Camellia

by Lesley Pearse

  'Sounds like you led an enchanted life,' Mel giggled, a little embarrassed.

  'It was enchanted once I was sent away from my own family,' he agreed. 'I thank God daily for his intervention. I couldn't begin to tell you what a mean-spirited, bigoted and sanctimonious bunch they are. Fortunately they were so angry at me inheriting they've cut me right off now.'

  He went on to explain the money was held in trust till he was thirty, which his grandfather had referred to as 'the age of reason'. After describing his five years working in a public school, which he'd loathed, he returned to the part he'd already told her about – the writing and the restaurant.

  'I wrote all day, was a skivvy by night,' he laughed. 'I got a few short stories published and I embarked on the book, thinking I was going to be another James Joyce. But it got rejected by every major publishing house, so I decided to put it on a back burner and take cooking a little more seriously.'

  Mel smiled as he told her how his dreams were all coming together now he had his inheritance. He was now thirty-two, and he seemed far more astute than his appearance or his confidences had suggested.

  'I've bought this place outright,' he said, blushing slightly. 'The way I see it, if it doesn't make a great deal of profit I've still got Grandfather's money held in bricks and mortar. I've got a home, I can have the kind of cosy restaurant I want, and I can sit up here and write during the day.'

  Five or six months earlier Mel might have been suspicious of a complete stranger prepared to spill out so much personal information at a first meeting. In her days back at the Don Juan she would probably have put him down as a fool. But now, with heightened sensitivity, she recognised that this frank outpouring stemmed from loneliness.

  His enthusiasm was infectious. Already she was looking around her and imagining this rather grubby room emptied of the chairs and tables, the boxes of coffee and sugar and turned into a comfortable sitting room. There was a desk under the window, with a typewriter and a small mountain of paper.

  'Is that the book?' she asked.

  He nodded. 'I'm rewriting it again. I know in my heart it's good, it just needs reshaping. Besides writing gnaws at me. I'm obsessed by it.'

  'Would you let me read it?'

  He blushed again and hung his head. 'I'd love it if you would. No one else has ever shown any real interest'

  Mel sensed he really meant 'no one has any interest in me at all'. She knew how that felt. 'Well I'm interested in everything about you,' she blurted out, suddenly aware she really did want to work for him. 'Now are you going to show me around?'

  'You'll have to use your imagination,' he warned her again. 'And I'd be glad of any suggestions about how to make it more homely.'

  The flat was entirely self-contained. Con said the previous owners of the building had let it out separately from the shop. Down two steps from the main room, at the back, was a tiny kitchen. To the front were two more smaller rooms, one intended as a study-cum-office and the other his bedroom. Everywhere was uncarpeted and full of boxes.

  'This is no way to impress you.' He glumly indicated the piled-up stock and furniture. 'But believe me I will get it shipshape.' He leapt up, opening yet another door leading to a narrow staircase. 'There's two more rooms up there, and the bathroom. That's where you'll live!'

  Mel liked the rooms upstairs immediately, even though they were empty. They were small with sloping ceilings, and both had recently been painted white.

  'I don't want a snotty, smart place,' he shouted through the door from the kitchen, as he made a second pot of tea. 'I want my supper rooms to be noted for jollity and warmth, like the places in Dublin. Do you know what I mean?'

  Mel had never been to Dublin, but she did know. Although Conrad had been away from Ireland for many years his personality was unmistakably Irish. It reminded her a little of Aiden, all that gaiety and irreverent humour. But Conrad wasn't a ladies man: it was impossible to imagine he had a wife and police record tucked away. She could imagine him jigging around at a ceilidh, even playing the fiddle himself, but not making passes at her.

  Maybe she'd end up doing the lion's share of the work, worrying herself silly about the place, but she felt her steps had been guided to him and his restaurant.

  He barely asked her what she'd done before Peggy's café – just whisked through a menu he'd drawn up and asked if she was familiar with the dishes.

