Come Running

by Anne Mather

  “Long time, no see,” murmured Jeff, successfully annexing her in a corner. “How about the pictures later?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, Jeff.” Darrell was apologetic, half wondering whether she had done the right thing in coming here. “I—er—I’m going back to London in the morning.”

  “Going back to London?” Jeff sounded hurt. “What do you mean? I thought you’d had your holiday.”

  “I have. That is—I—I may be leaving Sedgeley.”

  “But why? What’s happened?” Jeff’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “This bloke in London—Barry what’s his name. Is it him? Are you going back to be near him?”

  “Oh, no—no!” Darrell tried to wriggle past him to speak to Mrs. Lawford. “Jeff, it’s nothing to do with—with anyone. I—I just need a rest, that’s all.”

  “You’re coming back, then?” Jeff sounded less aggressive. He studied her face. “Yes, you do look rather pale, now I come to notice it. What’s wrong? Had too many late nights these past two weeks?”

  “Jeff, I want to speak to your mother,” she said desperately. “Will you let me past? I don’t have all that much time.”

  Jeff sighed and stood aside. “Okay. But I’m taking you home, remember.”

  Darrell didn’t answer this. Mrs. Lawford had disappeared, probably out to the kitchen, and excusing herself, Darrell went after her.

  As she had expected, Mrs. Lawford was in the kitchen, making sandwiches, and Penny was helping her. Darrell looked frustratedly at the younger girl, and then said: “Penny, would you mind leaving us for a minute? There’s something I have to tell your mother.”

  Penny raised her eyebrows, but her mother said: “Yes, you go along, Penny. Darrell can help me finish these.”

  When the door had closed behind her youngest daughter, Mrs. Lawford sank down into a kitchen chair and indicated that Darrell should do likewise. “Now,” she said, and there were lines of strain around her eyes and mouth as there had been when Susan was killed. “It’s to do with our Matt, isn’t it?”

  Darrell’s face flamed. She couldn’t help it. Mrs. Lawford’s words were so unexpected.

  “You don’t have to tell me, I know,” went on Matthew’s mother heavily. “He’s my son, remember. I’ve known him a great number of years, and while I know he’s been living in London for some time now and his ways aren’t our ways any more, he’s still our Matt, and I know him. Coming up here every weekend like he has! That’s not been his way. Lordy, before our Susan’s wedding, I doubt we’d seen him half a dozen times in nearly as many years. He wasn’t happy, see, and he wouldn’t come here pouring out his troubles like some I could mention. No, he kept away, buried himself in his work, spent months abroad in all these exotic places like Hong Kong and Tokyo… Earlier on this year he was in Australia for three months.” She paused. “But that’s beside the point, isn’t it? It was you he came to see, wasn’t it?”

  Darrell shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lawford–”

  “Sorry? Sorry? What’s all this sorry business? You’ve nothing to be sorry about. You didn’t make the running, I could see that. Taking you home every chance he could get; coming all this way to see you!” Mrs. Lawford sighed. “Well, love, does that make it any easier for you?”

  Darrell shook her head. “There’s so much you don’t know, Mrs. Lawford.”

  “I know our Matt. He can be persuasive.” She paused. “Eh, you’re not pregnant, are you?”

  Darrell caught her breath, shaking her head again. “No.”

  “Thank the Lord for that!” Mrs. Lawford looked relieved. “Well, love? What is it you want to say to me?”

  Darrell hardly knew how to begin even now. “I—I’m going back to London—to Upminster. To stay with my mother for a while.”

  “You’re not well, I can see that. That was why I thought…” Mrs. Lawford broke off significantly. “Is this to be near our Matt?”

  “No!“ Darrell spoke vehemently. “No.” She tried to keep calm. “I—well, I’ve been advised to rest. I’m a bit strung up, you know how it is. My mother and I—we’re thinking of taking a holiday. A—change of scene might do me good.”

  “Does Matt know about this?”

  “No.” Darrell licked her lips. “Matt and I—well, we’re through, finished. He—he’s married, and that’s that.”

