Camellia (6 page)

Bert took her icy hands between his own and rubbed them. They were red and chapped, nails bitten down to the quick.

'What's happened?' he asked gently. He could see she was trying not to cry, too cold to even shiver. 'Why are you out here all alone?'

'I lost my bus fare/ she said weakly, turning her face away from his, as if unable to meet his close scrutiny.

'Well, you're all right now,' he said comfortingly, shocked that she'd already walked some four or five miles from Hastings and appalled at how she might have ended up if she had walked the entire way home to Rye. 'A hot bath and a cup of tea will sort you out. I'd better get you home. Your mum will be worried about you.'

'She isn't there,' Camellia said in a small voice as Bert started to drive. 'She's gone away for the weekend.'

'What! And left you on your own?' Bert's head jerked round to her in astonishment. 'Surely not?'

'She goes away a lot these days/ Camellia shrugged. 'I'm usually all right, but this time she forgot to leave any money for the meter.'

The story came out in fits and starts. It was clear Camellia didn't want to divulge anything, even to someone who knew her mother as well as Bert did. But once she got going it came out like a torrent.

On Friday evening she had arrived home from school to find her mother had gone away. She got herself some fish and chips, then settled down to watch television. She hadn't even finished eating when the meter ran out and she went round the house with a candle looking for a shilling.

When she failed to find any money she went to bed, but a further search this morning brought nothing more than sixpence and a few pennies.

'I couldn't ask any of the neighbours,' she whispered in shame. 'They talk about Mummy enough already. I had just enough to get almost into Hastings on the bus. I took one of Mummy's rings to the pawn shop in the Old Town.'

Bert thought this was very resourceful of her, such a solution would never have occurred to him. But then Bonny had probably acquainted her with such places.

'The man gave me two pounds for the ring,' she said wearily. 'It was so cold in Hastings I thought I'd go straight home again. But when I got to the bus stop I found the notes had gone from my pocket. I must have pulled them out with my hanky. I walked back to the pawn shop looking everywhere, but I didn't find them.'

By the time they stopped outside the house in Fishmarket Street, Camellia was warmer and she'd dried her eyes.

'I'll come in with you,' he said, before she had time to make an excuse. 'We'll put some money in the meter and make sure everything's all right.'

He was furious with Bonny, determined to take her to task at neglecting her daughter and leaving her on her own for a whole weekend. But at the same time he didn't want to make too much of it to Camellia.

She made no protest, but he sensed her embarrassment as she opened the front door and a smell of old fried food and damp wafted out. Bert struck a match and put some money in the electric meter, but as the lights came on he had to repress a gasp of horror at the black mould on the hall walls, the paper hanging off in strips.

He'd seen plenty of grim places in his years in the force, but this beat most of them. It was so cold he shivered even in his thick sheepskin. Walking into the living room he could only stare in shock. The square of carpet was thin, sticky with spilt drinks, its pattern lost in a dirty film. Camellia turned on an imitation log fire with a couple of electric bars across the front. The logs were broken and dusty, the red light bulb beneath showing through. There were a couple of fireside chairs with greasy seats, a black plastic coffee table decorated with two swans and a pre-war settee with the stuffing coming out of the arms.

Maybe it wouldn't have been so shocking if he hadn't been in their old house. How could anyone adjust to living like this when once they were surrounded by antiques, Persian carpets and luxurious furnishings?

'It's awful isn't it.' Camellia hung her head and shifted from one foot to the other in nervousness. 'I didn't want you to see it, Mr Simmonds. Mummy was going to get it done up, but she hasn't got enough money now.'

Bert gulped back a sarcastic reply. Just the price of one of Bonny's smart outfits would pay for this room to be redecorated, and she knew enough men who would willingly do it for her. He shifted back to being a policeman again, mentally noting all the evidence of Bonny's cruel indifference to her child's well-being, while she made sure she never went short of anything.

An expensive fur lying carelessly across a chair, a wooden clothes horse with dainty underwear left to dry. A bottle of Chanel perfume, a blue silk scarf and a pair of soft leather gloves shared the table with an almost empty gin bottle and a lipstick-smeared glass.

