Pretty Lady (7 page)

And that had settled the question of how to break the news to that one. Settled the question of what his reaction would be. Oh, nice, quite nice. He'd bought them both ice-cream – and then she'd gone home with Denny. And stayed home ever since ...

There were metallic scrabbling sounds suddenly, and the front door clicked. ‘Is that you, Denny?' she called out.

No answer, but more shuffling, scuffling noises. She put down the tea towel and went into the front hall, ready to be stem. Denny had an amazing capacity for being ‘followed' by stray dogs and cats. They'd had to put their foot down about this long since. But it was hard, since you couldn't really explain to him that he constituted enough of a problem for one household, without complicating it with animals which needed looking after, too.

Aunt Vera was in the hallway, trying to keep hold of Mum's arm and march her along to the kitchen. Mum was trying to pull free, but not having much success. Aunt Vera, as they all had good reason to know, was incredibly tenacious – especially when she was convinced that she was in the right.

‘What's the matter?' Sheila went forward to meet them, her heart sinking. Mum was so pale. ‘Is anything wrong?'

‘Wrong enough!' Aunt Vera whirled on her triumphantly. ‘Your mother collapsed at work just now. I've had to take time off and bring her home.'

‘I never!' Polly protested, like a child, still trying to pull away. ‘I just came over faint, for a minute, and closed my eyes. I was just dizzy, that's all.'

‘And when you opened your eyes again, you were on the floor. You collapsed!' Vera accused. She turned the accusation on Sheila, as she came forward to help.

‘Your mother's dead on her feet. Has been, for a long time now. You ought to help her more, a great big strapping girl like you – '

'Sheila's a good girl,' Polly said. ‘She helps a lot, and she holds down a steady job, too.'

‘So do you,' Vera said. ‘It's too much for you, why don't you admit it? Oh, it wouldn't be, under ordinary circumstances –' the accusation was back in her voice, in her eyes. ‘It's the strain you've been under, all these years, it's not doing you any good. And you're getting older, it's bound to get worse –'

‘Please, Aunt Vera –' Sheila broke off, leaving it there. Anything she could add would only make Aunt Vera worse. You couldn't tell her straight out to shut up. Nor could you suggest that she wasn't doing anything to help the situation herself, with her nagging. That would only bring the injured sniff, the hurt look, and the fifteen-minute monologue about how hard Vera tried, but no one appreciated her efforts, some day they'd learn, and so on. In fact, Vera looked as though she might be going to launch out on that speech now, with as little provocation as she'd already had. Quickly, Sheila tried to forestall her.

‘Here, Mum –' Sheila managed to detach Vera and lead Polly into the parlour – ‘lie down for a bit, and I'll bring you a cup of tea. Or would you rather go up to your room?'

‘She couldn't make the stairs – the condition she's in,' Vera snapped.

‘I'm all right,' Polly said stubbornly. ‘I'll stay down here because – because I've got to go out to the doctor as soon as his surgery opens. The doctor will fix me up just fine. I'm overtired, that's all. He'll give me something to let me sleep.'

‘You need more than that,' Vera diagnosed. ‘That's only treating the symptom, and not the cause – and we all know it.'

Polly shook her head. ‘Denny's a good boy,' she said automatically.

Denny stood at the picture window, watching the river traffic without really seeing it, replete with tea, cakes, and a curious warm bursting feeling of satisfaction such as he had seldom known.

‘You're so good,' a soft voice was saying, just below his ear level. ‘So strong, and so clever. Oh, it's so good to know that I have someone I can depend on, at last.'

Denny's chest swelled with pride. He didn't quite dare to look down at Merelda. ‘I'll fix him,' he promised. ‘I'll scare him good.'

‘Of course you will,' she said. ‘And with the gun, too. That will scare him more than anything. You
do
remember where the gun is kept, don't you?'

‘In the desk downstairs.' It was a question Denny could answer easily. ‘In the drawer.'

“That's right.' She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘And I'll leave the key for you ...?'

