She put them all back carefully. The police would let her have them all later, she didn't have to take them now. But as she slid them back under the mattress, her hands swept further under. Again something smooth, flat and stiff. Hastily she pulled it out, sitting on the bed to examine it.
This wasn't an envelope but a wallet type file, made of stiff green card.
A sudden noise from the street startled her and she moved over to the window. The Colleys next door were packing their car with picnic things and she suddenly realised she had been in the house for quite some time. The police could turn up any minute or Mrs Rowlands would find her missing and worry. She must leave now.
Returning to the file she quickly flicked through it. It seemed to be letters from men, some of them so old they were discoloured. Bonny had tucked this away for safe keeping, along with the other envelope. It might only be old love letters, of no importance to anyone but Bonny, but the very fact it was hidden implied she didn't want just anyone to see them.
'I'll destroy them if that's all it is,' she whispered, feeling Bonny's presence so closely she could have been standing beside her. 'I won't let on to anyone. I love you, Mummy.'
It took only a minute to straighten the bedspread, close all doors and drawers. Another to get together a few of her own things in a bag, with the file tucked away beneath them and she was gone, closing the front door firmly behind her, leaving the key to swing on its string. 'Camellia! Where have you been?' Mrs Rowlands asked plaintively, turning from the bacon she was frying as Camellia came in the back way into the bakery kitchen. 'You can't imagine what I was thinking.'
It was the first time Camellia had ever seen Mrs Rowlands without an apron. She looked like an overstuffed bolster in her candy-striped blue cotton dress. The kitchen looked strange too – no heaps of baking trays waiting to be washed or uncooked pies and pasties stacked on racks waiting for space in the huge ovens. It was cool and very well scrubbed.
'I had to go out for a walk.' Camellia concealed the bag behind her back. 'I didn't want to wake you. I'm sorry if I made you worry.'
'Well, you're here now. Take this up to Mr Rowlands.' She handed Camellia a plate of bacon and eggs. 'I'll bring ours.'
Mr Rowlands was already sitting at the laid breakfast table in the living room, reading the Sunday People. He was as thin as his wife was fat, almost bald, except for a few wispy strands stretched over from one ear to the other, but his eyes were kind. He smiled as she put his breakfast in front of him.
Last night she'd been so very glad to be here. The small bright rooms held all the comfort and security her own home lacked. It was soothing to have a bath run, to be tucked into bed and be clucked over with sympathy, but now in the light of day it felt like a prison.
Mrs Rowlands was a gossip, and until yesterday she'd always been quite cool towards her. Wasn't it more likely that the woman offered her a home here, more from the value of sensationalism than real kindness.
'What's that?' As Mrs Rowlands came in with Camellia's and her own breakfast, her sharp eyes noticed the bag immediately.
'Just a few things from home,' Camellia said, blushing with guilt. 'I was going past there so I thought I'd nip in and collect them.'
'You shouldn't have gone there alone.' Mrs Rowlands clucked round her like a mother hen, pushing her towards the breakfast table. "The police didn't want you in there yet, until they've had time to look around. I could have taken you there later.'
Camellia felt tears pricking her eyelids. 1 only wanted my nightie and things. I didn't touch anything else.' She held her breath, terrified Mrs Rowlands might open the bag, but Mr Rowlands spoke out.
'Of course you wanted your things, my dear.' He reached out and patted her hand, his small, hangdog face full of sympathy. 'Enid can't help worrying, she's made that way. Now eat up your breakfast before it gets cold.'
At seven that evening a smell of yeast rose up through the house as Mr and Mrs Rowlands began mixing the dough for the next day down in the bakery.
Camellia crept out onto the landing to check one last time. She could hear their voices, muted by two flights of narrow stairs. Now was her chance.
The day had been interminable. Although she'd known the Rowlands for most of her life, she'd found it impossible to communicate with them.
It seemed rude to read a book, even ruder to ask if she could go to her room and be alone. Mr Rowlands had his nose in the newspaper and his wife kept up a stream of gossip. If she'd only talked about Bonny Camellia might have been able to cry, but instead she made a point of never bringing up her name.
During the afternoon Camellia had heard Mrs Rowlands talking about her on the telephone to one of her friends, commenting on how much roast beef and Yorkshire pudding Camellia had eaten. She'd claimed she didn't think the girl was upset at all.
It seemed as if Mrs Rowlands were intentionally embarrassing her. She'd remarked on the holes in her shoes, offered her a huge cotton dress of her own because Camellia's blouse gaped at the bust, and dabbed at her spots with TCP. Maybe she was trying to be motherly, but it felt remarkably similar to the cruel jibes Camellia experienced daily at school.
The clock hands went round so slowly Camellia felt she might break down and scream. Her whole being longed to be outside, walking in the sunshine alone. She was burning to read those letters, yet at the same time she felt guilty at taking them. When at last Mr Rowlands suggested she had an early night when they went down to the bakery, Camellia could have kissed him.
'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 Page 6