Camellia

by Lesley Pearse

  It was hard for Conrad to accept his customers weren't ever going to be exciting and that every night couldn't be the party he had once envisaged, but he consoled himself that at least he was making a good living. He could afford to employ a daily cleaning lady, a student to wash up at weekends and a waiter. And besides he had Mel, and she was worth a crock of gold.

  Hardly a day passed without Conrad thinking how lucky he'd been to find such a gem. She remained cool and calm no matter how busy they were, with an ability to plan and think ahead which astounded him. They could work together as a team without any battle for supremacy, understanding each other's strengths and weaknesses. While Conrad was the ideal host, using his charm and warmth to make sure even the most sober of diners had a memorable evening and ate and drank far more than they intended, he wasn't always so good at serving people quickly or totting up their bills correctly. Mel responded intuitively at such times, slipping into the restaurant to lend a hand, and while he continued to charm and entertain, she would have a table cleared, the desserts ordered or a bill prepared without undermining him in any way.

  Yet it was Mel's companionship he valued above all else. Although he was a gregarious man, liked by almost everyone who met him, he had never formed such a close relationship with anyone, man or woman, before. He could be himself with Mel. She alone knew his inadequacies, his failures with women and the sad parts of his life he had tucked away, just as he knew all her secrets too. In many ways they were alike: they'd both had a troubled childhood and painful adolescence, both quietly hungered for love and affection and though outwardly they seemed outgoing and sociable, they shared the same deep need to be alone at times.

  As the months passed they had slipped into a comfortable oneness. In the mornings while Mel prepared the dishes for the evening, Conrad stocked up the bar and did any necessary shopping and accounts. They kept the afternoons free for Conrad to work on his book while Mel transformed the little backyard with flowers, or lay reading and sunbathing.

  Sundays, by mutual unspoken agreement, had become their special day. If it was warm they would take off in Conrad's Mini for a walk in the countryside, or a trip to Brighton. Sometimes they visited friends they'd made in the restaurant. On dull days it was a museum or art gallery or just a boozy lunch in one of the riverside pubs, then home to snooze in front of the television.

  Conrad had woken before seven this morning, and seeing bright sunshine after several days of September rain, had decided they should make the most of it. It might be the last chance this year to spend a day outside in the country.

  He had got up and dressed, then gone out to buy a newspaper. His plan was to come back, prepare a picnic, then wake Mel with a cup of tea and discuss where they should go.

  But while queuing for his Observer in the busy newsagents, he saw Helena Forester's picture on the front of the News of the World, and a wave of nostalgia made him buy that too.

  Helena Forester's face had evoked afternoons spent in the cinema as a student, and later on when he was a young schoolmaster. Musicals were Conrad's secret vice. Some of his more macho student friends and the other masters at Marshfield might have ridiculed him for wallowing in such frivolous nonsense, but he just loved those beautiful costumes, extravagant sets and dance routines. It was a harmless vice and far more enjoyable than solitary walks, or lying cloistered in his room reading. But most of all it was Helena Forester's face and wonderful contralto voice that had thrilled him. Sometimes he even wondered if it was her luscious full lips and dark flashing eyes that had spoiled other women for him. After her, real women paled in comparison.

  Conrad walked slowly back home, reading as he went. He had a pang of guilt as he read how long it was since she last made a film. A once ardent fan, he had barely noticed her absence from the screen. But now she was staging a comeback as a serious actress in Broken Bridges, a British film to be made in the West Country.

  It was good to read she was happy to be back in England after so many years' absence, that she'd missed fish and chips, street markets and even the English rain. She sounded as lovely as she looked.

  He was almost at his front door when a paragraph halted him in his tracks: 'So much has changed while I've been away. Little theatres I once played in are now Bingo halls, the small shops have become supermarkets and there's rarely a queue these days for the cinema because people stay in and watch TV. But the saddest thing of all was to discover my old dancing partner had died several years ago and her daughter, Camellia, orphaned. I hope she'll read this and get in touch. There is so much I would like to share with her.'

