Camellia

by Lesley Pearse

  But his endurance was at breaking point now. Mel hadn't once asked how he felt or considered he might need comfort too. She had refused to see Miles, and she didn't seem to realise that Magnus was locked into deep grief too. Unless Nick shocked her back into reality she might just wallow in dangerous self-pity forever.

  'I won't hear any more of this.' His eyes flashed as he grabbed Mel's arm and stuffed it into the sleeve of her jacket. 'Stop behaving like a child and get a grip on yourself. I don't think you've grasped yet what Helena really did, and it's time you thought about it.'

  Mel stopped crying, shocked by his anger.

  'She gave her life to save you,' he hissed through clenched teeth. 'I dare say she thought Edward wouldn't shoot her, but whatever she thought, she acted purely out of instinct. Don't demean that act by saying you can't cope with her funeral. Miles and my father are grief-stricken too. You aren't the only one. Now pull yourself together.'

  His angry words sank in, the first thing to have made any real impression on Mel in the long days since Helena's death. She put her other arm into the jacket without protest.

  'That's better,' he said approvingly. 'Now brush your hair.'

  She did as she was told, and put on a little lipstick, then the black wide-brimmed hat Nick had been out and bought for her. But even as she went through the motions of obedience, inside a small insidious voice was speaking to her: 'Go along with this today, say goodbye to Helena, but you don't have to live with this guilt. They'll soon get tired of watching you. Tomorrow or the next day you can die too if you want to.'

  'And you must speak to Miles today,' Nick added, pleased to see Mel was at last co-operating. 'I don't think you've any idea what he's been through in the last few days. Not just losing Helena, but making that statement to the press.'

  Mel stared at Nick.

  'Think about it, Mel? He had first to admit to his younger brothers and their families who all adored his wife about his affair with a dancer and the resulting child. Then he had to do it publicly,' Nick said curtly. 'That isn't easy for a man of over eighty, especially one in such a state of shock. But he did it for you, so he could acknowledge you openly and protect you from any further harm.'

  Mel's lips quivered. Nick had tried to make her read the newspapers all week, but she'd refused, just as she'd refused to go downstairs, or eat more than a couple of mouthfuls and even open the curtains. She felt ashamed now. Nick was right, she had been behaving like a child.

  The bright daylight out on the landing made her blink. She paused at the top of the stairs, somewhat taken aback to see that everything was just as it had always been. Somehow she'd expected it to look different. Yet it was extremely quiet. Usually there were voices from somewhere, the low buzz of machines in the kitchen, a typewriter tapping or just music in the background.

  Nick took her hesitation as further panic. Grasping her arm firmly he led her down the stairs. 'Just take today in stages,' he suggested gently. 'Don't try to look too far ahead.'

  Mel was irritated by his patronising tone, coming so soon after his curt words in the bedroom. She shot a sideways look at him, but her sharp retort died on her lips. He looked deeply troubled and tired.

  All at once she realised she hadn't kissed him or held him once since the night of the party. She had allowed him to hold her, to tell her he loved her and she had expected him to look after her, but she hadn't considered that he might want reassurance.

  'I'm sorry, Nick,' she whispered, taking his hand in hers and turning on the stairs to kiss him. 'I've been forgetting about you, haven't I?'

  'I'll remind you in a week or two.' He half smiled wearily. 'Let's just get through today somehow.'

  An overpowering, cloying smell of flowers caught them as they turned on the last flight of stairs. Mel looked over the banister and saw wreaths, bouquets and arrangements lined up all along the hall.

  'At the last count there were thirty-five,' Nick said. "There's four times as many at the church. Helena said her fans had forgotten her, but she was wrong.'

  Tears started up in Mel's eyes again, but as Magnus came out of the drawing room, she gulped them back.

  'Good girl,' he said with a smile, but his eyes were as dead as her heart felt. A black suit and tie looked strange on him, as if he was wearing someone else's clothes. Even his hair was cut short and slicked down. 'Will you go and speak to Miles? He's in there.' He indicated the drawing room.

