'You really liked her, didn't you?' Nick could hear a warmth in his father's voice, different from the way he spoke about Bonny.
'Yes, I did,' Magnus sighed deeply. 'Sometimes I was tempted to tell her to split from Bonny, that she was wasting her talent. You see Bonny didn't share her friend's commitment to the stage and Ellie was a brilliant comic actress.'
'Did she ever get married? I don't think I ever read about her private life.'
Magnus shook his head. 'No, well, at least not unless that's the reason why she faded from the public view. Back when I knew her she had an actor friend called Edward, but she never seemed very interested in love and romance. Bonny claimed she still held a torch for a young fireman she'd met during the war. She had to choose between marrying him and her career on the stage apparently.'
'Do you know this chap Edward's surname?'
'No. I never met him, I only remember his name because Bonny was always moaning about him. He was in the first show they did together, and then the three of them went on tour. Bonny loathed him.'
'Why?'
Magnus smiled. 'Well you couldn't take anything Bonny said as fact! She claimed he was creepy, queer, a bit of an aristocrat, and that he was obsessed by Ellie. I saw a few photos – very good-looking, blond, Nordic type. Ellie spent a great deal of time with him.'
'Did he split up their double act?'
'Oh no,' Magnus said. 'I think it was really Ellie getting the part in Oklahoma and perhaps Bonny meeting John Norton which did it. And judging from that letter there where no hard feelings on either side about that. The following year, 1950, Sohowas made, and Helena Forester took England by storm.'
Nick had seen this classic film several times and loved it: the story of a young girl who got caught up in the seamier side of war-time London. Many critics claimed that British film makers should have fought tooth and nail to keep such a fine actress working in England. The glossy musical comedies she made in Hollywood afterwards were trashy compared with Soho.
'Did Mel say anything about this letter?' Nick asked, waving the sheet of blue notepaper.
'No, but then she didn't have time to tell me about any of them. She was going to come back upstairs later that evening. But of course I had the stroke.'
'So you don't know if she's already checked out Sir Miles and Jack Easton?'
'No. That makes it doubly difficult doesn't it?'
Nick sat for a moment in silence, still with the letter from Helena Forester in his hands. He had hoped the file might also have had letters to Mel in it. It was disappointing to find it only contained things relating to Bonny.
'Dad,' he said eventually. 'There's something very weird about all of this. What would you say to me going to see this chap Jack Easton and Sir Miles Hamilton to see if they can throw any light on it?'
'I just wish I were fit enough to go myself,' Magnus said with a wry smile. 'But you'll have to be very tactful, particularly with Sir Miles. Lady Hamilton died some years ago, but men of his position and age are notoriously tetchy.'
Nick smiled. 1 can be the soul of discretion when I need to be. I think I should go down to Rye too, and find out exactly what happened when Bonny killed herself.'
'When do you want to go?' Magnus asked.
'I can't till after New Year,' Nick said. 'There's too much going on here until then and besides you need help until you can get about in that chair. But will you be able to manage without me then?'
Magnus cuffed his son's head playfully and smiled. 'Of course I will. One less wet nurse around me will be a relief. God I miss Mel, son, if she were here now she'd be making me laugh, not pandering to me as if I were senile.'
'I'll get her back,' Nick said softly. 'Just you wait.'
On 3 January Nick left Oaklands. Magnus waved goodbye from the side window in his sitting room until all that was left of the red MG was a puff of grey exhaust fumes amongst the trees on the drive. A tear trickled down his cheek as he turned his wheelchair away from the window and moved it back to the fire.
Christmas had been a very sad time for him: a glimpse of what old age and infirmity meant for many people. Alone in his room, the sounds of jollity wafted up to him from the bar and restaurant, cutting him off from all he'd worked for, reminding him relentlessly of happier times.