  'Why did you think I'd be excited by this?' Mel stared at the newspaper in astonishment.

  'Not the skinhead bit. Down there.' Con impatiently stabbed at the picture of a glamorous dark-haired woman in the right-hand column. 'You do know who she is?'

  The face looked vaguely familiar. 'Should I? She's very beautiful. What is she? A film star or singer.'

  'Oh Mel, it's Helena Forester. She was as big in the fifties as Doris Day,' he said in exasperation. 'Surely you've seen her films?'

  The name did ring a distant bell, but she was still bewildered. 'I don't think I ever saw one, but then I hardly went to the pictures when I was a kid. What's all this about?'

  'Read it through,' he insisted. 'Most of it's on page three, especially the thrilling part. I'll go and make some tea.'

  Mel had just finished the article when Conrad came back into her room with two mugs of tea. She was frowning, as if unable to fully comprehend what she'd just read. She looked up at him, dark eyes begging to be reassured. 'It can't be me! Can it?'

  'How many other Camellias have you met?' he said archly, putting the tea in her hand.

  She shrugged. 'None, but there must be others.'

  'With a mother who was a dancer and also happens to be dead?'

  'Dancers are more likely to give their kids daft names,' she said flippantly, but as she sipped her tea she read the interview yet again.

  'H,' she whispered, colour draining from her face. 'There was a letter in that file I found from someone who signed herself "H". And there was a photo taken with Mum and Magnus. Is this her?'

  'Where's the photo?' Conrad moved over to her chest of drawers as if about to turn out the contents.

  'It's not here, Con. I left it down in Bath,' Mel said.

  Conrad slumped down onto her bed in disappointment. 'It has to be the same person. The more you read that article the more you notice the importance of those few lines. It's almost as if she agreed to the interview just to find you. She says she's staying in Bath – she might even be at Oaklands!'

  Mel closed her eyes for a moment. She could see that photo as clearly as if she was holding it in her hand. Two pretty girls with youthful, taut faces, wide smiles, in feathered headdresses and sequinned costumes, Magnus standing between them with his arms around both their shoulders. She couldn't tell whether this forty-year-old voluptuous dark-haired actress was the second girl.

  Had Magnus instigated this? Had he found the file hidden in her old room and followed it up?

  Her heart began to thump alarmingly. She wanted to believe the message was for her, that Magnus, Nick and this old friend of her mother's were trying to find her, but she couldn't quite believe in that kind of good fortune.

  'But why is she so vague? I mean why doesn't she come out with her friend's name?'

  'Fear of impostors turning up on her doorstep?' Conrad suggested. He was disappointed in Mel's reaction. He had expected her to bound out of bed and shriek with delight. 'Maybe when she discovered how your mother died she became afraid the press might make something more of it. Who knows. Ring up the paper now! Tell them who you are and ask them to contact Helena.'

  'Not yet,' Mel lay back down again. 'I need to think about it first.'

  'Think about it!' Conrad leapt to his feet, infuriated. 'What is there to think about? You've turned yourself inside out agonising over who your father was, yet now someone's tu
rned up who might know the truth, and you back down. Jesus, Mary, Mother of God!'

  She half smiled at this so very Irish outburst.

  'You are very bossy, to be sure,' she replied mimicking his accent. 'Would you be so kind as to take yourself off downstairs while I get my head together?'

  Conrad glowered at her. 'And they say us Irish are thick!' He flounced off towards the door. 'I'll give you an hour, that's all,' he threw over his shoulder as he went down the stairs.

  Mel lay in her bed, listening to Conrad banging saucepans in the kitchen. Half of her longed to get up and rush to the phone, as he would, but the other half was urging caution. These last six months of working and sharing a home with Conrad had been happy and secure. She had a life of her own again, peace and contentment, she'd learned to laugh again, made friends with a couple of girls who worked in Fulham Broadway along with several couples she visited with Conrad. Even her rather monastic white painted room had become dear to her, she had stopped looking over her shoulder at the past. Was it wise to take a gamble on something which could possibly involve more pain and humiliation?