  'I can manage all that,' she assured him, secretly thinking his desserts were unimaginative, and that she'd say so too before long. 'I'd really like the job.'

  'I haven't even shown you the restaurant yet,' he said in some surprise. 'Or talked about wages.'

  As far as she was concerned in the hour or two she'd been talking to him, he'd revealed enough of his character and his taste for her to know exactly what the end result would be. She approved of the stained-green chairs and tables stacked up to the ceiling, and the kitchen was first class. But it was Conrad himself she was sold on. As long as he was prepared to match what she earned at Peggy's, she was prepared to take a gamble on him.

  Just the way he laughed about his family told her that accepting they neither loved nor needed him had been a long and painful process. He had an asexual quality which she knew would be easy to live with. Under the skin they were brother and sister already.

  'Con, it just feels right to me,' she said. There was a bubbling feeling of joy growing inside her, much like the one she had felt when Magnus offered her a new start. 'I expect you've got other people to see, but I hope you'll choose me.'

  'Then the job's taken as of now,' he grinned. 'Will twenty pounds all found be enough money? To be reviewed and a bonus sorted out when we open?'

  That was what she'd earned at Peggy's, but she'd had to pay rent on top. 'Wonderful,' she said with a big smile.

  'Well, hand in your notice tomorrow and phone me to say when you can start and move in,' he said, his eyes dancing with pleasure. 'I knew as soon as you phoned that you were the one.'

  Three weeks later Mel was on her knees washing the kitchen floor. Conrad was sitting on a stool just inside the restaurant compiling a shopping list.

  'And we'll need some oven cleaner,' she called out.

  'Give us a chance to get it dirty,' Conrad laughed, moving closer to the doorway to watch Mel. Her hair had broken loose from its rubber-band, falling on her flushed face and she had a grey tidemark halfway up her arms. There was paint splattered on her jeans, grease on her tee shirt and her big toe was protruding through old plimsolls. But she looked happy. She'd entirely lost the haunted look she had on the night of her interview.

  Mel sat back on her haunches, holding the wet cloth in sore-looking hands. 'We have to think ahead,' she explained. 'If we wait till the cooker's dirty, we'll soon be in queer street. And you must get some tile cleaner too. They'll have to be washed over daily.'

  'What a fountain of wisdom you are!' he mocked her. 'A spell in Ireland would do you the world of good. Kitchens with chickens scuttling around them, too much gossiping to clean the grate let alone the cooker. This place is going to be fun remember!'

  'Health inspectors don't have a sense of humour,' she threw back at him. 'You, my unworldly little leprechaun, are in for a few sharp shocks!'

  'Did you bully Peggy too? Incidentally, I did buy some rubber gloves for jobs like that. Your hands look like my mother's!'

  'We'll have slaves to do the dirty work soon,' she shouted back at him as he went towards the restaurant door. 'Don't forget the oven cleaner!'

  Outside a man was painting 'Conrad's Supper Rooms' in gold lettering on the dark green façade. Tomorrow, Friday 15 April, was opening night.

  Mel had thought it was hard working at Peggy's, but in the last three weeks she'd worked even harder, unpacking glasses, china and cutlery, cleaning up after workmen, shifting furniture and cooking in advance for the freezer. Now they were almost there.

  She finished the floor, working backwards towards the restaurant. Then leaving it to dry, she perched for a
moment on a stool by the bar and surveyed their joint handiwork with delight.

  Con was a genius. He had taken one long narrow room without character and had stamped his own on it. The white roughly plastered walls, with green tables, chairs and carpet, gave a feeling of light and space, and a large mirror on the back room wall reflected even more. Brass wall lamps with green gingham shades added a country kitchen effect, while modern art prints in primary colours prevented it from looking clinical. The bar just inside the door was very small, but that added to the cosy, intimate ambience of the place. It was time now to hang the white lace curtains on the brass rails. Tomorrow there would be flowers and candles on each table.

  Peggy and Arthur had been furious when Mel gave them her notice the morning after her interview. They had ranted on and on, saying she was letting them down and that she was ungrateful. After listening to an unending vicious tirade all morning she had walked out after the lunch hour, forgoing the wages she was owed.

