Camellia

by Lesley Pearse

  Mrs Downes had said that two of the ten luxurious guest rooms had four-poster beds, and she'd spoken of extensive renovation in the old servants' quarters, but although Camellia had hoped for more descriptive information, none had been offered. She could only guess that it was all as beautiful as the elegant entrance hall she'd seen briefly on the night of her arrival.

  As she had surmised when she arrived, it wasn't ordinary people who stayed here, but the very rich, distinguished and famous. Magnus apparently took a pride in protecting those who might not wish the media prying on them, and she'd heard that staff had been sacked in the past for being indiscreet.

  The hotel also served as a country club, where members could come and drink in the bar, have a gourmet meal, wander around the grounds, or just sit in the orangery over afternoon tea.

  As she stood there gazing at Oaklands, a stiff wind blowing her hair into a tangle, Camellia felt a tug at her emotions. She knew what she was thinking was ridiculous, because within minutes Magnus was going to call her in and ask her to pack her bag and go. But all the same she wished she could stay here.

  Part of this feeling was due to kindly Mrs Downes. Outwardly she was tough, uncompromising, briskly efficient and shrewd, yet her hard shell was mere protection for the softness inside her.

  She lived down in the village with her husband, and came in daily. Camellia reckoned she was about fifty-five, a short, tubby figure with grey neatly permed hair and thick glasses. It was she who'd brought Camellia her medicine, and a constant supply of honey and lemon, she who'd found her magazines to read and comforted her in those first two days when Camellia had felt so ill.

  Camellia had stuck to the name Amelia Corbett, but she'd kept to the truth as far as possible, saying that both her parents were dead and that she'd been brought up in London. To wipe out the need to discuss the last couple of years she said she'd been travelling and working all over the continent, ending in Ibiza.

  In the last couple of days since she'd been well enough to get up, she had pitched in to help down in the basement, sorting laundry, ironing, polishing silver and folding napkins. Last night she'd got all the salads ready for the dining room under Antoine's eagle eye.

  Antoine was excitable and temperamental: a tall, thin man with a hangdog expression which belied his exuberant personality. Mrs Downes had confided that he was forty and that he'd been in England for twenty years, yet he apparently still put on a thick Gallic accent when called into the dining room. Down in the kitchen his accent was an extraordinary mix of London slang and West Country phrasing, with an appealing Maurice Chevalier lilt. Camellia was intrigued by him. He was a brilliant chef, and the only member of staff who lived in. His room in the basement was extremely messy and cluttered and he didn't appear to have any sort of private life. She wondered why he'd never married: he was attractive with his glossy black hair and sparkling dark eyes. It had-crossed her mind he could be gay, though nothing he said or did indicated this.

  Aside from the housekeeper and chef, she'd only met one other member of staff – Sally, the girl who came in as a waitress in the evenings. But she knew there was a whole team of groundsmen, cleaners and casual staff.

  'Mel!'

  She looked up at the shout to see Mrs Downes beckoning to her from the bar doors.

  She took one last gulp of the clean, sweet fresh air to brace herself and went on up the steps to join the housekeeper. Once she'd seen Magnus Osbourne face-to-face again she'd probably be only too anxious to leave. Mrs Downes and Antoine might think he was the wisest, fairest man in the West Country, but his hard words on her first night here were still ringing in her ears, and she wasn't anticipating any kind ones now.

  'Are you feeling better?' Magnus Osbourne asked as she came into his office.

  'Yes thank you, Mr Osbourne,' she said, keeping her eyes down. She didn't feel he was really interested in her health; it was more, 'I hope you're ready to push off now.' She looked up. 'You've been very kind letting me stay here. It was an awful imposition.'

  The lion-like impression she'd had of this man on her first night hadn't left her. She had watched him from the basement windows in the last two days as he strode around the grounds purposefully, his fair hair blowing in the wind like a mane, his chin up, eyes scanning the distant horizon. He was a big man, perhaps six foot, with a healthy glow from working for long periods outside. She was amazed when Mrs Downes told her he was sixty-six; he had the vigour and strength of a fifty-year-old. Twenty years or so ago he must have been quite something.