  An hour later when Conrad knocked tentatively at her door, she was up and dressed. Curiosity had overridden her caution.

  'I brought a cup of tea,' he called out. 'If you don't want to see me I'll leave it outside.'

  'Don't be daft,' she laughed, opening the door and grinning at him. 'You'll be pleased to know I have decided to contact Helena, but not by phone. I don't want the press knowing my business. I've written to her.'

  Conrad's smile almost split his face in two.

  'What did you say?' He came right into the room and sat on her bed. Mel picked up the sealed letter and waved it at him.

  'Just the bare facts. My date and place of birth. About Dad and Mum's deaths. I said I found a letter from someone who signed herself "H" in Mum's things and asked if it was from her. Finally I just said I'd love to meet her and I gave her the address and telephone number here. Now I'm going to post it off to the News of the World.'

  'I don't suppose she'll get it until next Saturday or so, if it's got to be sorted and posted on by the newspaper.' Conrad looked a little dejected at this. 'Let's go up to Hyde Park today and take a boat out on the Serpentine. At least it will take our minds off it'

  The week seemed endless, made worse by a sudden change in the weather making it too wet and cold to go out in the garden. On Thursday afternoon Mel made a trip to Kensington High Street to buy a new dress just in case, but there was a distinct nip in the air which reminded her that autumn was well on its way – the time of year when shattering things seemed to happen to her.

  When by Saturday there was still no word, she decided it must all have been a coincidence. After all, if Bonny had such a famous friend she would have shouted it from the rooftops.

  That evening they were rushed off their feet. A party of ten was extremely demanding and noisy, and every other table was full too. Although Mel had more than enough to do in the kitchen, every now and then she had to dart into the restaurant to help out as John the new waiter and Conrad didn't seem to be able to keep on top of it.

  It was during one of these table clearing sorties, around ten, that she saw a man peering through the window above the lace café curtains. It was raining hard and the man was drenched. He looked German: his face was very angular and bony, with close-cropped white-blond hair and vivid blue eyes.

  She smiled at him and he came in, wiping raindrops from his tanned face.

  'Is it too late for dinner,' he asked, shutting the door behind him.

  He didn't have a German accent, but a cultured English one. He was older close up than he'd seemed at first glance – perhaps in his forties – and very tall and straight-backed.

  She would not normally have been keen to serve another person this late in the evening, but she didn't have the heart to send him out into the rain again.

  He looked for the world like a Nazi officer: the white-blond crop, the piercing blue eyes and thick blond brows. His tan and his slim athletic build suggested an outdoor occupation, yet at the same time he looked very correct in his expensive pale-grey suit and stiff-collared shirt. Something prevented him from being truly handsome, despite his perfect bone structure and dazzling white teeth. His lips were a little thin, and his eyes cold. But just the same he was unusually attractive.

  Camellia looked around the restaurant. Most of the diners were still on their main courses, talking and laughing as if they had all night. This man would probably be in and out before they'd even got to dessert.

  'No, it's not too late, not if you don't mind waiting while I just clear this table,' she said with a welcoming smile. 'Take a stool at the bar for a moment.'

  She poured him a glass of wine.

  'On the house,' she said as he felt for his wallet. 'You'll have to take pot luck I'm afraid – I think we're down now to steaks or our special chicken casserole.'

  'Nice place,' he said as she passed by him with a loaded tray. 'Is it yours?'

  'Oh no,' she smiled with amusement, pausing with the tray balanced on her hip. 'I'm just the cook. It belongs to Conrad Deeley. He's in the kitchen at the moment, but he'll be out to see to you in a jiffy.'

  'Mel?' Conrad shouted from the kitchen. 'Have we finished all the chocolate mousse?'

  'It's in the fridge,' she called back, then looking at the stranger she shrugged. 'He has many talents, but finding things for himself isn't one of them. I'd better go.'

  'What's Mel short for? Melanie?' he asked.