  Mel blanched. She didn't want to go in there ever again.

  'Don't be frightened, Mel.' Magnus took a step closer to her, putting both hands on her shoulders. 'You have to see the room again sometime and as for Miles, well he's a brave old man who's lost the dearest person in his life, and he's your grandfather.'

  Mel looked into his eyes, and drew just a little strength from the compassion in them. As always Magnus had struck right at the heart of the matter. Miles needed comfort more than anyone. She didn't know why she hadn't realised that before.

  Miles was sitting in the same winged chair he'd taken at their first meeting, but as she hesitated in the doorway, he hauled himself up with the aid of his silver-topped cane.

  The carpet had been cleaned by professionals, not even a slight discoloration left as a reminder. But the dramatic change in Miles's appearance made her forget that she was walking across the spot where Helena died. It was as if all the padding under his flesh had disappeared, leaving nothing but folds of yellowing skin hanging over his shirt collar.

  'Camellia!' he said, his voice tremulous and weak, and he tottered as he took a few steps towards her. 'How are you, my dear?'

  'I'm – ' she stopped short. She took off her hat and put it down on the coffee table.

  'You've been better?' He tried to smile, but his eyes were bloodshot and weary, and his mouth couldn't manage more than a twitch. 'It was a silly question wasn't it? At my age I should know the right things to say at times like these, but if I ever knew them, I've forgotten.'

  Suddenly everything Nick had said upstairs struck home. 'I'm so sorry.' She took the last few steps to him quickly and impulsively put her arms around him. 'I should have talked to you.'

  'Oh, Melly, I understand,' he growled in her ear. 'I was afraid to see you too.'

  She was just a little surprised by him calling her Melly. But she held onto him tightly; it didn't matter what he chose to call her.

  'John and Bonny called you Melly when you were a baby,' he said and his old veined hand smoothed her hair tenderly. 'I found it very confusing then because of Ellie, but now it seems the appropriate name for you.'

  A distant memory came sharply into focus. She must have been four or five and she was down at the quay in Rye with her father. He held her tightly by the shoulders as they looked down into a fishing boat. The hold was full of silver fish, many of them still wriggling. 'They are herrings,' he said. 'Some of them will be sold just like that, but the rest they take over to the smoke houses and hang them up till they turn all brown and salty. Then they are called kippers.'

  'Why do they give them a different name if they are still the same fish?' she asked.

  He swung her up into his arms and kissed her, his moustache tickling her cheeks. 'Well, your name is Camellia, but that's a bit grand sometimes, so I call you Melly.'

  'Mummy doesn't like it,' she said. 'She says it sounds common.'

  'Mummy thinks kippers are common too,' he laughed. 'But I like Melly and kippers. They are just special names. I eat kippers when I'm away from home, and when I'm out with you on our own, I call you Melly.'

  She knew now why Bonny had taken a sudden dislike to that pet name. It had nothing to do with it sounding common – it was just too similar to Ellie for comfort. But things had come a full circle now. This old man was her only living relative and she had to try to fill the place in his life that Helena had vacated.

  I'd like to have a special name for you too,' Mel murmured against Miles's chest. His black suit smelled of mothballs – she wondered if it was the same
one he'd worn for his wife's funeral. 'I can't call you Smiley, it doesn't seem right anymore.'

  He didn't reply for a moment, just rubbed his cheek against her hair and held her.

  'There's always Grandpa,' he said.

  Mel sat in the middle of the seat in the funeral car, Miles to her right and Nick on the left and she held each of their hands tightly. Magnus was in the car behind with Joan, Antoine and Julie, the chambermaid. There were nine or ten private cars following behind, some people from Helena's film set, others club members who had met Helena here at Oak-lands. All the other mourners would be going straight to the church in Kelston. The sun reflected off the highly polished hearse in front of them making dazzling prisms of light. It seemed wrong that it should be shining so brightly. Mel couldn't see the coffin for flowers.

