Missing From Home

by Mary Burchell

  “Oh, Daddy!” As the childish term of address slipped from her, she turned suddenly in his arms and hugged him. “You’re not cross, are you?”

  “No, I’m not cross. Only intensely curious. I’m a bit past the age of mysterious half-whispered conversations over the phone. Particularly with my nearly grown-up daughter. As you see, I’ve carried out my instructions to the letter, but now I’d like—”

  “Oh, hush!” Quickly she put her hand against his lips and was both relieved and charmed that he immediately kissed her fingers lightly. “Mother has no idea—and she mustn’t. But she was so miserable about having unintentionally brushed you off at lunchtime—”

  “Was she?” He looked pleased and a little amused.

  “Yes. And I wanted her to phone and suggest dinner instead. But she turned scared and on her dignity, because she thought you probably wanted to go out with Mrs. Curtiss.”

  “Linda! How did your mother know about Linda?” He looked rather put out.

  “Well, she saw the meeting between you at your hotel, didn’t she?” returned Marilyn innocently.

  “Oh, did she?”

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” It was not part of Marilyn’s intention to create any feeling of discomfort on either side. “If I did interfere a little, it doesn’t matter now, does it? What is important is that Mother’s very happy to be going out with you. She’s busy making herself look her best. And unless you want me and Pat to hate you, it had better be a good evening.”

  “Stop threatening me!” Her father looked both amused and annoyed. “And what’s this about you and Pat? Are you two—”

  “Ssh! Here’s Mother,” whispered Marilyn urgently. And then, aloud, “Whisky, did you say?”

  “Whisky. On the rocks,” he agreed absently.

  He turned as Clare came into the room, radiant in a peacock green cocktail dress which gave the most wonderful warmth and significance to her own colouring.

  “Clare! How lovely. You always ought to wear brilliant colours. I used to tell you so—remember?”

  “Well, I did think this was a good colour for me.” She stood before him, smiling a little shyly. “Not quite my age-group perhaps, but—”

  “Nonsense! It’s the pastels that are ageing. Doesn’t she look a beauty, Mari?”

  “Yes, of course.” Marilyn glanced over her shoulder. “You both look splendid, to tell the truth.”

  “No wonder we like that child,” observed Greg gaily, as he raised his glass to Clare. “Do one’s children often pay one such nice compliments as they grow up?”

  “Only if they’re deserved,” Marilyn informed him. “But if you stay around a bit you’ll find out for yourself, won’t you?”

  Neither of her parents took this up. They stayed chatting for a few minutes longer, then they both kissed Marilyn warmly, and went off together with an air of expecting to enjoy themselves. Only when she heard the lift door clang did Marilyn throw herself into an armchair, put her feet up on a stool, and observe to the empty room, “Good work!”

  She turned on the radio low, she hummed contentedly to herself, and with an inward conviction that everything was now going her way, she waited almost confidently for the ring of the telephone bell.

  Afterwards she realised she must actually have dozed a little, for it was almost an hour later that she was roused by persistent ringing.

  “Oh!” Wide awake now, she reached for the telephone. But then the ring was repeated, and she realised suddenly that it was the front door bell and not the telephone which had roused her.

  “Who on earth—? Pat would never risk—?”

  But, in spite of the absurdity of the idea, she rushed to the front door and snatched it open, almost expecting to see Pat standing outside. What she did see was a youngish policeman who enquired,

  “Does Miss Patricia Collamore live here?”

  “Why, yes. Yes, she does.” Marilyn was shaken. “But she’s not in at present.”

  “When are you expecting her in?”

  “Pm not. I mean, she’s—staying with friends.”

  “Oh, I see. Could you give me the address, please?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t.” With some difficulty, Marilyn concealed the fact that she was now feeling very frightened. “She was—was going from one friend to another. The way people do, you know.”

  The policeman looked for a moment as though in his experience this was not at all what people did. But then he stolidly took that in his stride and enquired,

  “Would you know if she’d lost a handbag recently?”

  “A handbag? Not—” Marilyn swallowed—“to my knowledge. But then I haven’t been in touch for—” again she swallowed—“a day or two. Do you mean that her handbag has been stolen or something?”

  “I mean that a handbag was found late this afternoon with very little in it but a passport in her name. I was able to check with the Passport Office and get her address, and that’s why I’m here.”

  “Her handbag was—found?” repeated Marilyn almost in a whisper. “Where was it found?”

  “On the river towpath, down near Barnes Bridge.”

  CHAPTER VI

  FROM time to time Marilyn had experienced some bad moments since she and Pat had embarked on their mad plan, but nothing could compare with her dismayed reactions as she now stood staring at the young policeman outside her front door.

  “Her—her handbag was found on the towpath?” she stammered. “But Pat would never—do anything—like that. There wasn’t the least reason. She—we—”

  “Oh, there’s no suggestion of suicide,” the policeman assured her promptly. “Don’t go scaring yourself with ideas like that. The fact that there was little but her passport in the bag suggests that someone else had been through it. Someone pinched the bag, took anything of value that was in it and then threw it away; probably from a speeding car. It happens every day of the week,” he added, with a resigned sigh for the standards of honesty prevailing in an era when crime and illness are so naively confused.