Bert went through to the kitchen and opened the drop-front cabinet. It was clean, he guessed kept so by Camellia, but so bare. Half a bottle of milk, one egg in a bowl and just a few slices of bread left in a bag. There were condiments, bottles of sauce and a pot of jam, but no evidence that Bonny ever went to the trouble to spoil her manicured nails with something as mundane as cooking.

'You can't stay here alone.' Bert turned as the girl came lumbering up behind him. It was painful to compare her appearance now with how she had looked when he first met her as a little girl. Her clothes had been so neat, hair shiny and well cut, plump even then, but now she was obese. What would possess Bonny to allow her to wear that dreadful pleated skirt or the shrunken grey jumper. Her shoes were scuffed and rundown at the heel and her grey socks were in concertinas round her ankles. 'I don't like it one bit, love. There's nothing for you to eat and besides a girl of your age shouldn't be alone at night.'

I'll be all right.' Camellia's eyes dropped from his. Her mournful brown eyes and her hair had been her best features as a child. Heaven only knows who had hacked off her hair, it looked terrible, and her eyes were now almost embedded in fat. 'Mummy will be cross if she comes home and I'm not here.'

'I shall be more than
cross
with her when she does come home,' Bert said tartly. 'She needs a good talking to. I'm taking you round to my mother's, I'll leave a note for Bonny.'

Camellia's face contorted into an expression of anguish.

'She can't help the way she is, Mr Simmonds.' She caught hold of his arm involuntarily. 'She's sad inside all the time, that's why she goes out a lot. Please don't get her into trouble?'

Bert thought about that plea from Camellia later that night when he was cuddled up beside Sandra. He had popped back to his mother's an hour ago and heard a great deal more that made him feel uneasy. Camellia was fast asleep upstairs, but his mother had described the girl's worn underwear, the untreated boils on her neck and chilblains on her inner thighs.

Camellia had opened up to his mother, as people usually did. But although she had confessed her diet consisted of fish and chips and sandwiches, she had staunchly insisted Bonny loved her. There were descriptions of picnics out by Camber Castle in the summer, days out to Hastings, and weekend trips to London. As Bert's mother pointed out, behind the visible part of Bonny, the drinking, the stream of men friends and wild spending sprees, there was a woman who cared enough to make some occasions memorable.

'I know it might seem kinder to get Camellia taken away from her mother,' his mother said as he left, catching hold of his hand, her eyes full of compassion. 'But don't do it, son. There is something between them that is fine and good, however it might seem otherwise to you. I can't explain this very well, but I know I'm right. Let's try and make things better for Camellia. Let me encourage her to come here for a bit of home cooking, and I'll teach her a few homemaking skills. Maybe I can help her with a diet too. Bonny's all she's got right now, and they need and love one another.'

Camellia sat up again as they drove up the High Street. It was quiet now, the shops soon to close and just a few people strolling along.

'Will you be all right with Mrs Rowlands?' Bert asked. He would have preferred to take her to his mother's again, but the baker's wife had been so insistent that Camellia was to stay with her.

'I'll be fine,' Camellia said, her tone implying it was all the same to her wherever she was sent. 'Don't worry about me, Mr Simmonds, you've got your own children to think about.'

That struck Bert as a remarkably adult retort. He felt she meant that his wife would take a dim view of him fussing over Bonny Norton's child.

'Well, I'll be popping in and out to see you. If things don't work out you can tell me then,' he said.

Some half an hour later, up in the Rowlands living room above the bakery, after Mr Simmonds had left, Camellia took the offered cup of tea in silence. Mrs Rowlands was talking ninety to the dozen, flitting from the amount of cakes and pies they'd sold that day, to what people had been saying about Bonny's death and then onto what they'd have for tea, without even drawing breath. The room was cluttered with ornaments, china or glass cats, dogs and other animals filled every surface, but it was bright, sweet smelling and welcoming, so very different from Fishmarket Street.

Camellia couldn't talk, or even cry. All she could think of was that she was finally released from a huge, impossibly heavy burden.

No more noisy parties, no 'uncle this' and 'uncle that' walking around the house in their underpants or waking her at night with the sound of bestial grunting and thumping. No more cleaning up vomit or finding the kitchen and lounge floor awash with beer and dog-ends blocking up the sink. Never again to face the humiliation of asking for credit at the corner shop.