  “Celine won’t let him go, I suppose.” Mrs. Lawford’s lips were tight. “Selfish bitch!”

  “Oh, please…” Darrell couldn’t bring herself to tell Matthew’s mother about the baby. “It’s over. Over.” She hesitated. “I wanted—to see you. To tell you about—going back south. I couldn’t just—go.”

  Mrs. Lawford patted her hand. “That was thoughtful of you, dear. Particularly…” She sighed, staring blindly into space. Then she focussed on Darrell again. “He—he did tell you about—about the accident?”

  Darrell nodded. “Yes.”

  “He should never have married her, never! No matter what inducements her father offered. He was a fool!” She paused. “But he was young—and ambitious. Never be ambitious, Darrell. It doesn’t pay.”

  Remembering her mother’s vaunted ambition and what it had done to her marriage, Darrell knew she was right.

  “So—you won’t forget all about us, will you?” Mrs. Lawford asked anxiously. “You’ll come and see us some time, won’t you?”

  Darrell lifted her shoulders helplessly. “I’ll let you know what I decide to do,” she promised.

  She stayed and had tea with the family, dreading the moment when Jeff would drive her back to the flat and she would have to find some excuse to give him. But Mrs. Lawford appreciated her feelings, and insisted that Mr. Lawford should be given the task of taking Darrell home.

  “You promised to meet young Brian tonight,” she told Jeff firmly, ignoring his protest. “Darrell’s not feeling very well. She doesn’t want you making a nuisance of yourself!”

  It was harsh, but Darrell was glad of her understanding. And Mr. Lawford seemed to understand, too.

  “We’ll be seeing you again,” he said, when he dropped her at the flat. “I’m sure of it. Look after yourself.”

  “I will.” Darrell had a lump in her throat. “And—and thank you. Thank you all.”

  * * *

  Corfu in July was hot and busy, but fortunately not as crowded as Darrell had expected. She and her mother were staying at a hotel on the western coast of the island, and she had spent almost every day since their arrival a week ago lying by the swimming pool when she wasn’t actually in the water itself. Below the cliffs where the hotel was situated, the sea was an incredible greeny-blue, and several times she had gone down the stone steps to swim in its silky depths. The hotel was full of holidaymakers, lots of them from England, but most were family parties and she had not had to fend off too many would-be admirers. Her mother on the other hand had become friendly with a middle-aged professor, holidaying alone, on the day after their arrival, and as he had hired a car for the duration of his stay. Mrs. Anderson was often out with him. To begin with, she had been doubtful about leaving Darrell on her own, but when it had become apparent that all Darrell wanted to do was lie and sunbathe, or read one of the paperbacks she had brought with her, she had started accepting his invitations. Darrell for her part was glad. She knew she was still very poor company for anyone.

  But today, Darrell had accompanied them to Corfu town and while her mother and the professor sat drinking Turkish coffee on the Esplanade, she wandered up and down the narrow streets, resisting the tempting souvenirs offered her by a dozen dark-eyed vendors. The barter system was still very much in operation here, and she wondered rather cynically whether tourists really believed they were getting a bargain when they succeeded in beating a price down, and not simply the price at which the item should first have been offered. Whatever the case, there were plenty of people willing to take the chance, and Darrell couldn’t help admiring the muslin shirts and caftans embroidered in typically colourful fashion. />
  Some paperbacks outside a newsagents store attracted her attention. They were a mixture of English, French and American editions, obviously put there to attract the tourist’s eye. She was flicking through the pages of a recent best-seller when she saw that the store also sold English newspapers. They were the previous day’s papers, of course, but she had a sudden nostalgia to read about things and people from back home. She bought the Express and the Mail, reading the headlines about some new strike with a grimace. Then she strolled back to where her mother and the professor were waiting, glancing carelessly down the front pages. The words danced before her eyes in the brilliant sunlight, but a small photograph towards the bottom of the page was still recognisable. She found herself staring at a picture of Celine, and immediately her legs went weak.

