Pretty Lady (5 page)

‘I've seen you there,' he said. He beamed. He
did
know her – she wasn't a stranger. ‘Behind the candles.'

‘That's right.' Her face changed slightly. ‘We're ... friends, then. Old friends. So ... you can come to tea?'

‘Yes,' he said blissfully.

She rose in a flowing graceful motion, her pale blue scarf floating from her fingers, and moved closer.

‘Come along, then.' She took his arm.

Trustingly as a puppy, he went with her.

It was hard! Harder going than she had imagined it could be. How old was he? She glanced upwards at the dreamy face. Physically, anywhere between twenty and thirty. Who could tell with this sort?

Mentally? Four or five? Ten or eleven? Or did he slide back and forth? Older when he was faced with something he could understand; younger when he was out of his depth. Like all kids. But he wasn't a kid – not to look at, although he was in every other way. What could she say to him? How could she talk to him?

Still, she'd done all right, so far. It had been a bit sticky until she'd mentioned church. She had suddenly remembered seeing him coming down those steep stone steps, clutching that same airline bag. (Or had she remembered it before – long before – and unconsciously been searching him out?)

But what did he mean about seeing
her
in church? And what was that crack about ‘behind the candles' supposed to mean?

‘My name is Denny,' he said. ‘Dennis. But everybody says Denny.'

He wanted conversation. She had let herself in for this, though, she had to go along with it. She'd just have to try to meet him on his own level ... if only she could discover what that level was.

‘My name is Merelda,' she said, equally confiding. ‘Esmerelda, really, but everybody calls me Merelda.'

She had insisted on it. Dropping the ‘Es' as soon as possible, hating the background of it, knowing her mother had seen some cheap film during pregnancy and thought the name romantic. It wasn't so bad with the front of it clipped off – she was able to feel it was vaguely ‘U'. And it saved being called ‘Essie'. No one quite knew what to do with ‘Merelda'; she wasn't the type to be called ‘Merry'.

‘You must call me Merelda ... Denny.'

‘Merelda –' He tried the name cautiously, rolling it, tasting it. It was a nice name. He liked nice rolling names. ‘Like Rembrandt'.

What was he on about now? No matter. Get him into the house, let him see the layout of the place, and then she could shove some tea into him. He couldn't talk while he was eating. At least, she hoped he wouldn't try. Meanwhile, agree with him ... humour him.

‘That's right,' she said. ‘That's exactly right. How clever of you to notice it.' (Whatever
it
was.)

He gave a little skip. ‘Merelda,' he said again.

Three years old ? If only she knew more about kids. She never thought she'd feel the lack, but now she wished she'd paid more attention to Melody's brats on the rare occasions when she'd visited them. (Her sister, ‘Melody' – relict of another cheap film seen somewhere in a hazy and sentimentalized parental past.)

‘Do
you
know Rembrandt?' he asked.

‘
Everyone
knows Rembrandt,' she said firmly. She watched him nod happily. At least,
that
had been the right answer. She wondered if she should say anything more about art and artists ... not that she knew much more. Did he? ...
Could
he? What strange pockets of knowledge were hidden in that vague shapeless intellect? Better not take the conversation any further. Let him go on ... if he wanted to.

‘We're nearly there,' she said with relief, quickening her steps. Then shuddered, as he lengthened his own stride effortlessly to keep pace with her. There was a frightening amount of strength leashed within that mindless body. If it came to it, she would be powerless to outrun him ... outfight him.

If it came to what
? She shrugged, throwing off the vague uneasiness. She was in complete control of the situation – a sideways glance at Denny, trotting docilely beside her, reassured her of that. He was so childlike a slap on the wrist, and a ‘naughty' would bring him to heel, as it did any of Melody's brats when they got stroppy.

‘Here we are.' She led the way up the steps and into the shadowy hall. ‘We'll go upstairs, it's nicer there.' Up to the first-floor double drawing-room, with the immense picture window framing the constantly changing panorama of the river.

