Camellia (36 page)

'Lydia's dead, love.' Jack's voice crackled with emotion. He had as much affection for Lydia as for Bert and Beryl Baker, his own old foster parents. 'She died of cancer back in 1961.'

'Mum never said,' Camellia tried to think back. 'I don't remember her going to a funeral or anything.'

'That's because I made sure she didn't know about it.' Jack's face contorted as if the memory hurt. 'You might as well face it, Camellia, your mother was the most greedy, self-centred and cruel bitch in the world sometimes. She knew for two years that Lydia was ill, but she never came to see her, never telephoned or wrote. Finally Lydia drove over to Rye one day, just before she was too ill to do anything. They had a tremendous row and when Lydia got back home she called me round to tell me about it. She was heartbroken: she loved your mother like she was her own child, and she thought of you as a granddaughter. When she died just a few weeks later, I decided not to inform Bonny. I couldn't face her swanning back to Amberley, all glamorous in a black dress, playing the part of the grieving daughter and upsetting everyone.'

'I don't blame you,' Camellia said quietly. In view of what he'd told her about Lydia's relationship with Bonny, and his affection for the older woman, his bitterness was understandable. 'I just wish I could have met Lydia and talked to her.'

Jack looked at the sad, lovely face in front of him and felt a pang of fatherly affection. He could almost touch the mental scars caused by her scheming bitch of a mother.

'Will you take a bit of advice from an
almost
uncle,' he said, his face flushing at the sudden tug of his emotions.

Camellia nodded.

'Put your mother, your childhood and all this away,' he said gently. 'Tomorrows are what count, love, not yesterdays. I loved Bonny, so help me! There was a time when I'd have walked barefoot to the ends of the earth for her. But that's in the past now. Even dead Bonny's twitching our cords, the way she did in life. Don't let her, Camellia. Be true to yourself.'

'Can I come to see you again before I leave Sussex?' Camellia asked. There was still so much more she wanted to know.

'No, love,' Jack shook his head and his eyes were sad. 'Not because I'm not interested in you, but because of Ginny and our kids. My eldest, April is a little older than you, Amanda is fourteen and full of all the devilment I was at that age. Little Lydia is eight. I can't let them be harmed by gossip.'

'But surely we could meet somewhere away from Littlehampton?'

Jack smiled ruefully. Camellia was nothing like her mother, either in looks or character, yet he could recall Bonny suggesting that very same thing back in 1949. Camellia's visit now was all tied up in that one night of weakness, and he'd lived with the guilt for years. He wasn't going to make a similar mistake again.

'People are so quick to gossip in these parts,' he said gently. 'Your mother is still mentioned in some circles. If they knew her daughter was around here and talking to me they'd soon be making a meal of it.'

Camellia got up. 'I have to go now.' She tried to smile, but her lips quivered. 'Thank you for your time, Jack.'

He had to hug her. Her face was registering all the sadness he felt inside, all the might-have-beens, the broken dreams.

'Look after yourself,' he said huskily as he held her tightly. As he released her he pulled a wad of notes from his pocket and handed her thirty pounds.

'Don't think that is a pay-off. I'm just trying to smooth your path a little, the same as I would with my daughters. Just promise me you'll drop me a line every now and again and let me know how you're doing and where you are.'

Jack watched Camellia going off to the station from his office window: a tall willowy girl with shining hair bouncing on her shoulders. If Lydia had still been alive she would have been thrilled to discover the funny little girl she liked so much had grown into a beautiful woman.

He felt saddened that he hadn't been able to tell Camellia anything which might have eased her sadness. But then he wished so many things. That Bonny had loved him as he loved her. That Lydia had never told him that on her last visit to Rye

she'd found Bonny drunk, half naked and entertaining two men, while Camellia was at school. That he could have been honest and told Camellia that Lydia had left Briar Bank, her beautiful house in Amberley, to him and Ginny, because of that day.

Jack sighed deeply and poured himself another large whisky. The studio in the basement where Bonny used to practise her dancing was now a playroom. Ginny cared for the lovely garden, every bit as enthusiastically as Lydia did. Sometimes he looked at the big couch in the sitting room and remembered that was where he first made love to Bonny when she was only fifteen.

