Free Pretty Lady by Marian Babson

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Are you sure you should?’ Sheila appeared in the doorway again, staring at her uncertainly. Polly smiled and straightened slowly.
    â€˜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.’
    There was no poignancy about it being the last – or next-to-last – walk through the old neighbourhood. With detachment, Polly noted the changes of the years – almost unnoticed at the time they happened. Perhaps it was because of the feeling of being not quite present. Of already being half-way ‘there’ – wherever there was.
    In the early days, she’d walked down this street often with Brian. In some funny way, he seemed to be close to her tonight. Or was it that she was closer to him? If so, she must cling to this feeling – because it would be all she had of him. For ever more. She wouldn’t be with him after this, couldn’t go where he had gone. They wouldn’t even bury her in consecrated ground. Denny, yes. But not her. And yet, there was no other way.
    ( No other way, Brian. Her mind raced wildly, talking to him, trying to dispel the disapproval she felt emanating from him. If ’twas me had gone first, and you was left, wouldn’t you be doing the same now? He’s ours, Brian, and nobody but us to look after him. Such as he is, he’s our responsibility. Mine, now. If I can’t stay with him, then he’ll have to come with me. There’s no other way - )
    â€˜Good evening, Mrs O’Magnon.’ The black figure on the other side of the low wall moved forward.
    â€˜Good evening, Father Flaherty.’ Polly halted reluctantly. The last person she ever wanted to see again, and there was no escape.
    â€˜I haven’t seen you at church lately.’
    Briefly, she considered lying, saying she’d been going to a different Mass, but there was no escape that way, either. The parish was dwindling. There weren’t so many other Masses, or so many priests, either.
    â€˜I haven’t been feeling awfully well, lately, Father,’ she said. ‘Besides,’ she added mildly, ‘it’s not a sin any more to miss Mass once in a while, is it? Not if you aren’t feeling well?’
    â€˜No, no.’ The old priest shook his head regretfully. ‘But we must remember that the operative phrase is “once in a while”, not just because it’s convenient for us. We mustn’t presume to – ’
    He had begun gesturing with the hand holding his breviary, and the black book caught his eyes. Crammed, it was, with bits of paper. Once it had been a solid, satisfying line of defence, its orderly bulk marked only by holy cards and memorial cards. Now, it bristled with communications from the Hierarchy – new prayers, new translations, new changes in the ritual. Fresh marching orders every week, it seemed, and no way of knowing any more who was out