When Ruth was alive Christmas had been magical. She loved to give people surprises: she even filled little felt stockings for each of the guests, not to mention masterminding all the children's presents, dressing the tree, putting up the decorations and organising just about everything else. Anyone who stayed here at Christmas became part of the family for the day. Somehow she managed to balance being the perfect hostess with her role as mother and wife without ever looking harassed. The lunch often went on for hours, the children slipping away, leaving the adults to lazily talk and drink in peace.
But since she died Christmas at Oaklands had become much like any other hotel: individual tables for each party of guests at lunch, the staff keeping an attentive and polite distance. Magnus and any of his family who came to stay ate their lunch down in the kitchen once the guests had retired to the drawing room. Magnus wished he could blame someone else for this change in the arrangements, but the truth of the matter was that he had neither the heart, nor the natural warmth that Ruth had, to bring ten or twelve strangers together with his family and make every single one of them feel special and wanted.
Nick had offered to help Magnus downstairs for lunch on Christmas Day, but he'd declined the offer. It was enough for him to share a special breakfast upstairs with Nick, and later to overhear him being the perfect host in his father's place.
Magnus had often felt guilty that he loved this child so much more than the other two. But during the long hours alone this Christmas he had come to understand why. Nick needed him more than his other two children.
On the face of it, Nick was blessed with far more than either Sophie or Stephen. He had boundless charm, he was handsome and amusing, and people took to him immediately. He had never needed to learn how to win friends. He had inherited the best features from each of his parents: Ruth's straight classic nose and generous mouth, Magnus's strong bone structure and height. Stephen had Ruth's short stockiness, but his father's craggy features, while Sophie was a throwback to her grandmother with the same tight mouth and pinched nose.
Magnus didn't feel responsible for either Stephen's or Sophie's failings: they'd had an idyllic childhood and they were grown up by the time Ruth died. She had once commented, 'Magnus, they are true Yorkshire Osbournes. They won't ever embarrass us or behave recklessly. Perhaps we should be grateful they are intelligent and steady instead of worrying about them being so dour.'
But Magnus did hold himself responsible for Nick's failings. When Ruth had died he'd been so immersed in his own grief he forgot his youngest son was still just a child.
'You should have got him home from school well before she died,' he murmured to himself. 'What sort of father leaves it to a headmaster to break that sort of news? He was only thirteen and you expected him to take it like a man!'
He sighed deeply, reaching over to pull out a scrapbook from his bookshelf. It was the only effort he'd made to replace the kind of special attention Ruth gave all her children: a collection of pictures, school reports, letters and later reviews.
He turned the pages slowly, sadly remembering other stories behind the snapshots. Nick in France, just a month after Ruth's death: a skinny tall boy, wearing only a pair of shorts, his hair bleached white by the sun. But Magnus had spent that holiday sitting in a bar drinking away his sorrows instead of swimming with his son. His first lead role in a school production of Hamlet; but Magnus hadn't been there to see it. Two years later a snap of him winning the cup at school for all-round sportsmanship: taller and more muscular now, his face showing every sign of the handsome adult he was to become, happy that day because Magnus was there to share his moment of glory. There were so many school pictures: cricket captain, rugby, swimming,
athletics. Back then Magnus had been so proud of his son he overlooked the abysmal academic record and the master's strong hints that he was too arrogant for his own good.
'What happened to you?' he asked as he picked up a picture of Belinda, a girl with long blonde hair, a big bust and a sweet innocent face. He had only met her once, when Nick brought her here to Oaklands for the weekend. They had been engaged then, and though Magnus hadn't been delighted about that as they were so young, he had liked the girl very much. Nick never said why it ended; perhaps he just lost interest once he thought he was going to be a big star. Magnus wished he'd made a point of asking Nick what happened.
He turned to the glossy, moody studio pictures taken for the promotion of Hunnicroft Estate. Surly and aggressive in black leather, Nick sat astride a motorbike, stripped to the waist in torn dirty jeans. Then came the newspaper cuttings hailing him as the new James Dean.
There was a big gap in the book after the television series was axed. There had been letters from him during that time, but only requests for money. Magnus had kept the two lines about a court appearance and a fine for dangerous driving, but he'd never stuck it in.
