Camellia (11 page)

A rush of late afternoon shoppers made her forget about it. She sold a very expensive Italian bag and a purse to one difficult customer, then sold five cheaper bags one after the other. She wished Peter Robinson's gave their assistants commission: it was hardly surprising most of the girls didn't take much trouble with the customers.

At around five, Suzanne slipped over to her again.

'Someone's just left one in the changing room she whispered. 'Go on in there and get it.'

Camellia had no excuse now, not even a customer to prevent her. To refuse might push her back amongst the other wallflowers who spent their lunchtimes alone. She took her time walking to the changing rooms, hoping someone would have hung it back on the rails.

But it was still there, a small crumple of red and black on a stool. When she picked it up she found it was the right size.

Taking a deep breath she folded it up small, pulled up her skirt, tucked it into her suspender belt and looked in the mirror. There was no telltale bulge, but for safety's sake once she was back behind her counter she slipped on her old cardigan and did it up.

Suzanne appeared again, raising her eyebrow questioningly.

Camellia nodded and patted her stomach.

'I've got one of those,' Suzanne whispered, pointing out a white botany wool sweater displayed on a dummy. 'We'll go out together.'

The bell rang to clear the customers from the store, the security men came forward to lock the doors and the assistants put the white linen dustsheets over their counters. Then at last the second bell rang which meant they could take their till drawers up to accounts and leave.

By the time she reached the cloakroom Camellia was sweating and shaking. Suzanne was chatting to another girl as she put on a navy beret. She didn't seem the least bit nervous.

'Are you staying here all night?' Carol from the beauty counter touched Camellia's elbow. 'Come on, let's go and get a cup of coffee in the Wimpy before we go home. I'm dying for a sit down and a fag.'

Miss Puckridge was standing next to Wilf, the security officer, by the staff entrance. As always she had that superior look. One by one the girls trooped by Wilf, holding out their opened handbags. Suzanne was in front of Camellia, Carol behind her.

'Goodnight, sweetie,' Suzanne clucked Wilf under the chin, when it was her turn. 'No kiss tonight?'

'Get on home, you hussy,' he growled, his dark eyes twinkling.

Camellia was next. She felt sick now, sure he would see 'Thief written on her face. Wilf wasn't forbidding – he was sixty if he was a day and very jolly – but that would make it worse somehow if he suspected her. But he casually glanced in her bag, then moved onto Carol's behind her.

'Miss Norton!'

Camellia felt the blood drain from her face at the shrill call from Miss Puckridge.

'I think you've forgotten something, Miss Norton,' she added and Camellia's legs turned to rubber.

Miss Puckridge was nobody's fool, even though they all made jokes about her. She heard and saw everything that went on in the store and had been known to sack girls instantly for just being late. The thought crossed Camellia's mind that she'd been set up by Suzanne to discover if she was honest.

'Forgotten something?' Camellia repeated weakly. Her heart was thumping and every sweat gland in her body seemed to open to ooze out moisture.

'Your jeans.' The older woman smiled and held out a Peter Robinson's bag. 'Some of you girls would forget your head if it wasn't screwed on tight.'

All Camellia could manage was a faint smirk as she took the bag and made a dash for the door.

'So did you get anything today?' Suzanne asked Carol once they were seated in the Wimpy Bar. To Camellia's surprise Carol fumbled under the table and pulled out a soft leather handbag.

Camellia wasn't only shocked that the glamorous Carol was capable of stealing too, but that she'd had the cheek to nick something from her counter, presumably right under her nose. 'But that's new stock,' she said. 'I only priced them today.'

'And it's not an easy thing to stick in your knickers,' Carol giggled. 'It prickled like hell. I would've told you earlier, but Suzanne hadn't told me then that you'd joined our merry band.'

Now it was Suzanne's turn to fumble under her coat. She pulled out her sweater and folded it neatly before slipping it into her handbag.

Camellia shamefacedly pulled out her top. 'I nearly wet myself when Miss Puckridge called me,' she admitted, smoothing over the top and tucking it into the bag with her jeans. I've never nicked anything before.'

'I reckon it's our due.' Carol lit up a cigarette and sat back in her seat. 'They pay us shit-all, expect us to be smartly dressed yet the discount we get on clothes is hardly worth having. I feel I'm just taking a rise.'