Lydia had wanted him and Ginny to be happy there, to give their children all the advantages she'd had, and to use it as collateral for Jack to set up the car showroom he'd always dreamed of. She had always been there for him, just as she was for Bonny. It was she who first taught him about cars when he arrived down from London, a skinny little waif, in 1939. She had stimulated his desire for better things all through the war years, comforted him when Bonny packed him in, supported and encouraged him right through those first lean years when he opened his first garage.

But above all Jack wished he'd been able to tell Camellia that Lydia had deposited several thousand pounds in a bank for her. But she had entrusted Jack and her solicitors with the task of passing it on to her when she reached twenty-five, providing she hadn't turned out like her mother. He wished he could have told her about it now, if only to prove to her that Lydia had thought of her as a granddaughter right till the end. But that would be breaking his promise to Lydia. He hoped she would keep in touch. It might be hard to find her otherwise.

Two weeks to the day that Camellia had been to see Jack, she left the holiday camp for good. It had been a rotten job, for even worse money and Denise still wasn't back at her flat. But Camellia had a plan now, one that excited her far more than going back to London to find a job. She was going to Bath, to see Magnus Osbourne and to settle the past once and for all.

Thanks to the money Jack had given her, she had a small nest egg. She intended to hitchhike rather than waste money on fares. She had a long grey raincoat, a couple of warm sweaters and a pair of stout walking shoes, all courtesy of unclaimed lost property. If it wasn't for feeling a bit off colour, everything would be rosy.

She'd had a sore throat for a couple of days. She'd gone to bed the night before shivering and aching all over. This morning she felt even worse.

A car stopped for her almost as soon as she was out of the holiday camp gates. By midday she was beyond Salisbury waiting for her fourth lift of the day and she reckoned she could be in Bath by three or four at the latest. But after she'd walked a mile or so in the rain, without anyone even glancing at her, let alone stopping, she had a feeling her luck had run out.

She was beginning to feel really ill now. Her throat was so sore she could barely swallow, and she was shivering as if in the depths of winter. Within an hour the rain had penetrated her raincoat and the stout shoes were giving her a blister. She stopped in a village shop, bought some more aspirin and a packet of plasters and asked if there was a bus to Bath.

'Not till five thirty, my lover,' the rosy cheeked woman behind the counter said cheerfully, in a rich Wiltshire accent. 'And I dunno rightly whether it runs this time of year anyways.'

There was no alternative but to trudge on, the rain growing steadily heavier, the wind stronger. Cars swished by her, spraying her with more water. A farmer with a lorry loaded with pigs picked her up eventually at around five thirty, but he was only going as far as Rode, the other side of Warminster, and over the noise of his old lorry, the rain outside and an untuned radio crackling away, Camellia couldn't even manage to tell him how ill she felt, or ask if he knew any bed and breakfast places nearby.

By the time they got to Rode it was pitch dark. She reckoned it was perhaps fifteen miles further to Bath. She plodded on, aware now that no one in their right mind would pick her up on such a dark, wild night. She just hoped she would come to a guest house before long.

It was scary walking in the dark. She veered between desperately attempting to flag down passing motorists and jumping into ditches to avoid being hit. She couldn't remember ever having felt quite so ill and cold.

She passed two pubs, and had a large whisky in both, but neither had rooms available. She was finding it increasingly hard to walk. The wind buffeted her from side to side, and several times passing cars blasted their horns at her. She was crying now, both her feet hurt and she was wet right through to her underwear, her soaked bell-bottom jeans slapping noisily against her shins.

As she came down a steep hill she saw a pub at the bottom all lit up with small lights. To her left she thought she could see a river, with what looked like a viaduct over it, but in the darkness and rain, in such a weakened state, it was hard to tell what anything was.

She summoned up the last of her strength and concentrated all her efforts on reaching that pub. There had to be someone in there who would help her. She no longer cared if she ever got to Bath, she just wanted to lie down somewhere warm and dry.

Heat enveloped her as she pushed open the pub door. As she took a couple more steps towards the bar, it seemed to grab her and squeeze her so tight she could no longer focus her eyes. She saw a bright light, then a dozen more spinning before her and she felt her legs go from under her.

