Camellia

by Lesley Pearse

  But when the tube halted between Kentish Town and Tufnell Park, her thoughts suddenly moved on to that file of letters. Now for the first time she found herself thinking of those three men with interest rather than rage.

  Which of them was her father? Was it Magnus in Bath, Jack in Arundel or Miles in Kensington? She had read their letters so many times now, that she'd formed images of all of them. She felt Jack was the childhood sweetheart who had rescued Bonny from drowning. He was clearly a rough, uneducated man, his address a garage in the same village in Sussex where she had been evacuated to during the war.

  Magnus in contrast seemed older and very well educated, a married man who had been tormented by his illicit affair with Bonny.

  The third man, Miles, had only written once, a coldly dismissive letter as if Bonny was beneath his contempt. Camellia felt she ought to know who this man was. She wondered if he and his wife were one of the couples who used to come to dinner when her father was still alive.

  Then amongst these letters was just one from a woman. She signed herself 'H' and it sounded as if she were a dancer too. It was an odd letter, written in a very cryptic manner, but yet there was such warmth, such affection for both her friend and Camellia she had to be important.

  Camellia was just about to get off the tube at Archway when in a flash of clarity she saw a new dimension to those letters. Back in Rye they had seemed final proof that her mother was just a cold-hearted, calculating tramp. She had been afraid to hand them over to Bert Simmonds, not just because of further scandal, or indeed because one of these men might have been the cause of her mother's death, but because she was scared of facing any more unpalatable truth.

  But now with her confidence boosted a little by discovering she could make friends, that she wasn't quite as fat and as plain as she'd always thought, she wasn't so much scared, as curious.

  She would need to work on herself and become someone before she had enough nerve to approach each of these three men. But she must do it one day. She wouldn't be a complete person until she knew the whole truth.

  Camellia walked into Archway House soon after six thirty. She was so happy she felt she might burst. Fat, frumpy Camellia was about to be buried and a slim, potentially attractive new one was about to emerge.

  Miss Peet was tidying up the notice board in the hall as Camellia came through the door. Even at a glance she could see something good had happened today. The girl looked quite different. 'You look happy,' she said. 'And it's not even pay day!'

  'I feel wonderful,' Camellia beamed. 'One of the girls at work did my make-up and I weighed myself.' She stopped short, suddenly feeling foolish.

  Miss Peet smiled knowingly. She had noticed Camellia was losing weight for some weeks now. She made sure all her girls had a carefully balanced evening meal without too much stodge and many of them grew slimmer and more confident because of it. She wished she could work such miracles where making friends was concerned, but perhaps now Camellia could manage that herself.

  'A word of advice from the old dragon,' she said with a smile. 'No more skulking in your room, after tea, get down into the lounge with the other girls. You can do it if you put your mind to it.'

  Camellia put her head tentatively round the door of the lounge. There were five girls there in all. Madeline, who was one of the girls in her dormitory, was sharing the big settee with two new girls who had arrived a week ago. Rose, a big redhead,and Karen, a small dark girl from up North somewhere, sat on the floor in front of them.

  'Hullo.' Rose looked round and smiled. 'Coming in to join us? There's nothing on the telly, so we're all moaning about our lack of boyfriends.'

  Miss Peet had endeavoured to make the lounge homely, warm and comfortable. The armchairs and settees didn't match, and some of them were old and shabby, but a big fire was lit every evening, the shelves were full of books, and there was a piano and a big television. Boyfriends were allowed in this room until ten, but they were a rare sight; for most young men it was hard enough to face Miss Peet at the door, let alone an evening with half a dozen giggling girls.

  'Come on,' Karen smiled, with unexpected warmth. 'We don't bite.' Rose introduced the new girls and then paused for a moment. 'I can't tell you anything about Camellia,' she said to them with a tinkle of laughter. 'Until now she's been a hermit. Madeline believes she's about to take Holy Orders.'

  All these months Camellia had been so immersed in herself it had never occurred to her that most of the girls in the hostel were as alone as she was. She found it hard to jump in and talk in the easy way Rose and Madeline did, but she listened to them attentively, biding her time before she told them about herself.

  Rose had left home to escape her new stepmother. Brenda and Christine, the new girls, said they'd left Scotland because there were no good jobs there. Karen had come straight from a children's home, and Madeline had left her home in Birmingham after a row with her parents about her boyfriend. Yet the conversation wasn't centred on hard-luck stories, even though not one of them appeared to have the cosy comfortable backgrounds Camellia had assumed. They also spoke about clothes, pop stars and boys – and before long they wanted to know about Camellia.

  The events earlier in the day had removed Camellia's intentions of hiding her past. Instinctively she knew if she wanted to be accepted by these girls she had to be open. She told the story simply, without any attempt to tug on their heartstrings.

  As she looked at the girls' faces she saw not only interest, but complete acceptance. She knew then that her life was going to change. She was one of them at last.

