Camellia (8 page)

'You'll feel easier after the funeral,' he said in genuine sympathy, as if he'd guessed how it had been for her today. 'You're far too young for something like this, but we're here to help you.'

Camellia got into bed, arranging the covers so she could pull them up sharply if interrupted, and at last opened the file. There were two or three dozen letters in all and a few old photographs of people she didn't know. But if she'd hoped to find some kind of comfort in the letters, she was bitterly disappointed. All she found was betrayal.

It was hours after she'd finished reading them before she could cry. She lay in bed listening to the kneading machine down in the bakery whirring away and the rage inside her swelled up like rising dough until she felt it was choking her.

She heard the machines being turned off downstairs, the clink of teacups and the whistle of the kettle as the Rowlands made themselves a last pot of tea. The church clock struck ten and she heard the stairs creaking as the Rowlands came up to bed.

Within minutes the house was silent. Outside in the street people were turning out of the George, high heels tip-tapping down the pavement to the occasional burst of laughter. It was only when the street was as quiet as the house that Camellia turned her face into the pillow and sobbed.

She could forgive Bonny for neglecting her, for drinking and sleeping around. She didn't care about the squandered family money. She had prepared herself for more humiliation, cruel jokes, gossip and sniggers behind her back in the weeks to come. But she hadn't reckoned on her mother robbing her of the one good thing she had left to hold onto.

John Norton, that kind, caring gentleman, was just another big fish Bonny had hooked by deceit. Not only had she tricked him into marrying her by saying she was carrying his child, but she'd told three other men the same thing and blackmailed each of them, starting even before John was dead.

'I hate you,' Camellia whispered fiercely into her pillow. 'Don't expect me to mourn for you, you lying whore. I'm glad you're dead.'

She had so many warm, wonderful memories of her father – sitting on his knee as he listened to her read, swimming with him down at Camber Sands, riding the carousel in Hastings with his arms holding her tightly in front of him. It was her father who took her to see new lambs and to find the first primroses in spring.

She had long since given up hope that she might become pretty like her mother, but she'd looked at his childhood photographs, seen that he was plump as a boy and hoped that like him at sixteen or seventeen the fat would vanish, that she'd become slender and elegant. Now she hadn't even that raft to cling to. She was the fat, ugly daughter of one of those other men.

For a couple of years now Camellia had believed her mother's selfishness, flightiness and lack of self-control were just minor character defects she couldn't help. But that belief was wiped out now. Bonny could help it. She was a calculating bitch who had lied and cheated her way through life. Even now she was probably laughing from beyond the grave, hoping each one of those three other men would be questioned, their families pilloried.

'I won't let it happen,' Camellia muttered as she tossed on her pillow. 'Even if one of them pushed you in the river, I don't blame him. You won't hurt Daddy again.'

Sleep wouldn't come. The file was hidden away under the wardrobe, but even in the dark she could still see those letters and guess at the torment her mother put those men through. She got out of bed and went over to the window, deeply breathing in the cool night air.

'You've got to get away from here,' she whispered, as she looked across at the church tower. The moon was hanging just over the spire, casting a silver swathe over the rooftops of the High Street shops. Any other night she might have been enchanted by the scene but all she could see now was ugliness. 'Forget about those other men. From now on you've got to look out for yourself.'

Chapter Five

Camellia put her suitcase down on the pavement, once again checking the address of the girls' hostel she had written on a scrap of paper. She was definitely in Hornsey Lane. It said Archway House plainly enough on the wooden plaque attached to the gatepost, yet she could hardly believe that such a welcoming-looking place was her destination.

It was mid-October, two and a half months since her mother died. That morning when Mrs Rowlands waved her off at Rye station it had been very cold, with sullen-looking black clouds threatening rain. But as she got closer to London the sky had brightened. Now in late afternoon the sun had emerged. It made the leaves of a large copper beech by the gate gleam, the windows sparkle. A few sparrows were sitting on the edge of a large ornamental bird bath in the middle of the lawn, watching one of their tougher brothers washing himself.