  “Oh—Marilyn gave a great gasp of relief—“of course! I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “The loss hasn’t been reported yet, and we’d like to get in touch with your sister as soon as possible, to establish the facts of the theft and her ownership of the passport. You say she’s with friends, but you’re not sure which friends?”

  Marilyn nodded cautiously.

  “Perhaps you could give me a few suggestions?”

  “I would if I could.” Marilyn suddenly spoke with a great show of candour. “But, to tell you the truth, there was a bit of a family row and she went off in rather a huff. We’re not quite sure where she is at the moment. But if she’s lost her handbag she’s bound to contact us soon, isn’t she?”

  “One would think so.” The policeman looked as though he found the story unsatisfactory. “Do you and your sister live here on your own?”

  “Oh, no. My mother lives here too. But she’s out at present,” added Marilyn, quickly forestalling the next question which she saw coming.

  “Are you expecting her home tonight?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Then if I call again in the morning—”

  “It might be better if I did any calling,” Marilyn interrupted hastily. “My mother is the nervous type—has a rather weak heart,” she added in a sudden flight of fancy which slightly surprised herself. “I don’t want her upset in any way. She’s worried enough about my sister as it is, and if she had the sort of shock you gave me when you told me Pat’s handbag had been found she might collapse or something. I think my sister is almost sure to phone tonight or tomorrow. Suppose I look in at the police station as soon as I have news? Wouldn’t that be the better plan?”

  “Perhaps. For the time being, anyway,” was the not entirely reassuring reply. “We’d certainly like to have some news of your sister.”

  “So would we!” replied Marilyn with a fervour which seemed to strike him as genuine.

&nb
sp; Then, having told her at which police station to report, he went away, leaving Marilyn frantic with enforced inaction and the inability to think of any way in which she could possibly contact Pat.

  “Oh, why doesn’t she phone?” Marilyn exclaimed aloud. “She must be desperate if her bag has been pinched. What money she had must have been in it, and she hasn’t got much she could sell or pawn. Her watch, perhaps—or her bracelet. But what would she get for those, even if she knew how to set about raising money on them! Why doesn’t she phone? Surely anything would be better than being on one’s own, practically penniless?”

  Marilyn glanced at the clock, was astonished to find that it was still not yet quite nine, and then tried to console herself with the reflection that there was still plenty of time for Pat to telephone. Undoubtedly, it had been the loss of her handbag which had driven her to risk that earlier call, and possibly the fact that her mother replied had shaken her nerve for any further effort. On the other hand, one would have expected sheer desperation to drive her to make a second attempt.

  “Of course,” thought Marilyn, “if she did manage to raise a few pounds on her bits of jewellery she could hang out for a day or two. In fact—” a light of partial relief began to dawn upon her—“in fact, until she could contact me through the garage. Yes, that’s what it is, of course! Why didn’t I think of it before? She’s managed to make some sort of arrangement to tide her over tonight and she’ll have an S.O.S. waiting for me at the garage in the morning. She’ll guess that after Jerry Penrose’s message I won’t wait until Wednesday, as originally planned. Even though she doesn’t know I’ve heard of her further problem, she’ll still hope and expect that I’ll go tomorrow.”

  She even toyed with the idea of rushing off to the garage then and there. But the likelihood that it would now be closed, and the strong possibility that even now Pat might telephone, restrained her. Instead, she spent a few minutes trying to send some sort of thought-wave to her sister.

  “Oh, Pat, phone, you idiot!” she thought with angry intensity. “It’s quite safe. I’m here alone. Come on—phone!”

  This form of communication, however, yielded no results, and presently Marilyn gave up the effort and tried instead to achieve some sort of calm and peace of mind.

  “Now it’s all right,” she told herself, speaking aloud for extra reassurance. “No need to get jittery. Pat’s found a way round her temporary difficulty and is now just quietly waiting until I pick up her message at the garage. If she can be calm about it, surely I can! Except for the business of the bag, it’s all really working out very much as we planned it. Why, we’ve even got Mother and Dad out together enjoying themselves.” And at the thought of her own part in this satisfactory arrangement, Marilyn cheered up immensely.

  She was not the only one whose spirits were lifted by the elaborately arranged party of pleasure. To Clare, as she glanced across the table at Greg in the discreetly expensive restaurant to which he had taken her, it seemed that for the first time for years they were quietly happy in each other’s company.

  “As though,” she thought, watching him as he studied the wine list, “as though we had grown a little wiser and mellower, and could look back on past conflicts with more understanding of each other. Does he feel like that, I wonder?”

  He looked up just then, smiled as he caught her glance upon him and said, “Do you still prefer a Moselle to a Rhine wine?”

  “Oh, Greg, what a long time since you asked me that!” she laughed. “I don’t mind. Anything would taste good tonight.”