‘Oh, first.' She paused, as though the thought had just come to her. ‘Would you like to leave your things in here?' She opened the door to Keith's study, smiling, and motioned Denny inside. He moved obediently towards her, clutching the airline bag a little tighter, but prepared to part with his coat.

So far, so good. She watched him shrug out of his open coat, fold it neatly and lay it across the couch in the corner of the room.

But Denny must not only know the layout of the house, he must be seen to know the layout. She rang the bell for the maid.

Ethel was there so quickly it was obvious that she had been lurking outside, trying to catch a glimpse of the male stranger Madam had been bold enough to bring into the house in the master's absence. Well, let her take a good look.

‘We'd like tea, please, Ethel,' she said smoothly. ‘Upstairs, I think. The view is better. And, Ethel, we want lots and lots of sweet biscuits, and buns, and jam, and cakes. Don't we, Denny?'

He turned from the couch, with his serene and vacant smile, to nod. She heard Ethel's sharply indrawn breath, felt the instinctive shrinking away momentarily that every woman must have at this threat. This positive reminder of what ‘happily ever after' could really turn out to be.

‘Oh
yes,
madam. I'll see to it immediately.'

As Ethel hurriedly left the room, Merelda caught the backward glance at both of them. The glance that told her she had made her play successfully. The awe – almost adoration – directed at herself; the primitive fear lashing out at the unrealizing Denny. (‘Oh,
yes,
your worship. Madam was
ever
so kind to him. Brought him into the house and treated him just the same as you or me. When I think of what he's done ... to repay her ...') Floods of tears should complete the scene, although Merelda wasn't sure that they actually would. Servants weren't what they used to be.

There was one other thing, now.

‘Denny.' Casually, she slid open the desk drawer. ‘Have you ever seen a gun, Denny? A real gun?'

The afternoon would never end. The seconds-hand of the electric clock swept smoothly and inexorably around the dial, but the other hands never seemed to move at all. Hours yet, before she went off duty. Hours yet, before she could go to the doctor and get the prescription; go to the chemist and have it filled. Hours yet, before –

The swish of rubber tyres approached along the corridor. Mustn't be caught napping. She opened her eyes to see the volunteer worker pushing the trolley of library books towards her. She forced a smile and stepped aside, so that the volunteer could wheel the trolley into the ward.

Then she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. Perhaps, when she opened them, the hands of the clock would have moved a bit farther on. Just far enough to show that it was working, that this afternoon would end some time.

As it was, she seemed already trapped in eternity, existing in some quiet grey corridor of purgatory. Ah, but she wasn't going to purgatory. Not for what she was about to do. Let there be no presumption, no false hope. She'd be doomed to –

‘Why don't you go home early, if you're not feeling well?' Vera was there in front of her, sharp little nose twitching, as though she scented brimstone. ‘That's the sensible thing to do. No need to make a martyr of yourself, dragging along when you can barely stand.'

‘I'm all right.' Sheer stubbornness stiffened her backbone, held her upright. It was fatal to show any weakness to Vera; besides, she wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

‘You don't look it,' Vera said briskly. ‘You look worse than you did at lunchtime – and that was bad enough, God knows. Why don't you go home now?'

‘I'm all right!' She snapped it out in fury, feeling the false colour mount into her face, giving her the semblance of health she had not had in some time now. ‘Please leave me be. There's nothing wrong with me.'

‘Oh no,' Vera mocked caustically. ‘You're fit as a fiddle, we can all see that. That's why you're nearly fainting every time there's a loud noise anywhere near you. And why you're like to fall over if a strong wind's blowing.'

‘I'm all right.' Like eternity, the phrase was endlessly with her, all she could say. Her only defence.

‘All right,' Vera said. ‘Have it your way. At least, come and have some tea. Come along now, it will do you good. At least,' her voice wavered doubtfully, ‘it won't do you any harm.'

