Pretty Lady Read online

  PRETTY LADY

  Marian Babson

  CHIVERS

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471303326

  Copyright © 1990 by Marian Babson

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  Contents

  MERELDA

  DENNY

  POLLY

  DENNY

  MERELDA

  DENNY

  POLLY

  DENNY

  MERELDA

  DENNY

  MERELDA

  POLLY

  DENNY

  SHEILA

  DENNY

  POLLY

  SHEILA

  MERELDA

  POLLY

  DENNY

  MERELDA

  SHEILA

  DENNY

  SHEILA

  MERELDA

  SHEILA

  DENNY

  SHEILA

  MERELDA

  SHEILA

  DENNY

  MERELDA

  She had stopped thinking of him as human. What she had to do was easier that way.

  Not that she would have considered doing such a thing had he left her any other choice, but he had not. He had forced her into it.

  In the full glare of the lights around the mirror, she sat at her make-up table and considered her face with professional detachment. It was good for a few years yet. Perhaps ... very few.

  After that, a few more years, leaning heavily on the soft focus technique – the modern equivalent of the old-fashioned method of filming through a gauze veil. She remembered once hearing someone remark about an ageing star. ‘Shooting her through a veil? They’re shooting that broad through linoleum, these days.’

  She had laughed at the time. It didn’t seem so funny any more. A lot of things had changed in the past year or so.

  Five years ago, it had seemed ideal. A wealthy marriage, a devoted husband – there were worse fates than being an old man’s darling. After years in a bedsitter, doing the rounds of management offices, auditions, a day’s filming here and there, she’d known most of them.

  It had been bliss to relax into the cushioned nest of luxury, limousines, and charge accounts. Actually, he needn’t even have bothered to marry her. Of course, she hadn’t let him know that, once she realized the direction his thoughts were taking. A wife was in a much more impregnable position than a mistress. All the laws of the land were on her side – including the law of inheritance.

  Had that thought been at the back of her mind, even so long ago as that?

  No, she’d tried, honestly tried. Through endless dinner parties, with his dull northern industrialist friends eyeing her speculatively, and their dumpy dreary little wives – suspicious and unfriendly – making it clear that they felt Keith had married beneath him. Making it so clear that his early promises of financing a film for her had been allowed to fade, as he began to hope she’d forget the past – and that all his friends would forget it, too.

  Not that his background was so marvellous. He was a ‘self-made’ man and, like them all, boasted about it till he had driven his audience to the point of nausea. But to marry someone from the theatre! To them, he’d have done better to pick a wife out of the gutter – they’d have considered her a better class.

  Her own friends, like her career, had slipped away imperceptibly. Keith hadn’t liked them and her fear of his displeasure had been stronger in those days. They hadn’t liked him, either. In self-defence, their voices had grown shriller, their gestures more sweeping, their mockery of his mannerisms and accent more blatant, more cruel.

  Afraid of losing her new-found security, she had grown cool towards them, let the time between invitations grow longer, the notes on Christmas cards shorter. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed them, how desperate she had been growing to be with her own kind.

  Until she met Nick again.

  That meeting had suddenly crystallized all the discontent she hadn’t realized had been building up in her. The restlessness, the resentment, the ... ego.

  Sitting in the little pub off Wardour Street, laughing, talking, catching up with the old gossip, the course she had to take became clear to her.

  She’d sworn to Nick that she was happy, of course, accepted his congratulations on the way life had been treating her, and promised that they’d get together again soon. She’d managed to escape without giving him a time or place. She’d call him... later.

  Nick mustn’t be involved in what she had to do.

  There’d be time to get in touch with Nick again ... later. And with the others.

  She didn’t need him now.

  What she needed now was a ... catspaw.

  DENNY

  Denny was a good boy. Denny went to church on Sundays. Sometimes Denny went during the week, too. It was quiet in church and smelled of flowers and the ghost of incense. The candles were bright and glowing, drawing him to them. You mustn’t play with fire, he knew. Sometimes, if he had enough pocket money, he lit a candle himself. That wasn’t playing with fire. That was allowed.

  He frowned into the mirror, then scrubbed harder behind his ears. Mum always checked them, and he wasn’t allowed to go out to play unless he was absolutely clean. It took a lot of time, she was so fussy. And she always noticed if he skimped on soap and water anywhere. It was a nuisance on a day like this.

  The sun was shining. He could hear birds singing. He knew where there was a bird’s nest with eggs just about ready to hatch out. If there was no one watching, he could climb up and see if the baby birds were out of their shells yet. But not if anyone was watching. He wouldn’t hurt the baby birds, he’d just look at them, but bad boys robbed nests, hurt the baby birds. That was why he must be very careful not to lead anyone to the secret nest.

  Maybe he could find somebody to play with, too. Everyone around here seemed to go away for the school holidays. It was too bad that he couldn’t go, too. It was lonely sometimes without the other kids around. Sometimes he missed them.