Camellia privately thought that thirty per cent off the jeans was pretty good, but she wasn't going to argue with her new friends.

'You'll soon have a whole wardrobe full of clothes,' Suzanne giggled. 'But don't ever be tempted to dip in the till, Mel. They've got millions of ways of catching us at that.'

The party in Hornsey Lane was something of a disappointment to all the girls from the hostel, aside from Madeline who fancied one of the boys in the flat. There was only beer or cider to drink, no food and the lights consisted of a few red bulbs.The flat was disgustingly dirty as Madeline had warned them and the boys had only a couple of Rolling Stones LPs, no good dance music. Camellia thought the boys were all very arrogant considering they were grubby looking with straggly unwashed hair. The main entertainment was a beatnik playing guitar and singing protest songs. There was no sign of the promised reefers either; all the boys did was cadge the girls' cigarettes.

But even though this party didn't transform anyone's life, the shared scheming to persuade Miss Peet to allow them out until one in the morning, the help they gave each other with hair and make-up, and the giggling about the evening afterwards cemented new friendships.

A few weeks ago, weekdays had crept by for Camellia, while days off and Sundays had seemed even longer. Now, with friends at work and at home, they sped by. The party was just a taste of life outside the hostel, a glimpse of wild people who stayed up all night listening to music, went on protest marches and refused to conform. Suzanne said her mod friends took something called Purple Hearts so they could stay out all night dancing. When it was summer they'd all be going down to Brighton on their scooters.

As winter turned to spring, the fashions in magazines began to change, mainly due to the designer Mary Quant. Her clothes were made exclusively for the young, with vivid geometric designs and skirts way above the knee. Young girls responded eagerly, abandoning old calf-length mod skirts overnight, substituting boots for the old Granny shoes to counter-balance all that exposed leg. Someone in the media hit on the description 'miniskirt' and all at once a whole new look was born.

There was no stopping Camellia. She studied fashion magazines, watched what other girls wore, and asked advice from anyone she thought knew better than her. And the items she stole almost daily from the shop were designed to set herself up as a fashion plate.

Her weight continued to drop off and by Easter she was under nine stone. She no longer slunk by shop windows afraid of catching a glimpse of her reflection, but looked at herself and smiled. She was the embodiment of a dolly bird with her swinging hair, eyes accentuated with black liner, pale pouty lips and long slender legs. Who would have thought that plain fat girl who'd once been nicknamed Camel would be the first at Archway House daring enough to buy a miniskirt?

Now and then Camellia found herself wishing Bonny could see how she'd changed. She would have liked her approval. Sometimes too she thought of going down to Rye. It would be sweet revenge to see the girls who'd teased her in the past reel back in amazement and envy. She didn't want to see Mrs Rowlands, but it would be so good to see Bert Simmonds again. He had been a true friend.

But 1966 was too exciting a year to waste precious time visiting a place that had nothing but sad memories. Freddie Laker introduced cut price air fares to New York. The space race between the United States and Russia was neck and neck. In April the Russians orbited the moon, and in June the Americans retaliated by landing the first unmanned spacecraft right on it. Labour won a landslide victory in March. The Moors murderers Myra Hindley and Ian Brady were jailed for life in May. In the summer England won the World Cup at Wembley, beating Germany 4–2 in a thrilling final. Bobby Moore, the Charlton brothers, Geoff Hurst and Nobby Stiles were public heroes and thousands of fans invaded the pitch. But the excitement of the year was overshadowed in October by the tragic Aberfan disaster when two million tons of rock, mud and earth ploughed into a small Welsh junior school, killing 147 small children.

Camellia wept as she read the shocking news of townsfolk, miners and firemen attempting to dig out the children with their bare hands until help arrived. All year she had been bursting with happiness, finding her feet with boys, going dancing and to parties. She'd even begun to make long-term plans to find a flat to share with Madeline and Rose in the new year. Suddenly she was reminded that joy and sadness were the two sides of the same coin.

Celebrations began with Camellia's seventeenth birthday on 21 December and continued right through Christmas until New Year, even though she had to fit in working flat out by day. Miss Peet laid on a birthday cake and Camellia had cards and small presents from almost all the other girls. The eleven o'clock curfew was raised till one so they could all go to a dance at the Empire in Leicester Square that night. Camellia wore a red crepe minidress with a white feather boa slung round her neck. One of her friends must have told the MC that it was her birthday, for the next thing she knew she was being pushed up onto the stage to be kissed by the entire band as they played Roy Orbison's song 'Pretty Woman', dedicating it to her.

