Pretty Lady Page 2

  DENNY

  He walked faster as he got farther away from the house. It was going to be a nice day, the sun was warm already. Later, he might take his coat off, remembering to put it on again before he got home. Sheila wouldn’t tattle on him, but some of the neighbours might.

  He turned the corner, moving farther into freedom. He looked around cautiously. No one was in sight, no curtain twitched in any window fronting on the street. It was safe, there was no one watching.

  He gave a skip, and then another, skipping all the way to the next corner. He stopped abruptly then, you never could tell who might be around the corner. Someone to catch him and tell Mum. He’d like to run and jump on a day like this, but it wasn’t allowed. Mum had explained to him. Big boys didn’t do things like that. Denny was a big boy now.

  Denny was a good boy, too. So he must behave himself properly. Like a big boy.

  Denny frowned. Somehow, he’d expected things to be different when he was a big boy. But everything was just the same. Maybe all big boys still felt the same inside, no matter how big they got. But some of them couldn’t, because they behaved differently.

  He’d like to. But Mum wouldn’t let him grew a beard or wear his hair long. Only ... only ... there was something more than that to it. There was getting a job and going to work every day.

  ‘Sure, Denny, don’t worry your head over that,’ Mum always said. It was what she said about a lot of things. He didn’t worry, exactly, but there were a lot of things he’d like to know, because he didn’t quite understand ...

  But it was too good a day to think about hard things. Rainy days, when you couldn’t go outdoors and had to sit inside and watch the raindrops sliding down the windowpane, were the best days for trying to figure out the hard things. Not good days. Today was a good day.

  Today was such a good day he might even find Rembrandt. He quickened his steps, wondering where to start looking. Rembrandt was never in the same place twice. Not very often. The police didn’t like him to be.

  ‘Move along, move along,’ Rembrandt had said. ‘Those are the first words a copper learns to say. But that wouldn’t bother you, would it, Denny? You like moving along, don’t you, Denny? One place is as good as another to you’

  Denny had grinned and followed Rembrandt, helping by carrying some of the pictures. He didn’t always understand what Rembrandt meant by some of the things he said, but he liked Rembrandt. Rembrandt was his friend.

  It was too bad Rembrandt had to leave some of his pictures behind every time he moved. Sunsets and sailing ships and kittens and doggies, all done swiftly with coloured chalks on the pavement. ‘Penny catchers’ Rembrandt had called them, with a funny sneer in his voice. But Denny liked them best. He didn’t say so, though, because of the way Rembrandt looked and sounded when he talked about them. Rembrandt liked the strange dark shapes on the canvases best.

  You could tell right away what some of them were – like the places along the river – even though they were sort of dark and shadowy. But the other pictures were frightening – full of things you couldn’t quite see, but knew were there in the darker shapes of the shadows. Things from nightmares and fevers, lurking to spring at you if you weren’t watchful. Rembrandt knew which ones frightened him most and, when he saw him coming, he turned them around the other way, to face the building. Rembrandt was a good friend.

  He’d tried to tell Mum about Rembrandt once, but she’d gone all funny and explained carefully that Rembrandt was dead, had been dead a long time. Later, he’d heard her say to Sheila, ‘Where do you suppose he picked all that up from?’

  Big boys don’t cry. So he’d gone to his room and bitten down hard on his knuckles – until he’d drawn blood, almost. And he’d been sad for a long while to think that his friend Rembrandt was dead. So sad he’d avoided the places where Rembrandt used to be.

  Until, one day, turning an unfamiliar corner, he’d found him again. Alive and choosing a tawny gold chalk to finish the cocker spaniel ‘penny catcher’. Denny had been too glad to speak. He just stood there, beaming, while the great black stone rolled off his chest. Mum wasn’t right about everything, after all. Rembrandt was still alive.

  'Hello, there, Denny,’ Rembrandt had looked up. ‘Haven’t seen you for a long time. Where have you been keeping yourself? Had the ’flu, or something?’