‘Underneath the flower-pot.' He could answer that easily, too. ‘On the top step.' For the first time, he felt grown-up, clever. He knew the answers to the questions Merelda asked him. He could do what Merelda wanted, he could protect her, look after her, make the bully stop hurting her. And Merelda would be his friend for ever. He had been right, earlier, it was a good day. It was a wonderful day. He had made a new friend. He had met Merelda and the world would never be quite the same again.

‘I'm so glad I met you.' She seemed to move faintly closer. ‘Just today it feels as though I've known you so much longer.'

That was the way Denny felt, too. He dared to look down at her now, his arm ached to slip around her, but he controlled himself rigidly. (
‘Stop that, Denny! Don't be so free with your hands. All people aren't like you, remember. You're a big boy now.'
)

‘Yes,' he said fervently. ‘Yes.' He looked away again. Maybe he could scare the bully really good. Scare him so much that he went away for ever. Then maybe Merelda could move in with him and Mum and Sheila, and they could all live happily ever after. A glimmering golden future of happiness shimmered like a mirage on the horizon of his consciousness. Surely, Mum and Sheila would love Merelda as he did, and they could have wonderful times together. Surely ...

An icy gust of wind seemed to swirl through the room and lash against them. The door on the far side of the room slammed and the iciness built up until it wouldn't be surprising if some gigantic glacier moved across the width of the drawing-room, crushing them in its wake. Denny flinched, and felt the small withdrawing movement Merelda made, although she didn't turn around either.

‘So here you are,' the voice was harsh and glacial. ‘I thought you might be glad to see me. But I wouldn't have come home so early, happen I knew you were entertaining. I wouldn't want to interrupt anything.'

‘You're not interrupting,' Merelda said, in a small, uncertain voice. Denny knew instinctively that this was the bully. This was the man who frightened Merelda, hurt her.

‘I – I'm glad you're here.' To his ears, it was unconvincing, but the man did not dispute her openly. He felt, rather than saw, her turn to face into the room. To face the bully.

‘Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?' The harsh northern voice grated on his ears. ‘Or didn't you intend that we should ever meet, eh?' There was menace, vague but threatening, in the voice. Again, he knew that Merelda was shrinking from it. He could not stand by and allow her to be intimidated like this.

‘Of course I want you to meet my friend.' Her hand was a butterfly touch on his sleeve, turning him to face into the room. This is my friend, Denny. Denny, this is ... my husband.'

Denny was used to seeing people's faces change as they looked at him. The man's scowl vanished abruptly, leaving a curious momentary blankness on his face before he forced a reluctant smile.

‘I'm sorry, lass,' he said awkwardly to Merelda. ‘For a minute, there, I thought –'

‘Shake hands with Denny, dear,' Merelda instructed, and he moved forward obediently, holding out his hand.

Denny glowered at him, might as well start the frightening now, show him someone wasn't scared of him. Taking the offered hand, Denny deliberately squeezed it with full strength and saw the other man conceal a wince.

‘That's quite a grip you've got there,' he said. ‘Still, I'm glad to meet you, lad.' He was still trying to smile.

‘How do you do,' Denny said mechanically. He kept on glowering and, gradually, the other man's smile faded. That was better. But, bewilderingly, Denny felt a curious reluctance to continue trying to frighten him. The man looked kind. Was it possible that he was the bully Merelda had described?

Uncertainly, Denny glanced at Merelda. The hard coldness of her eyes left him in no doubt. This was the bully. This was the man he must frighten with the gun. Later. Not quite now. Later ... tonight.

‘Denny was just leaving.' As though to point up what he had just been thinking, Merelda spoke to her husband. ‘We've had a lovely tea, with lots of cakes, but it's time for him to go now.'

Her butterfly touch was on Denny's arm again, urging him past the man, towards the stairs. Denny moved obediently. The man also turned and followed them down the stairs, as though reluctant to let Merelda out of his sight.

In the study, Denny groped in his airline bag for a moment, surfacing with the tawny-gold chalk, which he peeked at quickly. It
was
the exact same colour as Merelda's hair. Satisfying himself on this point, he struggled into his overcoat, not noticing that Merelda slipped something else into his airline bag while his back was turned.

