Pretty Lady (11 page)

The letters blurred before her eyes. That stuff had never worked so fast before. Of course, she'd never taken so much of it before.

Dear God, I'm not ready! I've got to try to explain, so that Sheila can understand. I've got to –

The dressing-table tilted away from her as she fell back on the bed. The tiny part of her mind that was still conscious noted with clinical precision the onset of the heavy, stertorous breathing that meant she was sliding into a coma.

She had gone. Denny absently took another gulp of cocoa as he listened. He heard the door of her room close and knew that she would not be stirring again tonight.

He set down his cup carefully, slightly surprised to find himself still holding the chocolate biscuits. He took another bite, cramming them all into his mouth – they were pretty crumpled up, it would just upset everybody if he tried to put them back into the packet. Mum and Sheila got awfully upset about little things like that.

Throwing back the bedclothes, he slid quietly to the floor, peeling off his pyjama jacket. It had been a tight fit over his clothes – good job Mum hadn't noticed. He'd been worried for a while, but she'd seemed to be thinking about something else.

(
‘Make a good Act of Contrition.'
) Denny's forehead wrinkled. Did Mum know what he had been doing today? Or did she suspect that he was going to sneak out of the house tonight and go back to Merelda's?

Mum wouldn't approve, he knew. Not of any of it. Not of going to tea with Merelda, even. (
‘Don't go bothering people, Denny. They've got more to do than to be bothered with the likes of you.'
) But Merelda wanted him. She needed him. He was going to scare the bad man for her. With the gun. Mum wouldn't approve of that, either.

He folded the pyjama jacket neatly and placed it underneath the pillow with the pyjama trousers. He didn't bother pulling the bedclothes back into place – he'd be going straight to bed, probably, when he got back, and nobody would know.

He yawned. He was pretty tired. It had been a busy day.

Maybe some cocoa would help wake him up a little.
(‘Drink it down. It will help you to sleep.'
)

Denny paused in mid-swallow and let the rest of the mouthful squish between his teeth back into the cup. He couldn't go to sleep now. He had too much to do tonight.

But Mum had said to drink up his cocoa. She'd be mad when she came to call him in the morning and found he'd let it go to waste. (
‘It's a sin to waste good food, Denny. Lots of boys and girls all over the world would be glad to have it.'
)

Of course, he'd drunk an awful lot of it. He squinted at the level of the liquid judiciously. Yes, lots. Would she really be mad if every last little bit wasn't gone?

You couldn't tell. She got upset awfully easily these days. The least little thing set her off. Maybe she'd even cry again.

He couldn't stand that. He forced another swallow down.

But he couldn't go to sleep, either. Not now. He yawned again. There was just one thing to do.

He opened the window wider. Slowly and carefully, so that it didn't make any noise. He hadn't done this since he was a real little kid.

He leaned out, holding the cup as far away from the house as possible, and tossed the remains of the cocoa into the yard below. He listened anxiously and relaxed when he heard it splash on the ground. It would have been awful if a sudden gust of wind had blown the dark liquid back against the side of the house to stain it, giving him away.

Drawing back into the room, he probed thoughtfully with his forefinger at the sludge at the bottom of the cup. Did he have time?

There was a store of sugar in one of his drawers. If you stirred a couple of spoonfuls into the residue of the cocoa, you got a delicious chocolate syrup.

Still considering this, he licked the finger. It tasted funny. Bitter. Too bitter. It would probably take all the sugar he had left to get it sweet enough. Maybe he'd better not bother.

Besides, there wasn't much time. He yawned again and reached for his airline bag. He ought to be starting on his way. If only, he rubbed his eyes, if only he just didn't feel so tired.

Maybe if he took the packet of biscuits with him, munching them might help him to stay awake. He bent over to unzip his airline bag and was suddenly, unsettlingly, dizzy.

Maybe he ought not to go out tonight, after all. Maybe he ought to go back to bed. Maybe Merelda wouldn't mind if he went and scared the bad man tomorrow night, instead.

Considering this, he lifted the airline bag on to the bed where he sat and opened it there. That was better. When he didn't have to bend over, he didn't feel so dizzy.

