Camellia (38 page)

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.

A woman who put everyone else's happiness before her own, who understood people's strengths and weaknesses and never judged them. She could laugh away problems, kiss away hurt, cry for others, but never cried for herself. The bed still felt too big without her.

He could see those special touches she'd added to the hotel everywhere. Without Ruth he would never have understood that fine furniture, thick carpets and a good chef, wouldn't make a first-class hotel by themselves. It had to be built with love, the guests pampered as if they were valued friends or family. The staff too had to be trained and indoctrinated with this ideal.

Ruth would have picked Mel herself; he knew that. By now she would also have discovered the reason for that occasional sad, faraway look in the girl's eyes.

But Magnus didn't have that gentle talent. His way of finding things out was by goading people, and sometimes hammering them into compliance with his wishes. Somehow he'd managed to turn Sophie into a cold, calculating harpy, while Stephen was impossibly arrogant and lazy. As for Nicholas!

'You may have become a success financially and socially,' he murmured to himself. 'But as a father you are a complete failure.'

Another peal of laughter banished his introspection. He got up, opened his office door and looked across the hall towards the drawing room.

He could see Mel perched on the top of a stepladder. She was wearing jeans and a red sweater, her hair in two bunches like a school girl. In her hands was the fairy and she was trying, without success, to put it on the top of the eight-foot Christmas tree.

Joan was holding the steps. She too was laughing, her big chest quivering under her navy dress Magnus turned to get his camera from his office.

He crept back across the hall without either of the women seeing him and stopped just to one side of the open door, lifting the camera to watch for a good moment through the lens.

'We haven't had the fairy on the tree for years,' Joan said. 'Margaret, who came after Mrs Osbourne died, thought a star was more stylish. It's much easier to fix too.'

'But a fairy's traditional,' Mel said, looking down at the older woman. 'And this one's so lovely. Look she's even got satin knickers.'

Magnus felt a tug at his heart as he watched. Ruth had dressed the fairy. He could remember her joking and saying, 'No fairy in my house goes knickerless!'

Mel had exactly the same expression on her face as Ruth had when she held dolls – maternal, yet like a little girl too, wanting to hold onto the magic of childhood. Mel was bracing herself on the top of the ladder while she tweaked out the fairy's skirt and wings. 'Now,' she said firmly, talking earnestly to the doll. 'You are going up there, you are going to stay there, and you won't come down until twelfth night.'

As she leaned forward Magnus waited, ready to click the camera. Mel's tongue was pointing out in concentration, her slender body arching towards the tree precariously. Joan was looking up, her plump face anxious, blinking furiously behind her thick glasses.

Magnus clicked and the camera flashed. The shock made Mel jerk and topple backwards.

'Ahhh,' she yelled, and fell off the steps.

The tree swayed as Mel crashed onto her back, bringing down with her several glass ornaments and a shower of pine needles.

Magnus couldn't resist taking another shot, this time of Mel with her legs in the air, still holding the fairy in her hands.