  He even missed Mary-Maureen. Although she played too rough, and lost her temper and pushed if you didn’t let her win. And he couldn’t push back. Boys didn’t push girls, it wasn’t nice. Boys didn’t push other boys, either, as they got bigger. It was something to do with growing up and learning to get on with other people. Mum had explained it to him – it was something else she was awfully fussy about.

  He hadn’t seen Mary-Maureen for a long time now. Longer than before school holidays started, even. She had gone away, Mum said. Mary-Maureen wasn’t feeling well and she had gone away for a while. (‘Now stop asking those endless questions–that’s all there is to it! ’)

  He must be clean enough now. He picked up the nailbrush and scrubbed in desperation at his nails. How did they always get so black?

  ‘Denny,’ his mother’s voice came floating up the stairs to him. ‘Breakfast’s ready, Denny.’

  He mopped up hastily with the hand towel. How did everything get so splashed? If he didn’t leave things clean and tidy behind him, he wasn’t allowed to go out until they were. It was fair, he knew. Mum couldn’t do everything, and he had to help her. He was a big boy now.

  ‘Denny,’ she called again. This wasn’t one of the days when she could be kept waiting. Sheila had
already had her breakfast and left for work, he knew. He had heard her cheery ‘Goodbye’ and the slam of the door while he was still sitting on the side of his bed, planning what he was going to do today. ‘Dreaming,’ his mother would have called it.

  He clattered down the stairs, then checked himself midway and descended slowly. If Mum wasn’t feeling well, noise upset her. Somehow, it seemed to be easier to upset her these days. Sometimes, most times, he didn’t even know what he had done.

  She looked up and smiled as he came into the kitchen. ‘Good morning, Denny.’

  He relaxed a bit. ‘Good morning, Mum.’ It might be going to be one of her good days. He pulled out his chair and sat down, pulling his plate towards him.

  ‘Denny,’ warningly, ‘manners.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’ Carefully, he sat up straight, shook out his napkin and laid it across his lap.

  ‘That’s better.’ She poured his tea. ‘Don’t eat too fast.’ He slowed down, but he wasn’t going fast. Not dipping fingers of toast into boiled egg. Mum got too upset if any bit of yolk dribbled on to his shirt. She made him change his shirt. Sometimes she cried. He was always extra careful with boiled eggs.

  ‘I’m working at the hospital today, Denny,’ she reminded him. ‘Have you got your latchkey?’

  Mouth full, he nodded vigorously, groping with his free hand for the key suspended against his chest by the thin metal chain around his neck. He always put it on first thing every morning. He had used to have a Miraculous Medal on the chain, too. He’d liked the friendly noise they made, jingling together, as he walked along. Bad boys had laughed, though. They made jokes about licensing him like a dog. He hadn’t minded. But Mum had heard them. Now he wore a soft cloth scapular under his shirt instead.

  ‘All right, Denny,’ Mum said. ‘Leave it where it is. Long as you have it. I’ve packed you a nice lunch. Why don’t you eat it in the park?’

  He nodded agreement, not really meaning it, but it wasn’t a lie if he didn’t say anything. The park was fine, but the river was better.

  There were ducklings along the river now. New, fluffy, funny little things – soft and trusting. They came swarming to the bank, begging for scraps and darting to gobble them up, getting in each other’s way, making him laugh.

  He looked around quickly. Mum’s back was turned. He snatched the last two pieces of toast from the plate, folding them over and stuffing them into his pocket. There were so many ducklings – there was never enough bread in his sandwiches to satisfy them all.

  ‘Don’t stay out too late, now,’ his mother went on. ‘Sheila will be back and give you your tea, if I’m not home.’

  He nodded, no reservations about his agreement this time. Sheila cut bigger slices of cake than Mum. Sometimes she let him eat her piece, too. He wished sometimes he had a brother, but, if he had to have a sister, Sheila was as good as anyone could want.

  ‘Are you all right, then, Denny?’ his mother asked, as he pushed back his chair.

  He nodded again, then said quickly, ‘Yes, Mum,’ forestalling her frown. It upset her, if he didn’t talk to her enough.

  He washed his hands hastily at the kitchen sink, dabbed the towel quickly across his mouth. The sun seemed to grow brighter by the moment, beckoning him to come outdoors.

  ‘All right, now, is your shirt clean? Your collar?’

  He stood, fidgeting, for her inspection. It was necessary before he could break free of the house.

  ‘Your ears? Your fingernails?’

  He held his hands out for her inspection, knowing she could not fault him there.

  ‘All right.’ She gave approval at last. ‘Be careful crossing streets, Denny. Don’t play with the rough boys. Don’t speak to strangers –’

  He nodded as she continued the familiar litany, shrugging himself into his coat. She followed him to the door, watching him as he picked up the airline bag Sheila had brought back from last year’s holiday and checked his treasures.

  All there, with the generous packet of sandwiches and biscuits on top. An apple and a banana, too. He straightened up with it, sending her a brilliant smile of thanks.

  ‘Oh, Denny, Denny!’ He watched in panic as the tears came to her eyes. He’d thought it was going to be a good day with her.