Although– He yawned again and reached to put the packet of biscuits into the bag. Suddenly, he was wide awake.

How had that got in there?

The soft blue chiffon clung to his fingers, the faint scent of remembered fragrance floated upwards to him. It was almost as though she were in the room with him, her tiny hands clinging to his, her greeny-blue eyes upturned trustingly.

Merelda.

Her scarf. How had it got into his bag? Had it fallen in, somehow, when she was helping him with his coat?

He pulled it completely out of the bag. A stub of tawny-gold chalk fell to the floor beside the bed. The chalk the colour of her hair. Funny though he felt, he couldn't leave it lying there. It would be like leaving Merelda lying on the floor, in a way.

Carefully, he bent and retrieved the chalk. Straightening up, dizzy and sleepy, he leaned against the bedside table. Its smooth brown surface seemed to beckon him. He wanted to rest his head on his arms and sleep.

But Merelda was waiting for him. Trusting in him. Absently, he traced the outline of her hair on the table-top, the soft curling tendrils as they had swept from her forehead to the nape of her neck, shimmering against the blue of her scarf.

Her scarf!
Was
she waiting for him so trustingly? Or had she missed her scarf? Did she, perhaps, think that he had taken it deliberately? Stolen it?

He must go to her and explain. He snatched up the airline bag, desperately ramming the scarf and biscuits into it. The stub of chalk fell back on to the floor, splintering, while the main bit rolled under the bed-he didn't notice it. He had to go to Merelda.

Opening the bedroom door, he paused and listened. No sound came from downstairs – Sheila hadn't come back yet. Across the hall, a faint rumbling – Mum was snoring. She always claimed she didn't, but now he knew better. It was too bad he couldn't wake her up and prove it, but people stopped snoring as soon as they awoke, and she wouldn't believe him.

Besides, she'd want to know why he was still up, and what he thought he was doing.

On tiptoe, he started down the stairs, but they seemed to sway under him. He caught the banister rail in time to keep from falling. More cautiously, he descended the remaining stairs.

The front door seemed an awfully long distance away. Aiming himself at it, he was aware the lurched the way the men leaving pubs lurched on Saturday nights. Did they feel as tired as he did? As sleepy and dizzy?

The door knob slid round in his hand, then caught and held, swinging the door open. He wanted so much to sleep.

Loath to leave the light and warm safety of home, he hesitated in the doorway a moment, groped for a biscuit and crammed it into his mouth, heedless that a good half of it had fallen to the floor. That helped a bit.

Merelda was waiting. He took a long, uncertain breath, and staggered towards the gate.

For once, she didn't waste time in the bedroom, postponing her return as long as possible. Not when he might decide to start telephoning his friends with the good news.

‘I'll slip into something comfortable,' she had said, ‘while you fix yourself a drink. I'll be right back.'

He was surprised when she was. Still holding the decanter, he turned to her. ‘Would you like a drink – ?' He stopped abruptly, with a foolish beam. ‘Or would it be bad for -?'

‘Not this early,' she said quickly. He seemed dubious and faintly disappointed. ‘But perhaps,' she recovered smoothly, ‘we ought to start as we mean to go on. If you could have Ethel bring me a glass of milk -?' She might as well humour him. This performance, after all, was strictly a one-night stand.

‘I'll get it myself,' he said eagerly.

The calm, practised smile didn't fade from her face, even when he left the room. She walked over to the window, looking out and down, still smiling blithely.

It was too early, of course. In the blackness of the night, the liquid black of the river glittered in the light from the street lamps.

When would he come?
Would he come at all?
She pushed that thought out of her mind. She had planned too carefully, waited too long, to fail now. He
had
to come. Tonight.

She looked down the empty street,
willing
him to come, as though the sheer force of her concentration would summon him to her.

But it was undoubtedly too early, despite the darkness. She had no idea where he lived, what his home circumstances were, how easy it would be for him to leave his home, who watched over him, and how well they watched. All unknowns, all imponderables.