  Because he couldn’t find all the words he wanted to say, and because he probably couldn’t say them anyway past the lump in his throat (big boys don’t cry), Denny had just nodded.

  He was still glad, when he thought about it, that Mum had been wrong. Even though he couldn’t quite understand how – she had never been wrong about anybody being dead before. If she said they were dead, they were. And she put on her hat and took Denny, and went down to the parish house and got a Mass Card for the repose of their souls.

  Perhaps he’d got the name wrong. It would be easy to, because every time he’d asked Rembrandt his name when he first knew him, Rembrandt had said something different.

  ‘Rembrandt,’ he’d said, with a funny twist to his mouth. ‘Vermeer. Holbein. Botticelli. Gainsborough. Titian. “What’s in a name?” Call me anything you like, Denny.’

  Denny had understood. Sometimes, when he was younger, he’d had trouble remembering his own name himself. It was nice to meet a grown-up with the same problem. It made them better friends, in a way.

  ‘Rembrandt,’ he’d decided. He liked the sound of it. He liked Rembrandt and all the bits of broken coloured chalks Rembrandt gave him for his treasure bag.

  He walked along briskly, not quite skipping, the good feeling building up inside of him. He was going to find Rembrandt today. On the good days, all the nicest things happened. And finding Rembrandt was one of the nicest things he knew.

  MERELDA

  He sat across the breakfast table, looking sickeningly satisfied with himself, and beamed at her. As well he might. She didn’t dare lock her door to him. He must not suspect anything, there must never be any suggestion of discord which he might hint at to his friends.

  She kept her face smooth, her smile bland, willing herself not to think, to play the scene. It was Act I, Scene I of any English drawing-room comedy. Morning in a sunny breakfast room. The smiling, serene heroine and her bumbling husband.

  She must think of it as just another long-running show. Not that she had ever been in any. But she must smile and play the role for just a little longer. Consoling herself with the knowledge that the run was ending soon.

  It would be easier, though, with another face across the breakfast table from her. Peter O’Toole, perhaps. Or Albert Finney. Or ... Nick.

  ‘What are you doing today, love?’

  It was the second time he had asked that. She came out of her reverie with a start. She must be more careful. She must keep paying attention. Otherwise, one missed one’s cues, lost one’s ... audience. She smiled warmly at him.

  ‘Harrods, I thought. I’ll need something new for the Brainnerds’s bridge party. I might get a dress ... or a suit.’

  ‘Buy both!’ he said expansively. How he exulted in letting her spend money. In the power he felt at commanding an expensive wife. He felt the same about the Rolls – he liked sleek, well-maintained status symbols.

  ‘Perhaps I shall.’ She made a face at him. ‘That will teach you!’

  She controlled her inward wince as his laugh boomed out. It wasn’t wasted. The maid entered just then with the morning post. A valuable witness. (‘Ever so happy, they always were, with their laughing and little jokes ... right up to the last.’)

  ‘You’ll be in town lunchtime, then?’ he asked hopefully. She knew what that meant – lunch at his dreary club. On display, captured by his prowess, the young exotic wife – that his associates might envy him. That was a role she was tired of, too.

  ‘Happen you might meet me for lunch? At t’club ?’

  The maid was still lingering, listening. She kept her faint protest perfunctory, as though she didn’t mean it. (�
�It was more like a joke, really. She never meant it for a minute. She’d never have said such a thing, even joking, if she’d only known ...’)

  ‘T’club?’ (Careful, nearly mocked the accent that time – mustn’t get too close to the knuckle ... not now.) ‘With that great stodgy menu? They don’t believe in salads there, do they? ... Or diets?’

  ‘Some place else, then?’ But his face shadowed slightly – all his friends ate at the club. ‘Anywhere you like, love.'

  ‘No, no,’ she laughed lightly. ‘I won’t deprive you of your roly-poly pud. I’ll take a long walk afterwards and work it off.’

  ‘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.’

  DENNY

  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.

  POLLY

  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 sis
ter – 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?’