It had been a long uphill walk from Archway tube station and though Camellia had few clothes in her suitcase it had grown painfully heavy. She was a little dismayed too by the dilapidated houses and seedy shops on the route. The only part of London she'd been to before was the West End and somehow she'd imagined the whole of London being as smart. But, as she'd turned into Hornsey Lane and seen the big, rather splendid houses, her spirits had immediately lifted. Now she'd found the hostel she felt even better.

It must have been built around the middle of the last century: there were two Gothic fancy spires and an arched stone porch. The odd positioning of the front door on the right-hand side showed that it had once been two houses, but the conversion of the second door and porch into a large window was masked by a vigorous ivy scrambling right up to the attics. Turning it into a hostel hadn't changed its character: Camellia almost expected the door to be opened by a parlour maid or a carriage to roll into the semi-circular gravel drive.

She picked up her case and walked towards the stone steps which led to the front door. She was very nervous. It was all very well telling herself back in Rye that she was setting out on a big adventure working in a London store and that all the sadness was in the past, but deep down she knew she had a long way to go before she could wipe her memory clean.

Yet as she reached the steps she smiled. Someone had put a thin red scarf round the neck of a weather-worn stone eagle perched on the stone balustrade. She felt she was going to like it here.

'You must be Camellia Norton.' A thin woman with short iron-grey hair and thick spectacles smiled welcomingly as she opened the door. 'Do come in, my dear. Did you have a good journey? I'm Miss Peet, the warden, though I do hate that as a title. It makes me sound like a gaoler.'

Across the hall Camellia caught a fleeting glimpse of a room with half a dozen tables set for an evening meal. To her right was a wide staircase and to her left what looked like a lounge. Although it was as quiet as a church, it didn't have any of the institutional austerity she'd expected. The walls were painted in gentle pastels and there were carpets on the floors.

'Leave your case here,' Miss Peet said. 'I'll show you your room a little later. All the other girls are at work still, so we'll take advantage of the peace and quiet to have a cup of tea and get acquainted.'

Camellia followed the older woman along a passage to the far end of the house.

'What a lovely room!' Camellia gasped as she was ushered into Miss Peet's sitting room. The decor was autumnal, with chintz-covered armchairs, old gold velvet curtains and a fat tabby cat sitting in front of a real fire.

'This is Sheba.' Miss Peet bent down to tickle the cat's ears. 'If you ever find her upstairs shoo her down, she has a penchant for sharing beds and some of the girls don't appreciate it.'

Camellia suddenly felt very close to tears. She had been so very glad to leave Rye, yet all at once she felt terribly alone. 'I didn't expect the hostel to be this nice,' she said, struggling to control herself.

'We do our best to make it homely,' Miss Peet said, as she switched on an electric kettle sitting on a tea trolley. A tray was already laid with dainty bone china cups and a plate of biscuits. 'Now sit down and make yourself comfortable.'

Gertrude Peet glanced over her shoulder as she waited for the kettle to boil. The girl was hunched awkwardly in a chair, looking pale and frightened.

A teacher from the Secondary Modern in Rye had contacted Miss Peet to book a place for this girl, and through this teacher she had learned some of her family history. She'd imagined someone called Camellia to be very pretty; she certainly hadn't been warned that the girl would be so buxom and dowdy.

'What a glorious name you have,' she said as she poured the hot water into the teapot. 'I've worked here since the hostel opened in 1948, but I've never met a Camellia before.'

'I prefer it shortened to Mel,' the girl said in a small voice.

It sounded as if she was used to having people make fun of her and her name, and Gertrude's heart went out to the girl. She had been plain herself: her nose sharp, her hair mousy and her body as thin and flat as a board. During the war she'd been in the WAAF and though she saw each and every one of her colleagues have love affairs, get married and have children, the closest she ever got to a man was at a dance in the NAAFI. She soon resigned herself to being a spinster. Now at fifty-eight with seventeen years' experience of looking after young women away from home for the first time, she could immediately identify with someone who felt she would never be accepted.

