Camellia

by Lesley Pearse

  An expensive fur lying carelessly across a chair, a wooden clothes horse with dainty underwear left to dry. A bottle of Chanel perfume, a blue silk scarf and a pair of soft leather gloves shared the table with an almost empty gin bottle and a lipstick-smeared glass.

  Bert went through to the kitchen and opened the drop-front cabinet. It was clean, he guessed kept so by Camellia, but so bare. Half a bottle of milk, one egg in a bowl and just a few slices of bread left in a bag. There were condiments, bottles of sauce and a pot of jam, but no evidence that Bonny ever went to the trouble to spoil her manicured nails with something as mundane as cooking.

  'You can't stay here alone.' Bert turned as the girl came lumbering up behind him. It was painful to compare her appearance now with how she had looked when he first met her as a little girl. Her clothes had been so neat, hair shiny and well cut, plump even then, but now she was obese. What would possess Bonny to allow her to wear that dreadful pleated skirt or the shrunken grey jumper. Her shoes were scuffed and rundown at the heel and her grey socks were in concertinas round her ankles. 'I don't like it one bit, love. There's nothing for you to eat and besides a girl of your age shouldn't be alone at night.'

  I'll be all right.' Camellia's eyes dropped from his. Her mournful brown eyes and her hair had been her best features as a child. Heaven only knows who had hacked off her hair, it looked terrible, and her eyes were now almost embedded in fat. 'Mummy will be cross if she comes home and I'm not here.'

  'I shall be more than cross with her when she does come home,' Bert said tartly. 'She needs a good talking to. I'm taking you round to my mother's, I'll leave a note for Bonny.'

  Camellia's face contorted into an expression of anguish.

  'She can't help the way she is, Mr Simmonds.' She caught hold of his arm involuntarily. 'She's sad inside all the time, that's why she goes out a lot. Please don't get her into trouble?'

  Bert thought about that plea from Camellia later that night when he was cuddled up beside Sandra. He had popped back to his mother's an hour ago and heard a great deal more that made him feel uneasy. Camellia was fast asleep upstairs, but his mother had described the girl's worn underwear, the untreated boils on her neck and chilblains on her inner thighs.

  Camellia had opened up to his mother, as people usually did. But although she had confessed her diet consisted of fish and chips and sandwiches, she had staunchly insisted Bonny loved her. There were descriptions of picnics out by Camber Castle in the summer, days out to Hastings, and weekend trips to London. As Bert's mother pointed out, behind the visible part of Bonny, the drinking, the stream of men friends and wild spending sprees, there was a woman who cared enough to make some occasions memorable.

  'I know it might seem kinder to get Camellia taken away from her mother,' his mother said as he left, catching hold of his hand, her eyes full of compassion. 'But don't do it, son. There is something between them that is fine and good, however it might seem otherwise to you. I can't explain this very well, but I know I'm right. Let's try and make things better for Camellia. Let me encourage her to come here for a bit of home cooking, and I'll teach her a few homemaking skills. Maybe I can help her with a diet too. Bonny's all she's got right now, and they need and love one another.'

  Camellia sat up again as they drove up the High Street. It was quiet now, the shops soon to close and just a few people strolling along.

  'Will you be all right with Mrs Rowlands?' Bert asked. He would have preferred to take her to his mother's again, but the baker's wife had been so insistent that Camellia was to stay with her.

  'I'll be fine,' Camellia said, her tone implying it was all the same to her wherever she was sent. 'Don't worry about me, Mr Simmonds, you've got your own children to think about.'

  That struck Bert as a remarkably adult retort. He felt she meant that his wife would take a dim view of him fussing over Bonny Norton's child.

  'Well, I'll be popping in and out to see you. If things don't work out you can tell me then,' he said.

  Some half an hour later, up in the Rowlands living room above the bakery, after Mr Simmonds had left, Camellia took the offered cup of tea in silence. Mrs Rowlands was talking ninety to the dozen, flitting from the amount of cakes and pies they'd sold that day, to what people had been saying about Bonny's death and then onto what they'd have for tea, without even drawing breath. The room was cluttered with ornaments, china or glass cats, dogs and other animals filled every surface, but it was bright, sweet smelling and welcoming, so very different from Fishmarket Street.