She couldn't think of one thing she would miss her mother for. She was used to being alone, she'd been left for long weekends since she was eleven. The only difference now was that Bonny wouldn't dance back in with a bag of cream cakes or a soft toy and empty promises. This time her absence was forever.

Yet if she really was glad it was over, why did she feel as if she'd been torn apart?

Chapter Four

Camellia woke with a start, drenched in sweat. For a moment she was confused when she saw the sloping attic ceiling and the unfamiliar rose wallpaper. Then it all came back. Enid Rowlands had taken her in, a doctor had been called and given her a pill. It was real, not a nightmare.

The church clock struck seven. Pink curtains flapped at the tiny window, a picture of a little boy and a dog hung on the wall, a bedside lamp made out of a wine bottle and two china dogs with chipped ears were on the mantelpiece. The smell of baked bread was trapped up here, and under any other conditions she would have enjoyed being in such a clean, fresh room. But although Mr and Mrs Rowlands were kindly enough, she knew she was only here on sufferance, until someone else decided where she should go.

She got out of bed slowly. Her head was muzzy and she had an evil taste in her mouth. Looking down she saw she was wearing a pink nylon nightie that wasn't hers. On the chair was her navy skirt, white blouse and underwear. Mrs Rowlands had washed and ironed them, but even that made her embarrassed. Had she looked at that big cheap cotton bra and knickers, grey with age and careless washing, the elastic shedding bits of rubber and felt disgust?

Bonny had never worn such ugly things. She threw clothes away when they got spoiled in the wash or went out of fashion.

The window overlooked the High Street, but she could see little besides the shops opposite and the church tower behind. It was so hot in here. Tomorrow morning when Mr Rowlands started baking it would get hotter still. She had to get out for some fresh air.

There was no plan in her head as she stood at Hilder's Cliff. It had always been her favourite spot and today was so clear and bright she could see right across the marsh to Lydd. Rye was at its most lovely early in the morning, before people broke the tranquillity. The ancient grey stone of the Landgate, brilliant splashes of colour from flowers in window boxes, latticed windows twinkling in the early morning sun, even the cobbles beneath her feet sparkled as if they'd been lightly sprinkled with glitter.

Behind her was Collegiate School, part of that dimly remembered happy past when her father took her for walks along the quay at this time of day, when visitors came down from London for dinner parties, when she was dressed up in a smocked dress to go out for lunch.

Fishmarket Street was down below. If she peered right over the rail she could just see their house to her right. Not that she wanted to look at it. She found it far more comforting to look at The Salts and remember being pushed on the swings by her father.

'I wonder what will happen to it?' she mused. Last summer she'd painted the living room herself in magnolia. Old Mrs Simmonds even gave her some better curtains to hang and showed her how to make covers for the two fireside chairs and it looked lovely for some time. But when winter came black mould crept up the walls and spoiled it. Bonny consoled her by saying it would be the last winter they'd spend there. For once she had spoken the truth.

Camellia had no idea why she suddenly felt compelled to take the steep steps down to it. She knew, though she hadn't been told, that she wasn't supposed to until the police had finished their investigations. But she wanted to. Just for one last look.

All the other houses in the terrace still had their curtains closed and bottles of milk stood on each doorstep. Aside from a scruffy dog out on his early morning business, there was no one to see her. She slid her hand through the letter box and found the key dangling on its string inside.

The house smelled as musty as ever. In the narrow hall there was a theatre poster hanging over the worst of the peeling paper. Bonny had put it there herself. She said she used to know the actress Frances Delarhey who was billed as starring in the play. Camellia had no idea how Bonny came by the poster, but then her mother rarely explained anything.

Everything was just as she left it yesterday morning: the rinsed-out cereal bowl on the wooden draining board, one mug, a spoon and the milk turned sour in the bottle. She wandered aimlessly, picking things up, then putting them down, uncertain now why she was here. Unpaid bills on the ugly tiled mantelpiece, a mountain of ironing in a basket, even the almost empty gin bottle left on the table might indicate to an outsider that her mother was depressed, but Camellia knew that this was nothing compared with how things had been sometimes.