  Slowly they moved off, up the slight slope past the covered swimming pool, and on through the woods to the gates. There were few leaves left on the trees now and those that fluttered down as they passed felt like a final tribute to Helena.

  As the car drove slowly down Widcombe Hill, the spectacular view of Bath reminded Mel of the first time she saw it. She had gasped then with astonishment at the beauty before her, a city built of dull, golden stone, rising in tiers around the Abbey, as splendid as it must have been in the days when the rich came to take the waters.

  She felt that morning that this was where she belonged. Even now, after all that had happened, she still felt it.

  'Lovely isn't it,' Miles said gruffly. 'Helena said she felt she'd come home when she got here.'

  Mel squeezed his hand. He was crying silently, big tears rolling down his cheeks. 'She had come home,' she whispered. 'And now she can stay forever.'

  People stood and gawped as the cortege made its way slowly through the town, but the driver took the route through the quieter streets up past Victoria Park and out through Weston village.

  Mel felt a lump rising in her throat as they drove along the winding road to Kelston. It was a route of sensational views at every turn: steep green hills to her right, and on her left, way below, the river meandering through green fields. She knew Helena had wanted to make a permanent home here, if not in the thatched cottage at Kelston then somewhere nearby. Magnus had said she'd joked that as this was a place where time appeared to stand still, maybe she wouldn't grow old and doddery – that she could learn all those things she'd never had time for, like baking cakes and making jam and finding out which were weeds and which were flowers.

  They had to stop for a herd of cows meandering along the road. The farmer looked round in alarm as the church bell began to toll, hastily shooing the cows into the field, then took off his hat and stood with bowed head as the cortege passed.

  On any other day in Kelston, one would be surprised to see more than two or three people. But today a phenomenal crowd had congregated: mourners in dark clothes, local people hoping to see some famous faces, banks of reporters and police trying to control the crowd and direct where cars were parked.

  'Jackals,' Miles snarled as a reporter lunged in front of their car to take a photograph. 'Have they no respect?'

  Every pew in St Nicholas's Church was full, scores more people standing reverently at the back. Banks of flowers detracted from the cold grey stone, their perfume filling the air and their beauty matching Helena's.

  As Nick led Mel and Miles into the front pew, she saw Conrad in the one behind. The doleful eyes behind his thick spectacles, the severe haircut and dark suit poignantly reminded her that he had adored Helena long before Mel even knew she existed. Somehow it helped to know that everyone in this church was linked by a mutual loss.

  The men from the film crew carried in the coffin on their shoulders, placed it on the trestles before the altar and filed into their seats. Mel glanced behind her, stunned by the sheer number of people, all unknown to her. In uniform dark clothes it wasn't possible to separate fans from directors, actors and actresses, or even those who'd flown over from Hollywood from those who'd known Helena as a young girl here in England.

  Mel joined in the hymns, the twenty-third Psalm and the prayers dry-eyed, and locked in grief, unable to see anything more than the coffin just a few yards from her. But as the vicar took his place in the pulpit Miles took her hand in his.

  She had noticed nothing more than the vicar's voice until now – melodious, and deep with just a trace of a West Country burr. Now she saw he was elderly, small and plump with a shock of white hair and pale-blue gentle eyes.

  'Compared with most of you here today, I had only known Helena a short time,' he began, resting his hands on the balustrade of the pulpit. 'I met her here in this church and called on her twice at her home. In the light of this brief acquaintance, it might seem presumptuous that I ask you to put aside your grief and see today's service as a celebration of Helena's life, but I believe that is what she would have wanted.' He paused, looking down at the upturned faces below him.

  'Helena Forester was a great actress and singer, who gave pleasure to millions of people throughout the world through her many films. But today I want to take you away from the glitter of Hollywood and speak of the woman, not the big star.'

  Mel felt a slight shift in the congregation, almost as if they'd settled back into the pews to hear a story. They were so quiet and still she could hear the many candles spluttering.