  Camellia couldn't talk, or even cry. All she could think of was that she was finally released from a huge, impossibly heavy burden.

  No more noisy parties, no 'uncle this' and 'uncle that' walking around the house in their underpants or waking her at night with the sound of bestial grunting and thumping. No more cleaning up vomit or finding the kitchen and lounge floor awash with beer and dog-ends blocking up the sink. Never again to face the humiliation of asking for credit at the corner shop.

  She couldn't think of one thing she would miss her mother for. She was used to being alone, she'd been left for long weekends since she was eleven. The only difference now was that Bonny wouldn't dance back in with a bag of cream cakes or a soft toy and empty promises. This time her absence was forever.

  Yet if she really was glad it was over, why did she feel as if she'd been torn apart?

  Chapter Four

  Camellia woke with a start, drenched in sweat. For a moment she was confused when she saw the sloping attic ceiling and the unfamiliar rose wallpaper. Then it all came back. Enid Rowlands had taken her in, a doctor had been called and given her a pill. It was real, not a nightmare.

  The church clock struck seven. Pink curtains flapped at the tiny window, a picture of a little boy and a dog hung on the wall, a bedside lamp made out of a wine bottle and two china dogs with chipped ears were on the mantelpiece. The smell of baked bread was trapped up here, and under any other conditions she would have enjoyed being in such a clean, fresh room. But although Mr and Mrs Rowlands were kindly enough, she knew she was only here on sufferance, until someone else decided where she should go.

  She got out of bed slowly. Her head was muzzy and she had an evil taste in her mouth. Looking down she saw she was wearing a pink nylon nightie that wasn't hers. On the chair was her navy skirt, white blouse and underwear. Mrs Rowlands had washed and ironed them, but even that made her embarrassed. Had she looked at that big cheap cotton bra and knickers, grey with age and careless washing, the elastic shedding bits of rubber and felt disgust?

  Bonny had never worn such ugly things. She threw clothes away when they got spoiled in the wash or went out of fashion.

  The window overlooked the High Street, but she could see little besides the shops opposite and the church tower behind. It was so hot in here. Tomorrow morning when Mr Rowlands started baking it would get hotter still. She had to get out for some fresh air.

  There was no plan in her head as she stood at Hilder's Cliff. It had always been her favourite spot and today was so clear and bright she could see right across the marsh to Lydd. Rye was at its most lovely early in the morning, before people broke the tranquillity. The ancient grey stone of the Landgate, brilliant splashes of colour from flowers in window boxes, latticed windows twinkling in the early morning sun, even the cobbles beneath her feet sparkled as if they'd been lightly sprinkled with glitter.

  Behind her was Collegiate School, part of that dimly remembered happy past when her father took her for walks along the quay at this time of day, when visitors came down from London for dinner parties, when she was dressed up in a smocked dress to go out for lunch.

  Fishmarket Street was down below. If she peered right over the rail she could just see their house to her right. Not that she wanted to look at it. She found it far more comforting to look at The Salts and remember being pushed on the swings by her father.

  'I wonder what will happen to it?' she mused. Last summer she'd painted the livin
g room herself in magnolia. Old Mrs Simmonds even gave her some better curtains to hang and showed her how to make covers for the two fireside chairs and it looked lovely for some time. But when winter came black mould crept up the walls and spoiled it. Bonny consoled her by saying it would be the last winter they'd spend there. For once she had spoken the truth.

  Camellia had no idea why she suddenly felt compelled to take the steep steps down to it. She knew, though she hadn't been told, that she wasn't supposed to until the police had finished their investigations. But she wanted to. Just for one last look.

  All the other houses in the terrace still had their curtains closed and bottles of milk stood on each doorstep. Aside from a scruffy dog out on his early morning business, there was no one to see her. She slid her hand through the letter box and found the key dangling on its string inside.