  Peggy's attitude hurt her badly. Mrs Smethwick was just as cutting, when she heard her best tenant was leaving, but Mel didn't care about her.

  But Conrad's delight that she could move in immediately made up for everything. By the next afternoon he'd had a carpet laid in her room, and bought her a second-hand wardrobe and chest of drawers. It was a far cry from her beautiful room at Oaklands, but she intended to buy a few things to make it more homely.

  'Don't you trouble your head about Peggy,' he said sympathetically. This is your home now, Mel, and I will appreciate you. It's going to be a wonderful adventure.'

  Con was right – it did feel like an adventure. It also felt as if everything she'd ever learned had been a preparation for this job. While Con concentrated on getting men to finish the work down in the restaurant, and seeing to the publicity for opening night, she was free to turn the flat upstairs into a home, to work at her own pace sorting out store cupboards, preparing the kitchen and buying equipment Con had overlooked. Together they planned ahead, working in tandem until late at night as they stocked up the freezer with desserts and casseroles.

  Now that the back-breaking work was done, Mel knew it would never be so hard and thankless here as it had been at Peggy's. On summer afternoons she could sit outside in the little backyard, where she planned to plant some flowers. There would be time to read, to look after her appearance as she had at Oaklands. With Con she could linger over cooking, creating rather than rushing against time for people who didn't know the difference between a processed pea and a fresh one.

  But best of all she could be herself again. There was no need to pretend she had a busy social life, and Con wouldn't sneer as Peggy did at her efforts to improve the culinary standard, or take offence when she concerned herself with hygiene.

  There was only one cloud in Mel's mind: the more distant past.

  She had already told him all about Magnus, Nick and Oaklands. On her second night she had sat down with him and revealed the whole story. He was so very open about himself, and she wanted to be equally honest. Con had been very sympathetic. A great storyteller himself, he was fascinated by the mystery of her mother and the men in her life, and she felt the disclosures had strengthened their friendship.

  Yet Mel hadn't been able to admit yet about her days in Chelsea. Tomorrow the restaurant would be open, and it was just possible someone might come in who knew her in those days. Peggy's had been closer to Chelsea, but the likelihood of anyone she knew coming in there was small. She must tell Conrad soon, however much she hated the idea. It would be terrible if he heard it from someone else.

  Mel's curiosity got the better of her around eleven on opening night. She had heard laughter all evening, even above the music, but now Con had changed the tape to an Irish jig, and the polite, warm laughter had turned to wild hilarity.

  Everyone in the supper rooms was here by invitation. Mel had been a little concerned that these people might accept the free evening and never come back as paying customers, but Con said it was 'casting bread on the waters'. Judging by the jollity he had cast enough.

  In the main they were media people, who lived locally. The landlord of the local pub and his wife were also there, as well as two men who owned an upmarket interior design business in Chelsea and two women who had an exclusive dress shop. Con might look like a little bookworm, but he was surprisingly astute about people. He'd hand picked those present, not only because they were influential, but because everyone of them had an outgoing personality. If they had a ball themselves, they'd be bound to broadcast to everyone what a good place it was.

  Because it was a party night, they'd only put on a limited menu: a choice between garlic prawns or homemade pâté as a starter, Boeuf Bourgignon or chicken and mushroom casserole as the main course. Judging by the empty plates and the requests for seconds, everyone loved the food.

  When Mel peeped round the door, she was staggered and amused to see Con doing an Irish jig on a piece of board. She had never seen anything like it and by the rapt faces of the guests, they were just as amazed as she was. His torso and arms were absolutely still, but from the knee down, his legs and feet had a life of their own, intricate steps performed fast and precisely, while his toes and heels drummed out the beat.

  Earlier that evening when Con had appeared in his new dark-green jacket, bow tie, and smart haircut she'd been charmed to discover he could metamorphose into an elegant gentleman. Now dancing, without his glasses, he looked for the world like a leprechaun, brown eyes twinkling as fast as his feet.