  'Helena was born in London's East End, brought up in the dressing rooms of a theatre where her mother was a dresser. During the war she faced more hardship than many of us can possibly imagine. Her mother was killed in the Blitz and at the age of thirteen Helena was scrubbing out offices to pay for her keep with her aunt. When this aunt was blinded and her back broken in a doodlebug raid, Helena had to fend for herself.

  'I have received a great many telephone calls and letters in the past week from people who knew Helena back in the forties. Many of them were from fellow entertainers – comedians, magicians, singers and dancers – mostly too old, sick or too far away to attend today. But they all felt compelled to share with me their memories of this talented young girl who had performed with them. Helena paid her dues in the entertainment world first by singing in a Soho nightclub, then singing and dancing in revues, variety shows and pantomimes all over the country, before she reached the West End theatres. Throughout all these often humorous heart-warming stories set in a background of hardship and appalling living and working conditions, one thing shone out above everything else – Helena's character.

  'She had a big heart. Always the comforter, the shoulder people cried on. A funny girl with a golden voice, who took joy and sadness in her stride, never complaining, steadfast in her fierce ambitions. She was a loyal friend. Many of you here today have told me how she never broke a promise or breached a confidence. But above all else, Helena was courageous.'

  The vicar's voice filled each corner of the ancient church. A shaft of sunshine danced down through a stained-glass window and came to rest on a marble statue of the Virgin Mary.

  'That courage was put to the ultimate test last week, and proved beyond all doubt when she risked her own life to protect her daughter, Camellia. It is a terrible tragedy that Helena died, and she will be missed by all of us, yet the nobility of her purpose must lift us beyond grief and fill our hearts with love and admiration for her.'

  Mel's eyes filled with tears. Both Magnus and Nick had made similar statements, but here in this little church, hearing them from a stranger, they struck through to her heart.

  'Banish any feelings of guilt you may have.' The vicar looked directly at Sir Miles and Mel. 'To feel guilt is to demean the sacrifice Helena made so willingly.

  'I ask that you join me now in a prayer to celebrate Helena's life. To remember her with love and pride, with gratitude that you were privileged to have known her and above all to honour her courage.'

  It was over. The coffin was lowered into the grave, prayers were said and slowly the crowd began to disperse. So many damp eyes, so many hands held out to Mel and
Sir Miles in silent understanding and from others emotional words of heartfelt condolence.

  The press had been kept at bay by police outside the small churchyard and they'd gone now.

  Miles looked exhausted – not an impressive peer of the realm now, but a tired old man swaying on his feet. He had wept openly throughout the burial, but afterwards he'd bravely dried his eyes and spoken to the many people who came up to him. Nick and Mel took his arms and led him back to the waiting car.

  Just as she was about to get in beside her grandfather, she glanced back across the churchyard. Magnus was standing by the grave alone, his head bent to his chest, his shoulders heaving.

  'You go with Miles, Nick,' she said, putting one hand on his arm. 'Take Mrs Downes in this car. I'll stay for a minute with Magnus and come back in the other car.'

  Nick looked back at his father and his heart swelled up with pain for him. He remembered seeing Magnus like that when his mother died, not knowing what to do or say to comfort him. He had a feeling that Mel would know.

  She joined Magnus silently at the grave. He was holding the cards from the flowers in his hands. Always the one person who thought ahead, he'd collected them up for Mel, afraid rain might wash away the messages. Tears rolled unheeded down his cheeks, a terrible forlorn cry of anguish coming from deep in his chest.

  The sun was sinking now behind a big yew tree, casting a pink light on the hundreds of flowers and wreaths which concealed the mound of earth ready to cover Helena. A man was standing back by the church, a shovel in his hand, discreetly looking the other way. In the distance she could hear the sounds of cars being started, but here there was absolute quiet aside from Magnus's sobs.

  She knew then that he had fallen in love with Helena, and that he'd allowed himself to dream of them sharing a life together. He held himself responsible for Helena's death, just as she and Nick had. But now in a moment of clarity and shared pain, Mel knew that none of them were to blame.

  'Come away now,' she said gently as his sobs subsided, slipping her arms round his waist and holding his head against her shoulder.