  'Sit down,' he said impatiently, indicating a chair by the window. His office was masculine, dark-red wallpaper, a cluttered mahogany desk, two brown leather armchairs and a filing cabinet. It overlooked the drive and the old stable block and it was rather dark. 'Now, let's have the truth about why you came here?'

  His direct, straight-to-the-point approach unnerved her, as did his penetrating eyes. They were an extraordinary colour, blue predominantly, but speckled with green and brown. For a moment she thought perhaps he had somehow found out her real name.

  'I didn't actually intend to come here that night,' she said truthfully. 'I was just on my way to Bath to look for a room. But I'd met someone in Ibiza who came from the West Country, who said she'd worked at a hotel called Oaklands, so I had it in mind to look for it once I was here. I went into that pub down the road and fainted. When I came round they asked me where I was going and I just said the name, I don't know why, I was dizzy and confused. Next thing they had me in the car and on the way here.'

  He raised one bushy eyebrow. 'And the name of this girl you met?'

  'Susie,' Camellia said defiantly. 'I never knew her surname.'

  'You are an interesting phenomenon, Amelia,' he said, picking up a pen from his desk and playing with it. 'I feel you had some strong motive for coming here which you are hiding. Now could it be that your hippie chum mentioned also that this hotel is isolated and tends to be full of wealthy people?'

  She was incensed by the insinuation of his question.

  'You are insulting my intelligence,' she said coldly. 'If I wanted to burgle this place, I would hardly call to case it dripping wet with a dose of flu. I'd dress myself up, arrive in a taxi and flannel my way in as a welcome guest.'

  'But you haven't any decent clothes have you?' he smirked. 'Everything you had in that rucksack stinks of that foul hippie perfume. Those jeans are so worn it's a wonder they don't split. You've spent all summer lying around on beaches getting out of your head on weed. You couldn't aspire to anything more than offering yourself as a kitchen maid.'

  Camellia was suddenly furious. She stood up, her nostrils flaring. 'I was very grateful to you for giving me a bed and calling the doctor,' she snapped at him, her eyes blazing. 'But I did not spend the summer lying on beaches, smoking what you call weed, I worked. In fact I had three jobs. As for my clothes smelling of patchouli oil, well I'm sorry about that, I inherited the rucksack from a friend and it happens to be impregnated with it. I do have some very nice smart clothes, but they are in a suitcase at a friend's in London. Okay, you don't approve of people travelling and picking up work as they go along, well boring old you. I suppose you spent all your youth working out how to become a millionaire? But I don't despise you for that. At least I know that not everyone marches to the same drumbeat.'

  'Touché,' he said, and surprisingly his eyes twinkled. 'Well, it's nice to hear you've got your voice back, and heartening to know you aren't the little sniveller I took you for a week ago. Now shall we talk about a job?'

  Camellia was so astonished that her mind went completely blank and she sat down again with a bump.

  Magnus Osbourne was not a soft touch. As a young man he'd been full of altruism, but over the years he'd become aware that the vast majority of people abused generosity. He had learned to be suspicious, to hold back confidences and friendship until people proved themselves worthy of trust. Each summer he had scores of students coming here looking for work, and for every fo
ur he took on, at least one would attempt to fiddle him.

  But Joan Downes really liked the girl and he believed her to be a good judge of character. She had praised Mel for her initiative, claiming the girl had done ironing and other tasks without anyone asking. Joan thought she might have faced some major disaster in her life not that long ago. It was partly this which made him goad the girl. He was intrigued by her. She didn't quite fit into any recognisable box.

  She had pride, which he liked. In a nice frock, with make-up and her hair trimmed, she wouldn't look out of place. She spoke well, she was surprisingly dignified, and if she was capable of working hard he'd soon iron out the last of her wrinkles.

  'Yes, a job,' he said, enjoying her look of utter surprise. 'As a live-in general assistant.'

  'B . . . b . . . but,' she stammered. 'You don't like me or my clothes and you don't trust me.'

  'I didn't say I didn't like you,' he smiled, raising one bushy eyebrow. 'We'd have to get to know one another better before I could make any judgement about that. As for your clothes you've already said you have smarter ones in London. You can go and collect them. And trust, well, I'm afraid we all have to earn that, my dear. Let's start with you collecting your clothes?'