  'Conrad, you are a gem. A buxom redhead in a green satin cocktail dress got up from her seat as the music finished and planted a kiss on his flushed cheek. 'You, my darling, and your restaurant are made!'

  Applause and shouting followed, suggesting everyone in the room was in agreement with the redhead. Mel went back to prepare the Irish coffees and smiled to herself. She had a feeling that woman was Marcia Helms, from the local paper. Con had invited her because she frequently gave restaurants write-ups and though she was often very scathing, when she did like a place she went overboard.

  It was almost one in the morning before Con finally locked the door after the last of the guests. He came through to the kitchen with his face aglow.

  'It's going to work, Mel,' he said, hugging her tightly. 'Marcia promised she'd write us up, and the chap from Brown's Advertising booked a table for six for next Saturday. I know it's a bit early to say people will rush in off the street, but I just know they're going to.'

  'I didn't know you could do Irish dancing,' Mel wiped away a lipstick stain from his cheek. 'You're a dark horse.'

  'I used to be a bit of a star turn when I was a kid,' he admitted rather shamefacedly. 'Aunt Bridget sent me to classes in Galway. I can't believe I did it tonight though, I must have had one too many whiskies.'

  Conrad was supremely happy that night as he fell into his bed. His dreams had become reality. But even as he hugged himself in delight that his restaurant had turned out exactly as he planned, that tonight had been a real success, he recognised that much of his happiness was due to Mel.

  From that first night she came for the interview he knew he'd found a friend. After she'd gone he'd been ashamed at himself for gabbling on at her. It was a failing of his: he'd never managed to learn to keep a still tongue and he'd found to his cost that people took advantage of him because of it. But in the three weeks Mel had been here he'd found she wasn't like other people. To her confidences were a disclosure of a person's inner self and as such she treated them as a gift. They worked so well together. He didn't think he'd ever spent so much time laughing in his whole life as he had these last three weeks.

  'Bless you Mel,' he whispered in the dark.

  On Sunday afternoon Mel decided she must talk seriously to Con. Saturday night had been steady, with people coming in off the street to eat, and they'd had several telephone inquiries with five firm bookings for the next week. Today they'd been closed, but Con had been up at the crack of dawn, darting about,
full of wild excitement.

  'Can we talk?' she asked, handing him a mug of tea. Since moving all the tables and chairs downstairs they had worked together to make the sitting room a bit more homely. With a second-hand suite from a nearby junk shop, Con's books on shelves on the walls and a carpet, it looked better, but it really needed redecorating. The walls were papered in a hideous salmon pink.

  'Don't tell me! It's going to be a "don't count your chickens" pep talk,' he said as she sat down in an armchair opposite him. 'I can't help it, Mel. I'm naturally excitable. It's the Irish blood.'

  'No, it's nothing like that,' she said. 'It's about something which happened to me over three years ago. I'm afraid someone might recognise me and tell you. I want you to know the true story just in case.'

  Con put his paper down and sat back on the settee. He was back in jeans and his worn Fair Isle cardigan again today, with a dark growth of stubble on his chin. He looked more like a teenager than a man of thirty-two. She hoped her story wasn't going to upset him. He'd led a much more sheltered life than she had.

  It was so hard to force herself back in time, to explain who she was then, and why she'd behaved as she had. Looking back at those days in Oakley Street, it all seemed even grubbier than it had at the time. But talking about it was cathartic, like opening a window in a fetid room and airing it.

  'Is that all of it?' he said raising one eyebrow when she'd finished. He hadn't interrupted once; she wondered if it had really sunk in.

  'Yes.' She hung her head. 'That's what took me off to Ibiza and you know what happened from then on.'

  'Mel, don't look so troubled,' he leaned forward and reached out to her hand, covering it with his own. 'We've all done things we wish we hadn't. If I admitted to you some of the things I got into when I was younger, you'd be afraid to be up here with me.'