  'No, Camellia.' She had long since given up hiding her name. Con had been right: people didn't have long memories and no one she knew from her days in Oakley Street had ever come in to eat.

  'Very pretty,' he replied, looking her up and down. 'It suits you.'

  She disappeared out to the kitchen, found the mousse for Conrad and tucked a clean tablecloth under his arm for the table she'd just cleared. 'I told the Nazi at the bar we've only got chicken casserole or steak left,' she whispered. 'So don't you go tempting him with anything else, it's too late to ponce around now.'

  Conrad grinned, clicked his heels together and attempted a mock salute before disappearing back into the restaurant.

  He came back into the kitchen a few minutes later to pick up two desserts. 'I reckon the Nazi fancies you,' he said in a stage whisper. 'He asked me if you were my wife. But I spoiled it for you – I said you merely live with me.'

  Mel smiled. She knew he'd said no such thing – he was too much of a gentleman. 'Has he ordered yet?' she asked.

  'I haven't got around to him yet. Table four are ready to leave and I'll have to do their bill. He's all right though, he doesn't seem to be in a hurry.'

  A rush of further orders for desserts prevented Mel from going back into the restaurant again. Some twenty minutes later she popped her head round the door and was surprised to find that the blond man had vanished.

  'I suppose he got fed up with waiting,' she said to Conrad who was sweating profusely as he cleared table four. 'Last time I'll give anyone a free glass of wine.'

  'I wasn't pretty enough for him,' Conrad grinned. 'And speaking of wine, let's both have a glass, I need a pick-up.'

  Another week passed and there was still no word from Helena Forester. Conrad had been convinced she would turn up at the door in a limousine. When she didn't his excitement turned sour.

  'She could have acknowledged your letter anyway,' he said several times. 'She's clearly not the sensitive, caring sort of woman I took her for, but just another self-centred phoney.'

  It had rained all week, and as Mel wanted something to distract her from the thoughts of Magnus and Nick which kept popping into her head, she had spent the afternoons painting their living room. Its new look with apple-green walls and white doors and skirting board lifted her spirits a little, and Conrad encouraged her further by buying some very expensive curtains from Heals in Tottenham Court Road. It cheered them both to have a bright and pretty room to relax in
, especially now the wet, cold weather prevented them from going out quite so much.

  The phone rang on Sunday afternoon. Mel was lying on the settee reading, and Conrad answered it downstairs in the restaurant kitchen.

  She knew by the way he came thundering up the stairs that he was excited. She looked up at his glowing face as he came into the room and smiled.

  'It was your Mum? She's decided to forgive you and come over here for a holiday?'

  Conrad laughed. He looked so boyish. It wasn't just his skinny frame, his small elf face and spiky hair, but a childlike quality which shone through even when he attempted to be adult and sophisticated. He had bought new glasses recently with heavier tortoiseshell frames which he was convinced made him look more business-like, and had his hair styled regularly. But his brown eyes still flashed with irreverent humour, and his hair stayed unruly. The small boy in him would still be there when he was sixty.

  'Much more interesting than my Mum doing an about-face,' he said. 'It was a chap called Michael Dunwoody who owns a restaurant in Brighton. He wanted to put a proposition to me.'

  Mel groaned. People were always putting propositions to Conrad. He could be very gullible. 'What about?'

  'Buying him out. His place is in a prime site but he's in financial difficulties. He wondered if I'd be interested in buying it, with him managing it for me, creating the same kind of set up as here.'

  The proposition was at least original, but it bothered Mel that Conrad was so easily lured into wild ideas. 'If he couldn't make his own place pay, he's hardly likely to make much effort just managing it,' she said, stretching out more comfortably and loosening the waist of her jeans. She couldn't understand how Conrad could even consider owning another restaurant; he had his hands quite full enough with this one.

  'Maybe, but it's worth looking at.' Conrad pushed her legs over and sat down beside her. 'It's all set up and equipped and he's prepared to let me have it far cheaper than I'd get it on the open market. It would be a good investment.'