'She's soaking,' Camellia heard a man say. 'Freezing cold and soaked to the skin. Call an ambulance!'

Her fear of authority made her open her eyes. 'I'm okay,' she managed to croak. 'It's just the heat in here.'

She was lying on the floor surrounded by men, country types with tweed jackets and ruddy faces.

'Give her a bit of air,' someone said.

'Where were you making for?' another person asked.

Camellia felt someone put a hand beneath her back and she was lifted to a sitting position.

'I was going to Oaklands, a hotel in Bath,' she said.

She had had no intention of trying to find Magnus before she'd found somewhere to stay in Bath. But the words just sprang out.

'Oaklands, eh! Well you were nearly there.' The man who'd helped her up knelt beside her and put a hand on her forehead. 'You're burning up my girl. Best get you there right now.'

Camellia was too dazed to think straight. As the man helped her to her feet she was so glad that someone had taken over, that she didn't care what happened next.

She was helped outside again by two men. She was vaguely aware of them putting her rucksack in the boot and a rug over the passenger seat to protect it from her wet clothes, then she found herself bundled in.

The cold air brought her partially back to her senses. The car was climbing a very steep winding hill with thick bushes and trees on both sides.

'Have you come far?' the driver asked. He wore a checked flat cap and a gabardine jacket. His voice was brisk and well bred.

'From Sussex,' she replied with difficulty.

'Bad throat?' he asked solicitously. 'How long have you been out in the rain?'

She tried to reply, but it was just a wheezy croak. She held onto her throat and looked at the man hopelessly.

'Magnus will call a doctor for you,' he said. 'Were you going there for a job?'

Camellia nodded; it was easier than attempting anything else. But she was distracted as the man slowed down on a bend and a large wooden board with Oaklands came into the car headlights. It was fixed to an imposing old stone wall beside massive, open wrought-iron gates.

Her heart plummeted. In her imagination Oak-lands was a largish house converted into a small tourist hotel. But this drive was through a dense woodland of huge great trees which met overhead in a thick canopy. Without even seeing the house she knew it wasn't going to be the sort of hotel the average tourist stayed in and they were hardly likely to welcome someone as bedraggled as her.

'Magnus is a man with great foresight,' the driver said. 'When he bought this place it was almost a ruin, we didn't expect him to make a go of it. Just looking after the grounds is a huge headache.'

As the car came out of the overshadowing trees, Camellia saw the imposing Georgian house floodlit before her and wished she was anywhere but here, anyone but herself.

In that second, before the car stopped by the front door, she knew she couldn't possibly reveal her identity tonight. She needed time to think.

A tall dark girl came forward as Camellia swayed on her feet.

'Quick, get her a chair,' she heard the man supporting her shout. 'Call Magnus.'

She must have blacked out again. The next thing she knew a strong male hand was holding her head down between her knees and asking questions.

'Did she say who she was, or why she was coming here? I wasn't expecting anyone.'

'She's come from Sussex,' the man with the car answered. 'About a job she said, but she was losing her voice.'

Camellia waited a moment before showing she was coming round. To the right of where she sat she could hear male voices and the clinking of glasses.

'I expect she's been walking all day,' he said in a growling voice. 'Soaked to the skin and probably hasn't eaten for a good while. She's got a fever, let's hope it doesn't turn to pneumonia. I'll give her a bed for the night Fred, and call the doctor, you get on back to your pint.'

Camellia moved then, fluttering her arms so he would release the pressure on her neck.

'Hullo, she's coming to,' the deep growly voice said. 'Well, girl, can you tell me who you are?'

As Camellia sat up he crouched down in front of her. It was like coming face-to-face with a lion. He had a mane of thick fair hair, a broad nose with two deep channels beside it, bushy eyebrows and penetrating speckly eyes of an indeterminate colour. She had expected to see the man in the photograph with Bonny and the other girl, but he seemed too young, hardly more than fifty-five at the most. The man in the picture had looked suave and debonair; this man was more rugged, as if he spent all his time outside. Instinct told her he'd be hard to fool.