  The words were out before she could stop them, but as the waiter came up at that moment to take the order, she hoped Greg might have missed the last comment.

  However, as soon as they were alone again, and before she could possibly start on any other subject, he asked curiously, “What made you say that, Clare?”

  “Say what?” She picked up the menu and pretended to study it intently.

  “Are you having second thoughts about your choice of meal?” She could hear the hint of laughter in his voice; but it was the good-humoured laughter with a touch of indulgence in it which belonged to the early days. No hint of the bitter mockery which had punctuated so many of their discussions in the last months together.

  “No, no. I think we’ve chosen very well.” She felt confused, but managed to look up at him.

  “If you feel that anything would taste good tonight, we couldn’t go far wrong, could we, Clare? What made you say that?”

  “I don’t know.” Then she thought that was cowardly and ungenerous, and so she added deliberately, “Yes, I do. It’s so nice to be quietly happy in each other’s company.”

  He was startled, she saw, and a little nonplussed to find a ready answer. Then something essentially generous in him must have responded to the generous candour in her and he replied,

  “Like old times, you mean? I suppose I was feeling that too.”

  “Not just the nostalgia of old times,” she said, and her breath came rather fast, for this was a tricky conversation in which one could so easily put a foot wrong. “There’s a sort of—of mellowness about it. As though perhaps one had learned a little wisdom.”

  “But I hope we have!” He responded to that a trifle too heartily, as though determined not to read more into the words than their exact face value. “I look at you now and wonder how I found it so easy to quarrel with you.” And he laughed, like a man looking back on adolescent follies.

  “Oh, Greg, do you? I was thinking much the same about you!”

  Hope flared up in her heart, but was extinguished almost immediately by his continuing, with a sort of reflective amusement, “The answer being, of course, that we’re no longer on top of each other, irritating each other by every difference which divides us. Curious what a detached and civilised view one can take of people one doesn’t have to see every day.”

  She wanted to reply coldly and caustically, and at one time she would have done so. Instead, she called on some of the wisdom she had culled so painfully during this lonely year, and said, with a touch of mischievous amusement,

  “Was that how you were regarding me when you smiled at me just now? With a detached and civilised view?”

  “Well—” he was startled again, she saw, and then a good deal amused in his turn. “Not exactly,” he conceded. But instead of trying to explain himself further, he merely said, “That certainly is the most becoming dress I’ve seen you in for years, Clare! Does anyone tell you nowadays how really beautiful you are?”

  “No one.” She shook her head ruefully. “The girls sometimes offer me an affectionate half compliment, but nothing calculated to turn the head of a middle-aged parent.”

  “What a way to describe yourself!”

  “Strictly true, nevertheless.”

  “Of me too, of course.” He made a slight face. But then he smiled with sudden reminiscent satisfaction and remarked, “Marilyn’s a funny little cuss, isn’t she? But at least she thinks we’re attractive. Extraordinarily gratifying to be attractive in the eyes of one’s own offspring, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is. Even if we rate as attractive failures.”

  “Oh, Clare! You used that word of us before. Do you really think we have to wear that particular hair-shirt?” he exclaimed impatiently.

  “It’s not incumbent on you, if you don’t feel it applies,” she assured him, in much the same tone she would have used to reassure Marilyn about something. “I only know that I wish I’d somehow managed to supply for my two girls the sort of unquestioned security my mother supplied for me.”

  “Your mother?” It was all too obvious that he had not even thought of her mother for years. “Why, Clare, she wasn’t half the personality you are! If I may say so without offence, she was a quite ordinary, conventional sort of woman, whereas you are really something quite special. You and your parents were cut from an entirely different piece of cloth.”

  “And yet—” Clare smiled reflectively and a little sad
ly—“they provided me with a background as secure as tomorrow’s dawn. Think of that! Wasn’t that just something? I wish I’d realised it in time to tell them I knew. As secure as tomorrow’s dawn,” she repeated half to herself.

  He stared at her in something like dismay. Then at last he said, as though the words were forced from him, “And nothing was ever so secure for you again?”

  “Oh, Greg, no! I wouldn’t say that! Those days in the flat in Hampstead were just the same, because you always had the answer to everything and made me feel that nothing could go very far wrong. We had to budget so carefully! And then we miscalculated over the measurements of the dining-room carpet and it was far more than we expected—do you remember? But you rushed through an unexpected commission in the nick of time, and there was even enough left over to buy linoleum for the bathroom. Do you remember that?”

  “I’d—forgotten,” he said slowly. “But I do remember now.”

  “It was such fun!” She was smiling brilliantly now and her colour had risen. “There was that little shop at the bottom of the hill which sold just everything, and the old woman there was so helpful when I was inexperienced and didn’t know much about shopping and cooking. She used to give me reams of advice about all sorts of things. There was always someone to bother about one and tell one in those days. Even the night Pat was born—”

  “God, was I scared!” he interjected with a reminiscent grin.

  “So was I, to tell the truth.”

  “Well, you had some reason to be! I was just the music hall joke type of expectant father who went to pieces.”