'Why didn't you go up to London to see what was going on?' he asked himself. 'Or was it because you were afraid?'
Ruth would have known what to do, but Magnus for all his worldliness had looked the other way.
Yet he loved the boy. It was Nick's face he'd wanted to see, Nick's voice he'd wanted to hear. Nick was Magnus as a boy, Ruth as a young bride: the sunny, happy little boy whose presence ousted memories of Bonny and revived his love for Ruth, giving them both the happiest years of their marriage.
And now he was going off like a knight to the Crusades to discover the truth about his father's old mistress!
Magnus put the scrapbook back on the shelf, overwhelmed for a moment by shame.
'If he can do that for you, the least you can do is make yourself walk again,' he told himself fiercely. 'Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get out of this chair.'
He wheeled himself over to the window, put the brake on, then reaching out for the windowsill with his good hand, hauled himself up onto his feet. His left leg wobbled, but by taking most of his weight on the right foot he managed to swing his left foot forward, then support himself to move the right leg.
'You can do it,' he said, thrilled just to be upright. 'One step at a time and willpower, that's all it takes.
At eight thirty in the evening, with a gale force wind blowing straight off the sea, Littlehampton was deserted.
Nick smiled engagingly at the dark-haired woman behind the bar in the Kings Head. 'A pint of best please – and would you like something for yourself?'
Littlehampton was one of the dreariest towns Nick had ever seen. He had no wish to linger here any longer than was absolutely necessary. He had found a room in a small bed and breakfast, and eaten a greasy hamburger and chips. Now he hoped to get some help in finding Jack Easton.
'Well, thank you very much,' the barmaid smiled back at him. 'I'll have a half if that's okay.'
'It's a wild night out there,' Nick said. He glanced round the bar. There were only eight customers in all, three of them old men playing cards in the corner. 'First time I've been to Little-hampton – perhaps I should've waited for the summer.'
'I prefer the winter myself,' she said as she pulled his pint. 'It's packed out in summer. They steal the glasses, make a mess in the toilets and we're run off our feet. Where do you come from then?'
Nick could tell that she fancied him: she looked like the type who had a dull husband and a couple of kids at home and saw her work in the bar as a diversion. She was an attractive thirty-something, a bit overweight and overly made-up, but the kind a lonely commercial traveller away from home would make a beeline for.
'From Bath,' he replied, leaning towards her over the bar. 'It's a bit of a nightmare there too in the summer. We don't get many hooligans, but there's hordes of foreign tourists packing the streets, hogging all the seats in restaurants, and creating queues in all the shops.'
'Down here on business?' she asked, looking suspiciously at his worn leather jacket.
'Sort of,' he said. 'I'm actually trying to find a garage. I've got a bit of trouble with my car. Someone told me to go to a place called Easton's – do you know it?'
'You've got a Mercedes then?' she said, her eyes suddenly brighter.
Nick didn't know quite how to reply. 'That isn't all he repairs is it?'
She laughed. 'Easton's is a car showroom, not a garage. Jack Easton only sells Mercedes.'
The next morning Nick understood why the barmaid had been so amused. It was clearly years since Jack Easton held a spanner in his hands. Five brand new Mercedes were displayed inside his sparkling showroom. Even the second-hand ones out on the forecourt were only two or three years old, and all in top condition.
'Lovely isn't she?' A middle-aged man in a sharp grey suit pounced on Nick as he paused to look at a silver-grey coupe. 'What are you driving at the moment, sir?'
Nick glanced sideways at the salesman. He couldn't be Jack, what little hair he had was fair. 'An ancient MG,' he said. 'To be honest I daren't even dream of a car like this. Actually I came to see Mr Easton.'
'Do you have an appointment with him.' The salesman lost his smile.
'Er, no,' Nick wished he'd thought before plunging in. 'Could you ask him if he would see me for a minute or two? I'm only in Littlehampton for today and it is urgent.'
'Your name, sir?' The man looked Nick up and down.