There was no use arguing. Polly allowed herself to be led along the tiled corridor, although her throat had closed up protestingly at the mere thought of trying to force anything down it. Vera was not to be denied. It was better to give in to her on a small point like this before she forced acceptance of some larger, more important, point – like going home. The next step would be offering to go home with her, to see that she got there safely.

‘I'll take you home, if you like,' Vera said. ‘They can spare me for an hour or so. Just to see you settled in bed with a cup of tea and a hot-water bottle. The weather is treacherous, this time of year, and you need to be kept warm and comfortable – '

‘I'm all right,' Polly ground out again, between clenched teeth.
Just leave me alone,
her whole being, her whole attitude shrieked.

‘Well, I don't know–' She could feel Vera's doubtful eyes on her. Vera had received the message but, it being unspoken, had denied it. (‘
Unless I see the wounds with my own eyes, unless I put my hand into His side –
' There was good precedent for the Veras of this world.)

They had reached the canteen and, with the prospect of something practical to be done, Vera's indecisiveness vanished. ‘You go and sit down,' she said. ‘I'll get the tea.' Easier to obey than to argue. Polly instinctively made for the darkest corner. The less light, the less Vera could inspect her, those prying, glittering eyes raking every vein and wrinkle for some clue to the cataclysm happening beneath the surface. She sat in the shadows, her back to the wall, fittingly enough. Vera always made people feel that they had their backs to the wall. What would Vera do if, suddenly, one of these cornered people decided to fight?

‘There now ...' She hadn't been aware that she had closed her eyes again until she opened them to focus on the tray Vera set in front of her with a small slam of satisfaction. ‘You just eat this, and you'll feel better.'

By an effort, she kept her eyes open, but her throat closed up against the array of starches on the tray. ‘Just a cup of tea is all I want.'

‘Nonsense!' Vera buttered a slice of bread for her, as though she were a child, and thrust it at her. She took it automatically, setting it on the plate before her. She could manage a cup of tea, wanted one now, but the effort was all too much for her. She must save every bit of strength for the final effort tonight. After that, there'd be no more need to do anything. Ever. She waited, helplessly, for Vera to pour out the tea, which came in individual pots during the off-peak canteen hours.

From a great distance, she watched Vera fuss with milk and sugar, teapots and cups, saucers and spoons. A pity Vera had no children of her own to fuss over. It was all right now, while she had the hospital and the patients, but you could see it coming. The day when Vera, retired and living alone, would become the spinster scourge of her neighbourhood. The first one up in the morning to get to six o'clock Mass, and the rest of the day spent twitching aside the curtain at every faint noise of the local children, making life hell on earth for the rest of her neighbours.

But she wouldn't be here to see that. What did it matter to her, the way Vera might be heading?

Or would she see, from wherever she might? Might she be the cause of it? Partly. The reason Vera rushed out to pray at morning Mass, to light candles, to make endless Novenas? The reason Vera would watch the neighbours with jealous eyes, always seeking for some worse sin to measure the family disgrace against. Something unthinkable, unmentionable, that might lessen the sin marked against her sister-in-law's name for all the world to see.

As though there were worse sins than suicide. And murder.

‘Gun,' Denny said. They were upstairs now, in the large drawing-room overlooking the river, but the usually fascinating river traffic was somehow less compelling than the thought of the smooth, heavy object in the desk drawer downstairs.

‘That's right.' His nice new friend, Merelda, was smiling broadly at him. ‘In the desk drawer. We always keep it there. Do you know anything about guns, Denny?'

‘ 'Course I do.' Did she think he'd never been to any films, never watched television? ‘You pull the trigger,' he expanded. ‘It goes bang. People fall down.'

‘That's right,' she said again. He had the feeling that he had pleased her greatly. ‘And
why
do they want the other people to fall down, Denny? Do you know
why
people shoot other people?'

Why
? His brow wrinkled in perplexity. Questions with
why
in them were always the most difficult to answer. They'd been talking so well. He hadn't expected Merelda to start asking questions. Especially not questions with
why
in them. He tried to think.