She must be mad! She felt the sudden overwhelming panic again. What was she doing, placing her trust in a – a daftie? Letting the burden of her plan fall on shoulders unfit to carry it?

Perhaps she should call it off. Change her mind. Send Denny away, if he showed up. Try a reasoned, reasonable approach to Keith about a divorce –

‘Here you are, then.' He stood proudly in the doorway, bearing a tall glass of milk on a silver tray. ‘Good – and good for you, as they say. Eh, lass?' He moved towards her.

No. She abandoned the brief, abortive plan. He would never let her go. Especially now, when he believed she was bearing his child.

There could never be a divorce. She had slammed that door herself when she had let him believe the lie.

There was nothing to do but go ahead with her original plan. Had she ever intended anything else? A divorce wouldn't give her enough money. This fluttering panic was simply a form of stage-fright – she had some tricky scenes ahead of her. It was a case of first-night nerves, that was all.

‘Thank you, darling.' She took the glass of milk and raised it to him before drinking. His face glowed with delight.

‘That's the spirit, lass.' He reached for his own drink and joined her. ‘To us.' His arm circled her waist, his hand patted her stomach gently. ‘
All
of us.'

She kept smiling.

‘
Anyone who marries for money earns it,
' her mother had always said smugly, secure in the delusion that she was happy in her slum because ‘love' was – or had been – there. Despising her for the platitude and the delusion, the constant cheap sentimentality, Merelda made her own choice ... earned her money. It was the continuing to earn it, through the long years stretching out ahead, she shrank from ... would not face.

‘Aah, lass –' he looked out at the glittering river view – ‘we've come a far piece from our beginnings, both of us. We've got a wonderful life to offer our children. They'll never have to go through the struggles we've had. It's all here, waiting for them.'

She moved away, smoothly and unhurriedly. Back in command of herself.
Act III, Scene I.
The panic was over, just as suddenly, she was sure that Denny would come.

‘I think I ought to rest a bit.' She sank gracefully into an armchair, curling her feet up.

‘Good idea, good idea. Shall I get you a blanket? Anything you'd like?'

Only the entrance of Denny ... with the gun
. Smiling, she shook her head.

‘The television? The hi-fi? Yes, we'll put some records on.' He looked up from the record rack, radiant with a new thought. ‘We'll have to get some more records – nursery rhymes, stories and such-like. For the baby.'

‘There's plenty of time yet.' She smiled, indulging him. His time was nearly gone.

Denny was on the way.

She was later than she had intended to be. First, she had gone past the doctor's surgery, but it was dark and closed. That meant she'd have to try in the morning, after all.

Then the library – and the last person in the world she felt like encountering again today. Aunt Vera. Voluble and vociferous, and not to be denied. Not to be shaken off, either.

Vera was beside her now, insistent on coming back home with her to see how Mum was feeling after her visit to the doctor. It was no use telling her Mum had gone to bed early and wouldn't like to be disturbed.

‘I won't disturb her. I'll just peek in, and if she's not awake, I'll come right out again.'

Translated, Sheila knew, that meant Vera would hover in the doorway, shuffling her feet and clearing her throat until Mum woke. Once her rest had been disturbed, Mum often didn't get back to sleep again that night. You'd think Aunt Vera would realize that, being a nurse. But Sheila had often noticed that people in medicine had one code for their patients and quite another for their families.

“Honestly, Aunt Vera –' she had to try – ‘it would be better to let Mum sleep tonight-'

‘Didn't I just say I would?' There were times – becoming more frequent recently – when every conversational road with Vera led to an argument

‘If she's taken her pill, I suppose she won't wake up, anyway.' It was surrender – and Vera knew it. She pounced triumphantly.

‘Of course she won't. And
I'll
sleep better for satisfying myself that she's all right. She gave us all a nasty turn today. Collapsing like that. She ought to –'

Disconnecting her attention (she'd heard it all before – or else something so nearly like it that she could make responses in the right places without even noticing that she was doing so), Sheila turned the corner abruptly. As though, by veering sharply enough, she could cause Vera to break away and go spinning out of her orbit.