  The house smelled as musty as ever. In the narrow hall there was a theatre poster hanging over the worst of the peeling paper. Bonny had put it there herself. She said she used to know the actress Frances Delarhey who was billed as starring in the play. Camellia had no idea how Bonny came by the poster, but then her mother rarely explained anything.

  Everything was just as she left it yesterday morning: the rinsed-out cereal bowl on the wooden draining board, one mug, a spoon and the milk turned sour in the bottle. She wandered aimlessly, picking things up, then putting them down, uncertain now why she was here. Unpaid bills on the ugly tiled mantelpiece, a mountain of ironing in a basket, even the almost empty gin bottle left on the table might indicate to an outsider that her mother was depressed, but Camellia knew that this was nothing compared with how things had been sometimes.

  On the living room table was Bonny's make-up mirror, her bright pink nail varnish, emery board and an orange stick for her cuticles. It was almost as if she'd just popped out for cigarettes, If Camellia just closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, she might find Bonny back at that table, golden head bent over as she filed her nails to perfection.

  The ironing board was still standing in the corner of the lounge, with the burn mark right through the cover. Camellia didn't want to remember now that only a fortnight ago Bonny had burned the skirt she'd saved up for weeks to buy.

  Going on upstairs, she hesitated outside Bonny's room. This one room had always been out of bounds in her mother's absence and to poke around seemed like snooping.

  'She can't say anything now!' Camellia said aloud. Her words echoed on the uncarpeted landing, and with the echo bitter memories came flooding back.

  Bonny's room was the only one which had been redecorated. She got the horrible Stan who moved them in to do it and must have bribed him with the promise he'd get to stay here sometimes, because he worked like a slave at it. Not just painting and papering either, but building a whole wall of wardrobes for Bonny's clothes. Bonny insisted he'd start on Camellia's room when he'd finished hers. But maybe even Bonny balked at sleeping with the man just to get him to do jobs, because Stan disappeared suddenly without putting handles on the doors. Bonny had to do that herself and Stan never returned to do Camellia's room.

  Pushing open the door, she walked in and stared round defiantly at Stan's handiwork.

  Mirrors on the wardrobes reflected back the ornate walnut bed and dressing table brought from the old house. The deep pink curtains and carpet, white lacy bedspread and twin cherub lamps on little lace-covered tables gave an instant image of luxurious femininity.

  Camellia could picture Bonny lying across the bed the day it was finished.

  'It won't be long, darling, before the whole house looks as nice,' she said, drawing her onto the bed with her and giving her a cuddle. 'I'm through with all the silliness and parties. It's just you and me now. I'll get myself a job and we'll be happy here. Maybe I had to leave Mermaid Street to start again. There were too many ghosts in that house.'

  It was all lies. The parties, the drunkenness and the men just went on and on. She didn't find a job and made no attempt to make the rest of the house nice. While Bonny had this comfortable pretty room, her daughter across the landing had bare boards under her feet, a piece of cardboard blocked a hole in the window and her bed had springs sticking out the mattress.

  Camellia felt a surge of anger as she looked at the carefully made bed, the dusted dressing table with all those sparkling bottles of perfume arranged so neatly. Until now she hadn't really considered how odd it was that a woman who slept late, drank all night and who wouldn't even iron a school shirt for her daughter, somehow managed to keep this room immaculately clean and tidy.

  The anger grew as she flung open the wardrobes to see row after row of dresses, suits and blouses. How many times had Camellia pleaded for a new school coat or skirt and always got the same reply. 'I'm a bit short now, darling. Next week maybe!'

  So many excuses. She was going for an audition. This job interview was important. But mostly, 'He adores me, darling. I have to look right, just think how good it will be to have a new father.'

  Who was the man she went to meet in London?

  Camellia had long since given up questioning Bonny about her boyfriends, because all her relationships ended the same way. One moment she was talking of flats in London, holidays in the sun and her belief their luck was changing, then the next it was all over. Bonny was like a fisherman, idly dreaming away her life on a sunny river bank, catching one, playing with him for awhile, then throwing him back, always looking for the illusive big catch.