  She had almost reached the square where at the coffee tables the political life of Corfu and the Greek mainland was a constant topic of conversation and where her mother was waiting, when sudden premonition made her stop, and draw into the shadow of the buildings to read the words below the photograph. She read them once, gasped in horror, and then read them again:

  TYCOON’S DAUGHTER DIES

  Mrs. Celine Lawford, daughter of Sir Paul Galbraith, died last night in Kingstone Infirmary after a party at her home. Mrs. Lawford was the wife of Mr. Matthew Lawford, a business consultant. They had no children.

  Darrell couldn’t believe it. Celine—dead! It didn’t make sense. And after a party at her home! What party? Had Matthew been there? How could she have died? From what? Oh, why didn’t these newspaper reports go into any details?

  She read the notice again, and then folded the paper with trembling fingers and walked reluctantly back to the Esplanade. Her mother and the professor were still sitting where she had left them, but her mother had been keeping quite an intense observation on her progress towards them and she noticed at once that Darrell was pale beneath the faint tan she had acquired. Mrs. Anderson’s brows drew together, and she said:

  “What’s the matter, Darrell? Is the heat too much for you?”

  Darrell shook her head, subsiding into the rattan chair opposite and accepting the professor’s offer of coffee. She didn’t want to talk about the article now, not here.

  “It is hot,” she temporised. “Where are we having lunch?”

  “I suggest we have lunch here, in town,” replied her mother’s escort jovially. “And then this afternoon we can visit the Achilleion.”

  “The Achilleion?” Darrell tried to grasp at ordinary things. “What’s that?”

  “The Achilleion! You know. The palace built for the Empress of Austria!”

  “I don’t think Darrell is particularly interested in ancient monuments right now, Robert.” Mrs. Anderson was regarding her daughter worriedly. “Robert, be a dear and leave us for a few minutes, would you? I want to have a word with Darrell—in private.”

  The professor pursed his lips, and looking slightly put out got to his feet. “Very well, Edwina. I’ll go and get some tobacco. Then perhaps when I come back we can arrange about lunch.”

  Darrell’s mother nodded and smiled, but was obviously relieved when she and Darrell were left alone.

  “Now,” she said, pointing to the papers on the table in front of her daughter. “What is it? What have you read in there to take all the colour out of your cheeks? Just when you were beginning to look better, too!”

  Darrell sighed, and unfolding the paper she pushed it across to her mother. “At the bottom,” she said, flatly. “Tycoon’s daughter dies.“

  Mrs. Anderson read the item swiftly, her frown deepening. “I see,” she said at last, looking up. “So his wife’s dead. How convenient!”

  “Oh, Mummy, don’t say that!” Darrell felt sick. “What do you think it means? Why is she dead?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Mrs. Anderson looked at the date on the paper. “I expect there’ll be an inquest. This is yesterday’s paper, anyway.”

  “I know that.” Darrell paused. “Will they report the result of the inquest?”

  “They may do. Then again they may not.” Mrs. Anderson sighed. “Sometimes people want these things kept private, Darrell. And a man in Sir Paul Galbraith’s position—I should think he could keep it out of the papers if he wanted to.”

  “Damn!” Darrell shifted restlessly in her seat. “Damn.”

  “What does it matter? Darrell, you’re well out of it, by the sound of things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s obviously a—fishy situation. I mean, how old was she? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine? That’s rather young to die after a party, don’t you think?”

  Darrell hunched her shoulders. “I have thought of that, Mummy.”

  “There you are, then. There may be more to this than meets the eye.”

  “What are you saying? That Matt may have killed her?”

  “No, I’m not saying anything of the kind. But the circumstances are—peculiar.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “What do you do?” Mrs. Anderson gasped. “What do you mean, what do you do? What can you do? You stay here, of course, and finish your holiday, what do you think?” Her lips parted. “You can’t be thinking that perhaps you ought to go back home!”

  “It has crossed my mind,” Darrell admitted.

  “But why?”

  “Because he may need me!” Darrell burst out tremulously.

