Free Pretty Lady by Marian Babson Page B

bless you.’
SHEILA
    Mum had gone. Sheila sighed and put the chops in the pan. As so on as Denny came in, she’d turn the grill on. He’d be famished. He must have roamed a fair piece to be this late getting home.
    That was another of the endless worries. Denny, roaming all over the city, into neighbourhoods where he wasn’t known, where people might be alarmed by him, not realizing he was harmless. Where they might say or do something to upset him or hurt him.
    But what could you do? You couldn’t chain him up, the way they sometimes did in Victorian times. He was healthy and happy, he needed lots of fresh air and exercise. It was a perpetual question – one that came into the foreground every time Aunt Vera visited, with her pursed lips and her head-shaking and her endless hints about forebodings.
    You could worry about everybody, though. There was danger in crossing a street. Anyone could be in the wrong place at the wrong time and be hit by a stray bullet, or a car out of control. Or – like Daddy – by a pile of building materials falling on him at a building site. Denny would just have to take his chances with the rest of humanity. It was a pity, though, that he wasn’t so well equipped to deal with the things that might happen as the rest of humanity.
    For that matter, it was time to worry more about Mum.
    She was putting a brave face on it, but she wasn’t getting any better. Although she denied it, she seemed to be getting worse. She’d never fainted at work before.
    Perhaps it might be a good idea to drop in and talk to the doctor. Ask him if he’d really given Mum a thorough examination, or just taken her word for it that a few sleeping pills were all she needed. Ask him what was really wrong. Would he tell? Would he admit it – even to the next-of-kin – if Mum’s illness was really serious? There was some medical rule, wasn’t there, about doctors keeping their patients’ secrets? Would that apply, in this case?
    Don’t worry, that was all doctors ever seemed to say. Don’t worry. As though worry was something you could turn off, like the television set, by twisting a button.
    Still, she ought to see the doctor, try to get an honest opinion out of him. In the morning, perhaps, die could telephone and let them know she’d be late to work, and stop in on her way to the office -
    The front door slammed suddenly. ‘Denny, is that you?’ she called.
    â€˜It’s me,’ his voice agreed amiably from the front hall.
    â€˜Go and wash your hands, then.’ She snapped on the grill. ‘Tea’s nearly ready.’
    He clattered upstairs and was back again, in the briefest possible time, pulling out his chair and seating himself at the kitchen table. But he seemed in no hurry to start when she put his plate down before him and drew up the chair opposite.
    â€˜Aren’t you hungry?’ she asked.
    He picked up his fork, more as though he wanted to show willing than to actually use it. ‘Had some tea,’ he said, ‘with a friend.’
    â€˜That’s nice.’ Sheila was hungrier than she had realized. ‘Anyone we know?’ Denny was always on about his friends. Sometimes he meant stray dogs, or birds, and sometimes he meant people. It wasn’t always easy to sort out his reports of his day. To be honest, she generally made listening noises and didn’t really bother.
    'Pretty lady,’ Denny said. ‘Lots of cakes.’
    â€˜That’s nice.’ Then something in his voice made her look up sharply. He was leaning forward on one elbow, idly building his mashed potato into a shape like a sand castle with his fork.
    It wasn’t like Denny to be uninterested in food, no matter how much he had eaten, or how recently. The strange, bemused expression on his face was new, too. Sheila felt a sudden pang. In somebody else, they might be symptoms of love –calf love, at least. But