  'I haven't got any insurance cards,' she said weakly, so overcome she was almost hoping he'd change his mind. 'I've never had proper jobs.'

  Magnus was pretty certain that once she disappeared off to London he would never see her again, but he hoped to be proved wrong.

  'Well, I've offered you one now,' he said evenly. 'You can go and see the National Insurance people in the next day or two. They'll fix you up with a card. Off with you now, get rid of that red nose, and we'll discuss the finer points once you've got your belongings back.'

  The girl who got onto the six thirty train to Bath at Paddington the following evening looked totally different to the one who had arrived at eleven that morning. She had put her jeans, sweater and plimsolls into Denise's dustbin and replaced them with a dark-red wool maxi skirt, matching fine-knit sweater, a wide brown leather belt, highly polished brown boots. With her long white rabbit coat, and her hair newly cut she looked like a fashion model.

  It pleased her to be holding a suitcase at last instead of a rucksack. She was looking forward to wearing a frilly nightie again, to having slippers, petticoats and high-heeled shoes to put on. At Denise's suggestion they had swapped a few clothes: the slinky evening dresses Camellia had worn at the Don Juan were now hanging in her friend's wardrobe, and her own suitcase now held a navy-blue classic Jaegar suit, a cashmere twin-set and a pleated skirt. Conventional, middle-of-the-road clothes had never been Camellia's style, but they were needed in this job.

  But best of all she would soon have an insurance card, with her new name on it. Denise had taken her to a solicitor, where she had changed her name to Amelia Corbett by deed poll. She only had to take this deed to the local National Insurance Office with her old number and she'd be issued with a new one. Camellia Norton was dead and buried now; Amelia Corbett, a girl without a shameful past was about to start a new career. Camellia intended to wipe out all the old memories along with the name. Plain, simple Mel would be what she'd call herself even in private thoughts.

  Magnus had been waiting at Bath Spa Station for five minutes when an exceptionally attractive girl in a white fur coat came down through the barrier struggling with a heavy suitcase. He leapt forward instinctively to help her. It was a second or two before he realised it was Amelia.

  'Well, I never,' he said, grinning broadly. 'You look the cat's whiskers.'

  She was just as surprised to see him. 'You came to meet me?'

  Magnus had left Oaklands thinking he was probably making a wasted trip. He was thrilled to have been proved wrong. 'Of course I came to meet you, Amelia,' he said, taking the heavy case. 'My staff are as important to me as my family.'

  'Well, thank you,' she smiled. 'But please, call me Mel. Mrs Downes and Antoine do.'

  There were more surprises in store for her when they got back to Oaklands. Magnus told her she had a new room on the third floor.

  It's the last one on the right, the only one without a number on the door. Take your case up and unpack.' Magnus seemed amused by her wide-eyed delight. 'Give me an hour, then come on down again. There's your duties to discuss, your hours and wages.'

  If it wasn't for the fact that this was the first time she'd been allowed upstairs, Mel probably would've flown, despite the weight of her case. But she took it slowly, marvelling at the wide, gracious staircase, the long arched window, the thick pastel-blue carpet beneath her feet. On the first floor landing there was a pale-green velvet chaise-longue and a walnut chest of drawers which looked as old as the house. Up she went to the top floor and here the ceiling sloped under the roof, the corridor side overlooking the stable block. She paused for a moment looking at the fresh flowers on a small table, the glossy white paint and the china knobs on the doors, then slowly, savouring each moment, she went towards her room.

  As she opened the door, tears sprang to her eyes. There was nothing austere about this room: it was heaven.

  There was a moss-green fitted carpet, flower-sprigged wallpaper, an old pine dressing table and a single divan with a green padded headboard. The last time she had stood in such a lovely room was at her childhood home, in Mermaid Street. The quilted counterpane matched the curtains. There was a small lamp by her bedside and another on a little desk. She even had a portable television. She opened one door and found a fitted wardrobe with shelves down one side and shoe rails at the bottom. In wild excitement she opened the second door, and there to her amazement was her own tiny bathroom, all pink and white perfection.