  “Need you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Darrell, I forbid it. I absolutely forbid it! Don’t dare to suggest such a thing. My God, it was bad enough when she was alive and you were involved with the man. It will be a hundred times worse now she’s dead, and in such—well, suspicious circumstances!”

  “You’re only jumping to conclusions,” exclaimed Darrell unsteadily. “You don’t know how she died. She may have had a heart condition. Anything!” Unwillingly the thought of drugs came to her mind, but she couldn’t tell her mother that! “In any case, I don’t particularly care how she died. It’s Matt I’m thinking of.”

  Her mother stared at her as though she’d suddenly taken leave of her senses. “You’d go back to England now to see a man who might well be involved in his wife’s death! Darrell, you’re mad! Keep away. It’s nothing to do with you, thank God! Be thankful for that.”

  “How do I know it’s nothing to do with me?” insisted Darrell, gulping. “How do I know, if Matt is responsible for her death, he didn’t do it because of me?”

  “Darrell! Darrell, for mercy’s sake, don’t even suggest such a thing! Heavens, if that were true—if this got out! It would ruin you—it would ruin me! Can you not see the headlines now? Daughter of Interior Decorator Involved in Scandal of Tycoon’s Daughter’s Death! It would finish me, you know that. The Galbraiths are not some penny-pinching north country family struggling to make a name for themselves in the City!”

  “Would it make a difference if they were?” Darrell’s lips twisted.

  “Oh, stop trying to twist my words, Darrell. You know perfectly well what I mean—how much I rely on recommendation for my success. If your name became linked with Matthew Lawford’s and there was a scandal—I just can’t bear to think about it!”

  “I don’t see what interior decorating has to do with Matt,” exclaimed Darrell tautly.

  “No. Because you don’t want to see. But you know as well as I do that the people he mixes with are the people I work for. Darrell, for pity’s sake, think of someone else instead of Matthew Lawford. Think of your mother—think of your future! Think of Daddy!”

  “Daddy? Daddy? What has Daddy got to do with this?”

  “Do you think he would appreciate his name being bandied about the lecture rooms at the college? It would happen, you know. Once the press got hold of your name they’d find out everything about you –”

  “Oh, stop it!” Darrell put her hands over her ears.

  “I won’t stop it, Darrell. You owe me some loyalty, surely.”

&nb
sp; “All right, all right.” Darrell ran trembling hands over her face and down her cheeks. “I see your point.”

  “And?”

  “I have to think.”

  “Here’s Robert coming back. We’ll talk about this later.”

  Darrell nodded, but deep down she knew there was nothing more to say. Her mother had convinced her that to go running to Matthew at a time like this might do more harm than good. If there was some doubt about the circumstances of Celine’s death, she ought not to go to him and so provide a motive for his wanting rid of his wife. For his sake…

  But staying on in Corfu was equally unacceptable, getting news at second hand, relying on papers for information. There might conceivably be something she could do if she was back in England. Matthew might try to get in touch with her…

  That evening over dinner she told her mother what she intended to do.

  “I’m going back,” she said, waiting for the explosion, and she was not disappointed.

  “You can’t! I won’t let you! Darrell, you can’t do this to me.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Mummy. I’m not going to do anything. I’m not even going to ring Matthew up, let alone try and see him. But I have to be there, can’t you at least understand that? I have to make myself available.”

  “Available? Available for what?”

  “Available—if he wants to see me!”

  “So if he chooses to drag you into this affair, you’ll go. It will be his decision, not yours—or mine.”

  “Oh, stop dramatizing everything, Mummy! I know Matt. I know he won’t—drag me into this business, if there’s any reason why he shouldn’t. He’s not like that. He’s not mean—or selfish. He—he’s kind and gentle and—and I love him.”

  Mrs. Anderson’s lips tightened. “In other words, this man means more to you than I do,” she said coldly.

  “Oh, Mummy, you’re my mother! I love Matt. I want to be with him—always.”

  “Marry him, you mean?”

  “If he wants me to. If not…”

  “You’d live with him?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Anderson shook her head disbelievingly. “So you are your father’s daughter after all.”