Come Running. Anne Mather
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the bathroom was scarcely big enough to turn round in. Still, in spite of the indifferent furnishings provided by the owners, it was home, but without Susan’s irritating clutter it was empty.
Darrell stripped off the long coffee-coloured gown, and examined the hem, determinedly keeping her thoughts on the mundane matters. Apart from several mud stains which would possibly brush off when they were completely dry, it was in reasonable order and she was relieved. Her mother had bought her the dress for her last birthday, and she would have hated to have faced her wrath if the dress had been permanently marked.
Pulling on a housecoat, she went into the tiny kitchen and switched on the kettle. A cup of tea was what she needed after all that wine. A cup of tea and several quiet minutes to compose herself for the evening’s festivities ahead of her. Perhaps she could ring and excuse herself, she thought doubtfully. She could always invent a headache. But the recollection of Celine’s attitude towards the Lawford family made her think again.
Mrs. Lawford would be terribly disappointed if she failed to put in an appearance. Perhaps she would imagine that she, Darrell, felt out of place in such partisan society. Which wouldn’t be true. Darrell had always enjoyed her visit to the Lawford house. They had always made her feel so welcome, encompassing her in the kind of family atmosphere she had never experienced with her own parents.
The kettle boiled and she made the tea, carrying the tray through to the living room and setting it down on a low table beside the couch. As she poured the tea, she reflected that it was hardly surprising that she had never known what it was like to be part of a family. Her parents had divorced when she was seven years old, which at the time had come as a blessed relief after years of listening to her parents quarrelling. Her father had been to blame, or that was her mother’s story and the fact that her father had married again within a year of obtaining the decree had seemed to bear out that theory. Darrell had been too young to judge at that time, and it was only as she had grown older she had begun to appreciate that there were always two sides to every situation. Her father’s second wife was young, younger than her mother had been, and within a few years they had produced two sons who might well have been brothers to Darrell, if her mother had let them. But throughout her childhood, she had jealously guarded her daughter, allowing her to visit her father only rarely, and consequently, by the time Darrell was old enough to judge for herself, her half-brothers had formed their own opinions of her. Delia, her stepmother, had hardened, too, and Darrell did not really feel at home with them. She knew her father regretted this bitterly, but he was naturally more inclined to be loyal to the family he had made.
Darrell’s mother, who had been a designer working for a firm of textile manufacturers at the time of her marriage, had picked up the pieces after the break rather well. She had opened her own interior decorating business, and was now much sought after by her wealthy London clients. Even before her move to Sedgeley, Darrell had grown accustomed to seeing little of her mother, and her own work at the hospital, living in the nurses’ hostel there, had created a gulf which neither of them particularly wished to bridge now.
That was why Darrell had found the Lawfords’ ebullience and generosity so warming and appealing. She had responded to the teasing and bantering and good-natured arguing that went on within the family circle, and she had often wished that she could have had that kind of background instead of being a part of two beings who had each in their own way chosen to live their own lives of which she had no part.
She sighed. Weddings were always a time for sentimentality. She was allowing the emptiness of the flat to get through to her. It was foolish. Sooner or later she would have to find someone else to share the place with her, and that was a prospect she did not relish. She and Susan had got along so well together, and the fact that Susan had been instrumental in finding the flat and suggesting they shared it, had made it more of a mutual arrangement somehow.
Finishing her tea, she got to her feet and walked to the window. It had begun to rain in earnest again, and the sky hung grey and overcast over the houses opposite. Lucky Susan and Frank, off to Majorca. At least it wouldn’t be raining there.
With a grimace, she collected the tray and carried it back into the kitchen. She made herself a sandwich in lieu of an evening meal, and then went to change. She decided to wear a cotton corduroy slack suit and a plain brown shirt. The suit was cream and toned well with her matt complexion. She considered calling a taxi to take her across town because the bus stop was several yards away from the street in which the flat was situated, but it seemed an extravagance, so instead she donned her navy poplin coat and picked up her umbrella.
She ran to the end of the road and fortunately caught a bus almost immediately. Jolting along through Sedgeley town centre, she reflected wryly that had she accepted Celine Lawford’s offer of a lift she would have avoided all this. But at what cost? What on earth would they have talked about?
The bus deposited her in the market place, and from there she had to catch another bus out to Windsor Street. This time she was not so lucky and spent fifteen minutes standing in the bus shelter waiting for the connection.
It was after eight by the time she was walking up Windsor Street to the Lawfords’ house, but she could hear the sounds of merriment before she reached their door. The record player was going full blast, and there was the sound of raised voices and laughter. For a moment she hung back, half deterred at the thought of so many strangers. Although she knew Susan’s immediate family, she did not know all the aunts and uncles, cousins and in-laws that constituted the whole Lawford clan, and she was an outsider, after all.
But then the door opened and Penny Lawford was standing smiling at her, her brother Jeff jostling for a position behind her.
“Come on in, Darrell,” she exclaimed, stepping back on to Jeff’s foot and grimacing at his agonised protest. “We were beginning to wonder whether you were going to make it. Take your coat off. You’re soaked!”
Within minutes, Darrell was engulfed into the family circle, a glass of something strong and warming was pressed into her hand and she was thrust into the lounge which seemed to be overflowing with people.
Jeff limped after her, rubbing his ankle. “I’m glad you came, Darrell,” he said, and she knew he meant it.
“Did Susan and Frank get away without too much fuss?” she asked, trying not to be aware that there was no sign of either Matthew Lawford or his wife.
“Well, Matt’s taken them to Leeds,” Jeff explained, pulling the tab off a can of beer and raising it to his lips. “Mike and I managed to fill Frank’s pyjama legs full of confetti, but that was last night. I don’t think he would open the case to check on them this morning. He had quite a hangover after last night’s little celebration.” He grinned reminiscently.
“Oh, Jeff!” Darrell could well imagine Susan’s consternation if Frank pulled out his pyjamas and emptied their contents all over their bedroom floor in the hotel at Porto Cristo. “What a rotten thing to do!”
Jeff chuckled. “It’s expected. And our Susan was too fly to leave her cases lying around. She locked them up last night, do you know that? Slept with the key of the cupboard under her pillow!”
“Good for Susan!” Darrell sipped her drink and then gasped as the fiery spirit burned the back of her throat. “What is this?”
Jeff put his head on one side. “Well, it’s supposed to be punch – Dad’s style. I believe it’s a mixture of whisky, rum, brandy and vodka.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Jeff shrugged. “Please yourself. Knowing Dad, that’s likely to be a conservative estimate.”
Darrell smiled in answer to a greeting called to her across the room from Mrs. Lawford and took another sip of the fiery mixture. “Ugh!” She shivered. “I can’t drink this. It’s – horrible!”
Jeff raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Don’t let Dad hear you say that.”
“Why not? I’ve noticed that all he drinks is beer – like you.”
“Punch isn’t a man’s tipple.”