Pretty Lady by Marian Babson Page A

such a small pile of powder to carry such finality. A teaspoon, maybe. It was strange to think that it would put an end to both Denny and herself.
    Don’t think about it – it’s too late to think about it. She drew a deep breath. Concentrate on the mechanics, now. One step at a time. That was the way to go. To go –
    First – she stood and gathered up the separated capsules – dispose of the evidence. If Sheila should find them both asleep, she’d think nothing of it. But if she found those tiny empty tell-tale cases in the rubbish, she’d know something was wrong.
    They were a full handful. She fumbled to collect all the elusive bits of gelatine casings, but her hands were trembling. Some dropped, rolling over the dressing-table and on to the floor.
    She stooped and gathered them up – surely that was all of them. From force of habit, she straightened slowly, although the familiar pain was missing, had been missing for some hours now. She wasn’t fooled. It was just the same thing as the way a bothersome tooth stopped aching when a visit to the dentist was imminent. It was just a trick of the mind and body – not a spontaneous remission, not a cure.
    She flushed the toilet, but only a portion of the capsules disappeared. At least half of them had filled with air and were bobbing mockingly in the bowl. She waited for the cistern to fill and tried once more. Again, some stubbornly refused to flush away.
    Did it matter? They were only gelatine, after all, meant to dissolve in liquid. Wouldn’t they just be shapeless blobs by the time Sheila got back? She’d never be able to tell what they had been – if she noticed them at all.
    She pulled the chain frantically again, aware that she was half-sobbing.
    â€˜Mum? Mum?’ That was Denny, drawn away from his television, coming up the stairs. ‘Mum?’ Worried about her. Upset, without knowing why, by the unaccustomed overactivity of the plumbing.
    â€˜It’s all right, Denny.’ She went to the top of the stairs. ‘I’m here. I’m coming down now and make us some nice cocoa. Then we’ll get to bed and have an early night.’
    For a moment, Denny looked as though he might protest. He always hated going to bed early – just like a child. And nothing to be wondered about, he was a child. Her child. And she’d take care of him.
    Unexpectedly, Denny capitulated without argument. ‘All right,’ he said docilely.
    â€˜You’re a good boy, Denny,’ Polly said. ‘Come up and get into your pyjamas now and I’ll bring up our cocoa in a minute.’
    She heard him climbing the stairs as she went back into her room. Such a good boy, such a wasted life. What couldn’t he have been, if only he’d had the brain to match that fine body?
    Careful, mustn’t spill any, or you might not have enough. She picked up the saucer of powder and went downstairs into the kitchen.
    Carefully, even more carefully, she carried the tray with the two cups of cocoa upstairs. And a packet of biscuits for Denny – he loved chocolate biscuits so. He could eat his fill of them tonight without reproach. So long as he drank his cocoa with them.
    Denny was already in bed, the covers pulled up around him. He usually delayed, stalled, wasted time. But tonight, he’d got straight into bed, meek as a lamb.
    For a moment, the old reactions swept over her and she began to worry that he was sickening for something. Perhaps she ought to check his temperature.
    Then the rattle of cups from the tray in her hands brought her back to the present, to the here and now. It didn’t matter if Denny was coming down with some illness. They neither of them were going to be here long enough for it to matter to them.
    â€˜Chocolate biscuits, Denny.’ She set the tray down carefully on the bedside table. ‘Your favourites. You can eat all you want tonight. It’s a special