  Yet she had been unusually secretive about this last man. She'd made long phone calls late at night, her eyes glowing as if he really was important, and kept hinting that something wonderful was around the corner for both of them. Just a few days earlier she had spoken of getting them both a passport. Why hadn't she ever said his name or brought him back here?

  'I suppose he was married,' Camellia sighed.

  As she flicked through dresses, tears welled up in her eyes, splashing down her cheeks unheeded. A memory of an evening some four weeks earlier sprang into her mind, a good memory that softened some of the anger.

  Bonny was sitting at the dressing table brushing her hair over her sun-kissed shoulders, wearing just her bra and panties. Her stomach was as flat as a board. She smiled as Camellia held out dresses for her to choose from.

  'That one's too dressy for drinks.' Bonny rejected the emerald green one with beading on the shoulder. 'I don't feel like wearing black tonight. Get me out the pink crepe!'

  'I wish I had a dress like this one.' Camellia held the pink one up to her and looked at herself in the mirror. Her reflection made her cry. She was a fat lump with piggy dark eyes, lank hair, sallow greasy skin and she felt she would never look good in anything.

  She didn't hear her mother move, but suddenly she was there behind her, rubbing her soft perfumed cheek against Camellia's.

  'You won't always be tubby, darling,' she said so very gently. 'One day you'll wake up and find it's all gone and you are beautiful.'

  'How do you know?' Camellia sniffed back her tears. 'You've never been fat in your life.'

  Bonny laughed, but this time there was no sarcasm in it.

  'Because I had a good friend once who was every bit as plump as you. She turned out be one of the most gorgeous women anyone has ever seen. Besides you've got a lovely nature, darling, when the fat drops off, as it will, you'll be twice the woman I am.'

  Camellia lifted out that pink dress and held it to her face and sobbed. She could smell her mother's perfume, feel that smooth cheek pressing against her own.

  That night she'd gone to bed full of optimism. If she hadn't been so wrapped up in herself recently, perhaps she might have noticed something wasn't right with her mother.

  All at once Camellia felt the full force of what Bonny's death really meant. She didn't care about the bad memories, the slights and humiliations. She just wanted her mother back, anyhow, anyway.

  'Why Mummy? Why?' she whispered. 'If things were so bad why couldn't you have just come ho
me and told me? You were always telling me to hold my head up and ignore spiteful people. I'm not a child any longer, I could have helped.'

  It was a mixture of anger and grief that made her search through everything. Somewhere here she might find an explanation or at least a clue. She turned out everything: shoe boxes, old handbags,even coat pockets. She found almost a pound in change, but nothing else.

  Next the dressing table, flicking aside the silky underwear with its waft of Chanel perfume, but still nothing.

  A few photographs in an envelope of her father made her cry again. In the pictures he was just a tall, slim grave-faced man with dark hair and a moustache. She could barely recall his face to memory now. But she could remember how it was when he was alive, the feeling of utter safety, being loved and wanted. Hearing his deep voice wafting up the stairs at night, arms lifting her up above his head when he came home.

  Maybe her mother had loved John more deeply than Camellia realised? Perhaps she was always searching for a replacement for him?

  Not even the jewellery box held any surprises. The pearl necklace, diamond earrings and gold bracelet she'd been given by her husband were all there. Wouldn't she have pawned those again, if it was money troubles?

  When Camellia had exhausted the possibilities of the room, she got down on her hands and knees to look under the bed, but even that revealed nothing but one laddered stocking. As she hauled herself back up though, holding onto the bed end, she noticed the bedspread was tucked in accidentally in one place, as if her mother had lifted the mattress to slide something beneath.

  Holding the mattress up with one hand, she put her hand in, moving it along slowly. Her fingers met something hard and flat, and out came a large brown envelope.

  It contained school reports, her parents' marriage licence and her father's death certificate. There were more photographs of her parents, many of them at their wedding, including one in a brass frame which had sat on the mantelpiece when they were in Mermaid Street. Her own birth certificate was there too, plus ten or twelve studio pictures of her up until she was about seven.