She was smiling when he faced her, buttoning his coat, and the man was standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Threateningly – or protectively?

‘Come again, Denny,' she smiled, holding out her hand. Behind her, the man frowned.

‘Thank you.' Denny tried to remember his manners. ‘It was a very nice tea. Good night.'

On the pavement again, he found he was still holding the chalk in his hand. Under the street lamp, he bent and quickly drew the outline of her hair, as he remembered it, on the bottom cement step. The soft tantalizing curls sprang from the chalk as though they had been imprisoned within it, waiting for the stroke of chalk against cement to bring them to life. The colour was perfect. It would never be the same to draw a cocker spaniel's ears again.

But the rest of her was fading from his memory. Although he could still see her face when he closed his eyes, he knew he would not be able to recapture it in the other coloured chalks. Not until he had seen her again and again, knew her better.

Meanwhile, it was past tea time and Sheila would start to worry. So would Mum, when she got home, if he was not there. Women got upset about nothing at all.

He moved off in the direction of home.

With Vera gone, the silence became a warm and cosy thing. The tiny, homely sounds from the kitchen, where Sheila was preparing tea, were reassuring in their eternal familiarity. (
‘As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be –'
No! That was blasphemy. A sin, another sin, among so many. And minor, when measured against -) Polly sat up abruptly, swung her legs to the floor and sat on the edge of the couch until the dizziness abated.

‘Mum, are you all right?' Hearing the springs creak, Sheila had rushed to the doorway.

‘Yes, fine.' Polly blinked hard, blinked again, and the blur in the doorway became the slim silhouette of her daughter. ‘I was just thinking it was time I was getting along to the surgery. Get there early, get home early –' Her voice trailed off. Good job Sheila couldn't follow her thought.

‘Are you sure you'll be all right? Wouldn't you rather wait until Denny gets home? Then I could go with you.' Sheila glanced at her watch. ‘He's late. He should have been home half an hour ago. It
is
bad of him to be so late when you're not well. He knows you worry – '

‘Denny's a good boy,' Polly defended automatically. ‘He loses track of the time, that is all. God knows, it's not as though he could help it.'

‘I suppose not,' Sheila said. Still, there are times when he could
try
harder. I'll –'

‘Leave him alone!' Polly spoke more sharply than she had intended. ‘I'll see to Denny!' She tried to soften her voice, to allay the uneasiness which had suddenly shaken Sheila. ‘You just leave him to me.'

‘It's marvellous,' Sheila agreed, ‘the way he listens to you. You seem to make him understand when no one else –' She broke off, as though there were thoughts of her own she didn't want anyone else following.

‘Perhaps I can come with you, anyway,' she said. ‘Surely Denny can manage for himself for one night.'

‘No!' Polly said. Poor Denny, coming home to darkness, to an empty house, not knowing where everyone had gone – that was what she wanted to spare him. A lifetime of uncertain emptiness like that. For the time that was left to him, Denny must have the warmth and security he had always known.

In the kitchen, the kettle began to boil loudly. Sheila half-turned, but still hesitated in the doorway.

‘Go and turn the kettle off,' Polly ordered. ‘And stop fussing so much. I'm all right.'

After another moment, Sheila disappeared and the kettle stopped humming abruptly.

It had to be done, and the best thing was to get it over with as quickly as possible. Thinking about it didn't do any good. The decision was made, the time was past for thinking, for praying.

Polly scuffed her feet into her shoes and stood up slowly, the way she had learned to these past few months, so that the dizziness didn't overcome, or the pain rocket through her. Slowly, that was the way to take it. Slowly and unthinkingly, from this point onwards.

‘I'll be going along now,' she called out, keeping her voice steady. Above all, she must act natural, seem the same as she had always been, so that nobody could suspect – until it was too late to make any difference.

‘Are you sure you should?' Sheila appeared in the doorway again, staring at her uncertainly. Polly smiled and straightened slowly.

‘I'll be there early – get away early. That'll be best. Collect my prescription on the way home. Then I can take my pill, have a hot drink, and get to bed early.' Her smile wavered, steadied. ‘Sure, I'll be a new woman in the morning.'