'Osbourne. That won't mean anything to him, just say I'm calling about a mutual friend.'
The salesman disappeared through a door at the back of the showrooms. He was gone some five minutes and came back in frowning.
'If you're selling something my life won't be worth living,' he said tersely. 'Go on up the stairs. The door at the end of the corridor.'
Nick knocked firmly on the door, then opened it.
Nick had expected Jack Easton to be something of a rough diamond, but he was taken aback all the same. His hair was not just red, but more like a flaming torch, and he was stockily built with a thick neck and a broken front tooth. His conservative grey suit and striped tie didn't seem to fit him at all.
Jack Easton leaned back in his chair, insolently tucking his hands behind his head and looked Nick up and down. 'Mutual friends eh? If that means you know someone in the tyre or distributor business then you'd better push off.'
1 promise you I'm not selling anything. It's a private matter.' Nick held out his hand, even though the man hadn't got up from his chair. 'Nick Osbourne.'
Jack Easton ignored the hand.
'When I said we had mutual friends I don't even know if you were real friends exactly, but I'm hoping it may lead me to her daughter.'
The man burst into raucous laughter. 'That's about as clear as the oil in an engine,' he snorted. 'You'll have to do better than that.'
'Bonny Norton,' Nick said quickly before he lost his nerve.
His face tightened, his laughter cut short. He jerked up from a lounging position to sit bolt upright and folded his arms on his desk.
'Bonny's been dead for several years,' Nick quickly added, seeing he'd touched a raw nerve. 'Like I said it's her daughter I'm concerned with. Camellia.'
'Who are you?' Easton's eyes narrowed menacingly, as if he thought Nick was a private detective.
Nick was suddenly frightened. He had a feeling this man was quite capable of booting him through the window. 'I'm sorry. I haven't started out with this too well. You see I'm casting about in the dark. Two years ago a girl who said her name was Amelia Corbett came to work for my father. It has recently transpired that her name was really Camellia Norton and she had evidence that she was my half-sister. But before my father and I could talk to her further about this, she disappeared.'
'What's this got to do with me?' He relaxed marginally.
'Because the evidence she had was in letters written to her mo
ther from three different men. My father Magnus was one of them. You were another.'
There was no movement in his expression or stance, yet he seemed to swell up in his chair.
'Look, Mr Easton. I haven't come here to make trouble or to dig up history. I've read your letters and I know how it was for you. My only interest is in finding Mel, and the only way I can do it is by backtracking.'
The man looked at Nick for a moment, his expression chillingly hostile.
'Why the hell do you want to find her?' he said eventually. 'If your father was involved with Bonny Norton he must know what a scheming little liar she was. Her kid belonged to John Norton.'
'I'd love that to be proved true,' Nick said. 'I don't want Mel for a sister.'
'Why? Afraid you might have to share out the family fortunes?'
'I wish it was as simple as that, Mr Easton. You see I'd fallen in love with her. It was only when I tried to tell her this that she admitted who she was. Then she ran away.'
To Nick's surprise Easton's insolent expression suddenly vanished. He slumped back into his chair. 'Oh God,' he said weakly. 'That damn woman. Even after she's dead she's still stirring up trouble.'
'That's exactly what my father said.' Nick moved tentatively towards him. He didn't quite dare sit down. 'But I have to find out the truth and I must find Mel. I thought you might know something that would help.'
Easton rubbed his face with his hands. 'I'm not her father,' he said at length. 'You can see that for yourself. A blonde and redhead don't make kids with hair as dark as hers.'
'You've seen her then?' Nick's heart leapt. 'When? Just recently?'
'Yup, I saw her,' Easton admitted. 'But it won't help you. It was well over two years ago. She came in here out of the blue, just like you have. I gave her thirty quid and told her to piss off.'
Nick was stunned.
'What, no anger?' Easton stood up. 'You public schoolboys are all the same. You never lose your stiff upper lip, not even when you should be sticking your fist in someone's face.'
Camellia Page 38