  Tears of absolute joy were coursing down her cheeks. She had felt reborn at Paddington station, but now she knew she was.

  Crossing the room she drew back the curtains and looked out. It was too dark to see much, but tomorrow she'd wake to a view of the valley. She could see car headlights coming down that hill where she'd trudged. She looked up at the star-spangled sky and offered up a silent prayer of gratitude. She felt there was someone up there after all, someone looking after her and guiding her.

  'You've been crying,' Magnus exclaimed when she joined him in his office later. She'd put away her clothes, arranged her few little ornaments and cosmetics. But mostly she'd just wandered around the room touching everything.

  'It's nothing,' she laughed. She'd washed her face and tidied up her make-up, and had thought she'd concealed all trace of tears. 'I've just never had such a beautiful room before.'

  'Mind you look after it then,' he said gruffly. In his opinion it was fairly ordinary. Sophie, his daughter, had never showed much delight in it when she slept there. Judging by her reaction, the rooms Mel had before must've been grim.

  He got down to business immediately. Her hours would be from seven in the morning until twelve, then again from seven in the evening until eleven, with a full day off on Tuesdays.

  'You won't always be busy during the weekday evenings,' he said. 'More often than not you'll be just pottering about, on call if necessary. But at the weekends it's often frantic, and though I have extra staff, I'll be relying on you to keep things running smoothly once you know the ropes.'

  He wanted her to learn all aspects of hotel work – waitressing, housekeeping, reception, bar work – as well as giving a hand in the kitchen sometimes.

  'Not all at once though,' he smiled. 'I'll break you in gently.'

  When Mel learned she would get twenty-five pounds a week, on top of her keep, she nearly hit the ceiling in surprise. She would've been thrilled to get fifteen.

  'You'll earn it,' he said with a wry smile. 'But now we come to the warnings and rules. Firstly you'll be on a trial for three months. I shall assess your performance week by week and if you don't shape up, then I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave. You must get a plain black dress for waitressing. I will supply the apron. When you are behind the bar or on reception I expect you
to be as smartly dressed as you are now. You will always treat our guests and members with the utmost courtesy, even when they are obnoxious to you. You must never divulge any names of guests to anyone outside the hotel. If you are approached by any reporters, plead absolute ignorance and come straight to me. Likewise you will not discuss anything about the running of the place with anyone either. I do not want you making dates with any of the people who use the hotel. Finally, if I ever have reason to suspect you are involved with any drug taking, or consorting with people who do, you will be sacked immediately. Your room is for you alone and I will not tolerate any men going into it.'

  Mel just looked into his odd-coloured eyes and promised to stick to his rules. She wanted to tell him there was no danger of drug taking or men in her room. She'd had enough of both of them to last a lifetime.

  The sound of laughter made Magnus look up from the letter he was writing. It was Mel decorating the Christmas tree in the drawing room.

  There had been a great deal more laughter here since Mel's arrival. After a mere ten weeks she was already indispensable. Aside from Joan, he'd never had an employee who was so intuitive or quick. She was unfailingly cheerful and the guests praised her to the skies for her little kindnesses to them. She was always asking questions – about wine, about the food, or the correct way to do any number of things. She sparkled behind the bar in the evenings, instinctively knowing the difference between interest and impertinence. She mixed friendly warmth with just the right amount of flirtation to keep the men coming in night after night, but she never over stepped the mark.

  Yet it was the laughter she created that warmed Magnus the most. He couldn't help thinking how much Ruth would've liked her.

  Magnus knew he ought to be over his wife's death by now, but he wasn't. Perhaps it was partly out of guilt that he hadn't always been the husband she deserved, but he grieved for her still.

  Back in his twenties, when he first met and married the shy doctor's daughter, he'd believed he was the strong, dominant one in their partnership. While he forged ahead building houses, doing deals and making a name for himself, Ruth was at home in Yorkshire looking after the house, bringing up the children. She never complained about the amount of time he spent away from home; she encouraged, supported, nurtured and gave her love to both himself and the children unstintingly. He loved her then, and thought he knew her true value. But it wasn't until she was dying that he really understood all that she was.