Gertrude Peet knew that many of the girls here at Archway House considered her an impediment to their fun, a dragon who watched their every move and swooped down at the slightest hint of rule breaking. In fact she understood young girls very well and cared deeply about the well-being of each and every one of her twenty-four charges. More often than not, the girls who came here were running away from their families. In her time she'd encountered everything from victims of incest, wanton cruelty and neglect, to those who had almost been suffocated by parental love. Oddly enough it was the last kind who were the most difficult: they were the ones who flouted all the rules. By all accounts Camellia Norton was quiet, hardworking and sensible, despite her mother's flighty reputation and her somewhat sordid end. But Miss Peet never took others' opinions on trust. She believed in finding out for herself, as directly as possible.

'Well then, Mel.' The older woman put the tray of tea down on a coffee table and took a chair opposite the girl. 'Now I know about your mother's death and I feel very deeply for you, but I can assure you I am the only person here who knows. If you ever feel you need to talk about that or any other personal matter, that's what I'm here for and I can assure you it will always be in the strictest confidence.'

"Thank you,' Camellia whispered. She had been wondering all the way from Rye if the story had gone ahead.

'I know it is all very recent and grief can play some very odd tricks,' Miss Peet continued as she poured the tea. 'We all assume it's over once the tears have dried. But that's often the time we feel most confused. We get mixed-up feelings – love, resentment, guilt, sometimes anger. That's when we need to share it with someone.'

Camellia sat looking down at her lap. Miss Peet reminded her of the games mistress at school: skinny, a bit masculine, her grey hair cut unflatteringly short as if she had no time for any attempt at femininity. Even her Fair Isle cardigan and tweed skirt were old and worn. But her voice was soft, not the kind of bark one would expect from such an appearance. Camellia liked her.

'Do you feel any of those things about your mother?' Miss Peet asked gently.

'Yes,' Camellia whispered. It was the first time anyone had asked such a question. Perhaps most people thought they were being tactful, but to Camellia their silence had felt far more like indifference.

'Why don't you tell me about her?'

Camellia shrugged her shoulders, unable to meet the older woman's eyes. She wanted to say that a tight ball of hate was festering inside her, but she didn't dare. 'She was a dancer.'

'Was she pretty?'

Camellia opened her handbag and pulled out a photograph. It had been taken at a fancy-dress party a couple of years ago. She had no real desire to have it close to her or to show it to anyone. But this picture at least showed Bonny the way she really was, a glamorous show-off, and she hoped the plain older woman would understand.

'She hardly looks old enough to be your mother.' Miss Peet smiled in commiseration. It was difficult to imagine how such a beautiful woman could produce such a plain, big girl. 'A hard act to follow eh?'

'I don't want to be like her.' The words came out before Camellia could stop herself. 'She was cruel and selfish.'

She hadn't been able to admit this to Mrs Rowlands or even to Bert Simmonds, but now she found herself pouring everything out to this elderly and intuitive stranger.

Camellia had no choice but to leave Rye for good. Once the funeral was over, people treated her like a stray dog. They pitied her, offered her titbits, but no one really wanted her, or understood her feelings. Even weeks after Bonny was laid to rest they were all still gossiping about the expensive, anonymous bouquets of flowers which had arrived for the funeral. Not one of these mysterious admirers had the courage or the compassion to send a few comforting words to Camellia, or even a few pounds in an envelope to help her rebuild her life. The only letters which arrived were more unpaid bills.

Mr and Mrs Rowlands were kind, but in the weeks Camellia was with them the debt of gratitude was mounting up so high she felt smothered by it. She had been working like a slave in the bakery to try to repay them. Getting a job in Peter Robinson's in Oxford Street and living in a hostel wasn't that much better than what she had in Rye, but at least she could start with a clean slate.

Miss Peet did not seem at all surprised by Camellia's outburst. 'Shall I tell you something?' she said as she reached out across the narrow coffee table and took Camellia's hand. 'I adored my mother. She too was widowed when I was young. We were so close I didn't want or need any friends. But it wasn't until she grew old and frail that I realised just how unhealthy that is too. I could have travelled, made something of my life, but she held me too tightly. I'm not sure which is worse, the mother who loves too much or the one that doesn't love enough.'