Suzanne's parents, Mr and Mrs Connor, invited Camellia to spend Christmas with them in Hammersmith. Camellia had never met such a huge jolly family before. Suzanne was the youngest of four, and her two older brothers and sisters all had two or three children apiece. The house was in a three-storey terrace just off King Street and although Suzanne had told Camellia that her parents had been very poor while she was growing up, Mr Connor's building firm was now doing very well. The house reflected this sudden turn in the Connor family fortunes. They had an opulent orange three-piece suite, big enough for an airport, a twenty-four inch television and a tank full of tropical fish in their lounge, not to mention a seven-foot Christmas tree with flashing lights. Camellia loved all the flashy touches: a black and gilt bar in one corner, a mini-chandelier, carpets so deep they came over her shoes.

Their dining room table was already vast, but they added another at one end, and with ten adults including Suzanne and Camellia, along with eight children, sitting down to eat a turkey as big as an ostrich, it was something of a squash.

They played games in the afternoon, charades, Bingo and later when it grew dark, Murder. The children became more and more hysterical as the day wore on. The adults grew tiddly and told ruder and ruder jokes. The floor was littered with wrapping paper, toys, nut shells and selection boxes. Camellia felt as if she could live with this family for ever.

As soon as she and Suzanne were back at work on 27 December, there was New Year's Eve to plan, and Miss Puckridge had to remind them on several occasions that they both had counters they belonged behind and preparations to make for the January sales, not to mention keeping an eye open for shoplifters, as it seemed a great deal of stock had gone missing in the past few months. The girls waited until Miss Puckridge had stalked away, her nose in the air, then looked at each other.

'They should pay us to stay on a permanent holiday.' Suzanne spluttered with laughter. That would solve the problem overnight.'

'Shouldn't we give up nicking things for the New Year?' Camellia said. She'd had an attack of guilt over Christmas. She had so many clothes now and she had real friends. Sometimes she had a feeling it could all be snatched away, that she'd be right back where she started. 'I mean, they might catch on to us.'

'They won't,' Suzanne said firmly. 'But remind me to wear something baggy to work tomorrow. I want to get one of those new Mary Quants for New Year's Eve.'

1967 came in with Camellia locked in the arms of a boy wearing a collarless Beatle jacket and matching hairstyle. He told her his name was Tony Blackburn and that he was a DJ on Radio Caroline, the pirate radio station. He did sound like him, but she couldn't quite believe a man as famous as that would spend New Year's Eve at the Hammersmith Palais and smooch all night with an ordinary girl like her. He said he would phone her in a day or two and take her out to dinner in the restaurant on the top of the Post Office Tower.

He never did, but that hardly mattered as she had plenty of other dates, both alone and with Madeline and Rose from the hostel. Each time they went to the pub up in Highgate they seemed to meet someone. January, February and March slipped by in a flash and still they discussed getting a flat together where they could have wild parties and stay out all night if they wanted to. but somehow they never got around to looking for anywhere.

It was in April that Camellia first became interested in the underground scene in London. There had been a rally of 10,000 flower children in New York's Central Park in March, and their bizarre clothing, their protests about the American involvement in Vietnam and their ideology of peace and love struck a note with her. The vast media coverage on the subject and the reports that London was 'The Swinging City' all convinced her there was something important happening right under her nose.

Around the same time Miss Puckridge issued an ultimatum that anyone arriving for work with a skirt less than twenty inches long would be forced to wear a nylon overall. As the majority of Camellia's skirts had, inch by inch, been shortened to less than sixteen, she knew she was a target and resented it. On top of this was a vague feeling of boredom with the girls at the hostel. She seemed to have outgrown them. Their only ambitions seemed centred on marriage, while Camellia wanted to experience life. Even Madeline who was the nearest thing to 'a raver' in Archway House, showed no enthusiasm for more adventurous nights out, like coffee bars and clubs in Soho. In fact when Camellia suggested they went to the Middle Earth, a new club which had opened in a cellar beneath Covent Garden market, she looked horrified.