  The conversation moved on to discussing Miss Peet's insistence at an eleven o'clock curfew for the girls who were under eighteen. Rose said they would need to think up some plausible excuse if they wanted to accept the invitation from some boys further down the road to their party next weekend.

  'They're all art students from Hornsey,' Madeline explained with a giggle that implied she knew the boys quite well. 'They are beats and they all smoke reefers.'

  A ripple of unease passed across all the girls' faces. Camellia saw an opportunity to score a few points. 'Sounds like fun,' she said with alacrity, even though her knowledge of beats and reefers was limited to one magazine article. 'I'll ask Miss Peet if you like. She thinks I'm a goody-goody and if I say we're all going together she can't very well refuse.'

  'What on earth will we wear?' Brenda, the Scottish girl, looked down at her tidy pleated skirt.

  'Jeans,' Madeline said firmly. 'And sloppy sweaters. The place is a pigsty.'

  A week later, the day after Miss Peet had finally agreed to lift the curfew so all the girls could go to the party, Camellia decided she must buy a pair of jeans.

  On her day off earlier in the week she had thrown caution to the wind and had her hair cut at a salon in Oxford Street. She had gone armed with a picture from a magazine with a model with a silky bob, but when the hairdresser combed her hair down right over her eyes and began snipping off a fringe, she was terrified she'd made a mistake. The feeling of panic grew as the girl chopped off at least three inches all round, but once it was blow-dried she felt like crying with happiness.

  A heavy fringe rested on her eyebrows, at once hiding her big forehead and accentuating her dark eyes. Her hair was now shoulder-length, thick, shiny and heavy, and even when she tossed her head it bounced straight back into shape.

  The successful haircut stimulated her into breaking into her savings. She had already bought a tight skirt, a pair of Granny shoes and a skinny-rib sweater to wear to work, along with new smaller underwear. Now it was time for the jeans.

  "Those are much too big.' Suzanne looked into the changing room, while Camellia was trying some on in her lunch hour, and held out a smaller pair. 'You've got to have them skintight.'

  Camellia thought the size fourteen pair were just about right, but she didn't dare say so. Obediently she took them off and accepted the size twelve from her friend's hands.

  She got them on over her bot
tom but she couldn't pull up the zip.

  'They're miles too small,' she gasped as she struggled with it.

  Suzanne was standing there grinning at her. 'No they aren't. Lie down on your back, you'll get them done up then.'

  Camellia giggled at this ridiculous suggestion,but she complied. She hoped no one would come in the changing rooms and see her lying there wrestling with a zip. 'I can't do this every time I go to the loo!' she squealed.

  'They'll stretch, silly.' Suzanne was losing patience. 'You've got them done up now. Stand up!'

  Camellia got up cautiously. She felt as if she were in a steel corset – she could hardly walk, let alone run or sit down.

  'They look fabulous,' Suzanne insisted. 'Come out here and look at yourself.'

  Camellia allowed herself to be led out to the mirror, blushing as a couple of customers stared at her.

  But when she saw her reflection she gasped in astonishment. 'I look so skinny!' she exclaimed.

  Jeans were a symbolic badge: they proclaimed I'm part of it all'. Camellia couldn't count the times she'd wished she could wear them. But now, seeing her bottom looking even sexier than Suzanne's, her stomach flat with no flab hanging over the waist, it felt like a miracle.

  'How many times do I have to remind you of that?' Suzanne grinned good-naturedly. 'The only thing fat about you is your head. Now what are you going to wear with them?'

  'Madeline said a sloppy jumper.' Camellia put her head on one side enquiringly. 'What do you think?'

  'Only beatniks wear sloppy jumpers,' Suzanne snorted with disgust. 'You want something which shows your nice boobs. There's some really nice stripy Banlon tops over there. You'd look great in a red and black one.'

  'They're too expensive,' Camellia frowned. T can only afford about three quid.'

  Suzanne looked out the cubicle to check no one was listening. 'Nick one,' she whispered. 'Stick it in your pants when you go home.'

  Camellia stared open-mouthed. She couldn't believe she'd heard that. 'I can't do that!'

  'Most of the girls do it,' Suzanne smirked, 'including me, but don't you go splitting on us mind.'

  Camellia bought the jeans and got her staff discount and they were sent down to the staff entrance for her to pick up as she went home. But Suzanne's suggestion kept niggling at her once she was back at work behind her counter. The top didn't matter that much to her; heaven knows she had enough sloppy jumpers which would do. Yet the desire to be in step with Suzanne clouded the moral issue. It would be so easy: the top would fold up to no bigger than a scarf. Suzanne claimed she had once even worn a jacket under her coat. The security man on the staff entrance always checked their bags, but he'd never been known to frisk anyone. If she chickened out wouldn't Suzanne think she was feeble?

  As the afternoon wore on Camellia kept nipping over to the fashion department to look at the top. The one she fancied cost f6.19.11p red and black with long sleeves and a scoop neck. The more she looked at it, the more she wanted it.

  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 go
t 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.