tell the man about him. So it doesn't make any difference. You should know that.'

Vera's exasperated sigh said that she did, that she didn't know why she didn't wash her hands of the whole lot of them and stop giving good advice that wasn't appreciated. But they were her family, so she was driven to persist.

‘That may be all very well for now, but you're not getting any younger, you know.'

‘Neither are you, Vera.' She couldn't resist that one.

‘Just what I mean. And Denny's what? Thirty? He'll outlast us all. Poor Sheila will be saddled with him till her dying day – and he'll probably outlast her, too. God help us, but it would have been better if it had gone the other way around.'

She'd thought of that, too, God forgive her. It wouldn't have mattered quite so much if Sheila had been the one lacking. Denny, being the older, could have got a good job and been able to look after her. Sheila could have kept house for him, done simple cooking and– What was the use of thinking about it? It hadn't happened that way, and that was all there was to it. No, not quite all –

‘You've been lucky, so far,' Vera said. ‘Suppose Denny changed?'

‘Why should he change?' She was instantly defensive.

‘Ah, they can, you know, as they grow older.' Vera nodded, pleased at having got past her guard. ‘They all thought Mary-Maureen was harmless, didn't they? And look what happened.'

‘Denny is as gentle as a lamb. There's no harm in him. He wouldn't hurt a fly.'

‘Maybe not – while you're here to look after him. But what of when you're not here? When Sheila has to bear the burden on her own?'

What of it?
There was a whole bottle full of the pills she had so painfully saved. And she'd get another whole bottle of them tonight.
Sheila would understand.
She closed her eyes against a twist of pain.

‘You needn't worry, Vera,' she said coldly. ‘I'll take care of Denny. I'll always take care of Denny.'

Rembrandt didn't see him coming. Denny tiptoed from the corner, to surprise him. Just as he got there, Rembrandt began searching through his box of chalks for the right colour to finish off his cocker spaniel penny-catcher.

With a crow of triumph, Denny swooped on the box, snatching up the tawny gold chalk and offering it to Rembrandt.

‘No.' Rembrandt shook his head, stepping back out of Denny's shadow. ‘You found the chalk, young-fellow-me-lad, you can finish the picture.'

Denny promptly crouched on the pavement, tongue clenched between his teeth in concentration. He had been allowed to do this before, when Rembrandt was in a good mood. And sometimes he had done nearly a whole picture all by himself. This time, though, the cocker spaniel was almost finished. There was just the soft curly ear to fill in, and the highlights. Denny worked at it in the light feathery strokes he had watched Rembrandt use.

‘Good. Very good.' Rembrandt stood looking over his shoulder. ‘You'll be taking over my pitch before I know it, if I don't keep my eye on you, young fellow.'

‘I wouldn't do that,' Denny said, glancing up at him. It was funny, the way Rembrandt always kept calling him ‘young fellow', because Rembrandt must be about the same age. He looked the same –about the same height and weight, about the same number of funny wrinkles around his eyes when he laughed. Yet, in some way, Rembrandt
was
older.