  He stood frozen with horror and sympathy, feeling his own eyes begin to fill. What was the matter? He’d tried to be so careful not to do anything to upset her. He hadn’t done anything bad. Denny was a good boy.

  ‘Ah, Denny, you’re a good boy.’ She said it then, patting his arm.

  He smiled uneasily, wriggling in his anxiety to get away. But there was one more bit of the morning ritual he must wait for. Mum got upset if he didn’t. It was sissy, but it was different for ladies. Mum was a lady. He opened the front door and stood there, waiting.

  ‘Be good, Denny.’ As usual, she kissed him goodbye.

  Standing, as always, on tiptoe to brush her lips across the point of his chin.

  POLLY

  The tall figure marching proudly down the path to the front gate, swinging his airline bag, shimmered in a misty halo for a moment, then disappeared completely into a blur.

  She tugged the handkerchief from the cleft between her breasts and dabbed at her eyes briskly. It had been a long time since she’d cried over Denny, but tears were always closer now. They came with the pain, and the physical pain and the mental anguish blended together indistinguishably until she couldn’t tell which the tears were for. Only that they were suddenly there.

  She must try to control them – they frightened Denny. Poor Denny. It wasn’t his fault. He tried so hard, he was such a good boy, God love him.

  (God love him and receive him. As He will never receive me.)

  She heard the creak of the gate and waved automatically, knowing that Denny would have turned to wave to her. She stepped back and closed the door, moving slowly, carefully, so that the pain coiled in her vitals might not be disturbed to strike again. It was always worse when she hadn’t slept well, but she had saved last night’s sleeping pill, putting it in the hidden bottle with the others so carefully hoarded. Perhaps she should have let herself take it. Tonight she would go back to the doctor and get the prescription renewed again. For the last time.

  It would be hard on Sheila, of course, but not so hard as the alternative. Poor Sheila, so good, so uncomplaining.

  Accepting the situation as soon as she was old enough to understand it, and helping take care of Denny as though she were the older of the two. As, in a way, she was.

  Strange, the way things turned out. Incomprehensible. There was Denny – so longed for, so waited for, so welcomed with pride. And look at the way he had come to them – unfinished.

  She and Brian, in their pride, had not noticed if for a long time. So fine to have a son. Such a bouncing, bonny baby – a perfect physical specimen.

  At first, it was just the little things – hardly noticeable when you didn’t know what to look for. When you never suspected anything could be wrong. He was always a bit behind the other babies his age, a bit slower to walk, to talk. (‘Ah, but he’ll catch up,’ she and Brian told themselves, ‘and then there'll be no stopping him. He’ll show all those others a clean pair of heels!’)

  Gradually, they’d stopped saying it. Imperceptibly, the realization grew in them, even before they took him to the hospital for that great battery of tests which only confirmed what they already knew.

  There would be no catching up for Denny. Not ever. He would go just so far – and always more slowly than the other children of his age – until, finally, he reached the point beyond which he could not go. He would remain there, a placid, friendly, smiling child. A little boy, her little boy – for ever.

  And then there was Sheila – an accident. After Denny, they knew there should be no other. So they closed their eyes and their ears and their hearts to God and tried to ensure that there should not be. One like Denny was enough for any mortal parents to bear. But the accident happened just the same.r />
  A stubborn little accident. With all the emetics and the jumping off tables and the hot gin and hotter baths not able to dislodge her.

  It was God’s own mercy that she hadn’t been damaged far worse than Denny, with all that nonsense.

  But Sheila was a blessing. One they didn’t deserve, perhaps, but what would they have done without her? Sheila proved, too, that Denny wasn’t their fault; that there wasn’t a fatal strain of bad blood in either her or Brian that would doom all their children to the endless childhood that was Denny’s.

  ('God’s will,’ the priests said, feebly proffering the only explanation they had for the inexplicable. But why drag God into a terrible thing like that?)

  It was nature. Just one of the cruel capricious pranks of nature. It might not have been so bad, even, if poor Denny had been stunted in some other way, as well – a midget, or a dwarf. (Not that she’d wish a thing like that on him.) But, in some funny way, it would have been easier to bear. Perhaps because people would have been forewarned. As it was, he had a man’s body – an athlete’s, almost – and the feckless, wandering mind of a child.

  There was no use brooding about it. She moved slowly back to the kitchen and the breakfast dishes waiting in the sink. She must do those before she left the house. It wasn’t fair to leave them for Sheila to find when she came home from work. Sheila did enough.

  Sheila. Funny, after they’d been sure Sheila was normal, they’d relaxed, she and Brian. Ready to welcome another child or two, but none had come. There was only Sheila, who had grown up so quickly, and Denny, who would never grow up at all.

  The tears and the pain came simultaneously again. She took a deep breath, willing herself to learn how to control them. She mustn’t keep letting poor Denny see tears. They frightened him into inarticulate misery, standing there in front of her, with those poor dumb eyes asking, ‘What can I do?'

  What would he do when there was no one left to tell him?

  (Denny, Denny, don’t be afraid. She drew a deep breath against the ravenous pain. I won’t leave you, Denny. I won’t leave you behind.)