Camellia (75 page)

Mel stared open-mouthed. It was too bizarre. Yet she remembered only too well how adept Bonny was at getting what she wanted, at any cost.

'The wedding went ahead and I was their bridesmaid,' Helena added. 'They moved to John's house, The Chestnuts in Somerset.'

'But what about you?' Mel asked. 'I mean what were you doing meanwhile?'

Helena sighed deeply. 'I was in
Oklahoma.
I tried to have an abortion, but I couldn't go through with it. I carried on with the show, wearing a tight corset, hoping for a miracle.'

'But what about Ray?'

'I didn't want to tell him, for various long-winded reasons which I can tell you another time. In the meantime Bonny was my lifeline. She was the only person I could share my predicament with. In those days to be having a baby outside marriage was still considered terrible and shameful. I wrote to her every few days, and she wrote back long sympathetic letters always saying she would help me when the time came. I decided I would stay in the show until October, then I planned to move to somewhere nearer her, like Bristol, get a cheap room and then get help with having you adopted.'

'But Bonny took me?'

'Well, it wasn't quite as straightforward as that, honey. You see when I got down to Bonny's house in October, John was away in America and she admitted he still believed she was pregnant. She had always been hare-brained, but this time she'd dug a deep grave for herself. I tried to persuade her to sit down and write and tell him the truth, but there was a good reason why she felt she couldn't do that.'

'Why?' Mel asked.

Helena sighed. 'I didn't intend to tell you this just now, but I guess I'll have to. You see Bonny had a backstreet abortion back in 1945. She got a bad infection afterwards, and she'd had problems ever since. After she married John she went to see a specialist. He told her she couldn't ever have children.'

Mel nodded, she could imagine how devastated any woman would be to hear such a thing and also why Bonny would be reluctant to admit it to John.

'And then she came up with this plan,' Helena went on. 'At first I was appalled, but slowly she got me round to her way of thinking. She needed a baby to present John with on his return. I needed a home for mine. I had no money or family. She had everything. A loving husband, a beautiful home and security. We were to swop identities, I would pass myself off as Mrs Norton at the nursing home, then give the baby to her. No one would ever know that Bonny hadn't given birth, not even John.'

Mel was flabbergasted. 'You agreed to that?'

Helena nodded, her eyes filling with tears again. 'The alternatives were much worse,' she whispered. 'Either we'd be in a dingy cheap room somewhere, struggling to make ends meet, or I'd have to get you fostered while I went out to work. I knew first-hand just how difficult things were for a single mother. I was brought up that way myself. Polly was the best mother anyone could have, she'd given up her stage career willingly and happily for me, but we had some very hard times. Then there were terrible rumours that babies put up for adoption were being left in overcrowded orphanages or even being shipped off to Australia. At least I knew Bonny and John would love and take care of you.'

Mel could understand that back in 1949 life would have been awful for a lone mother and child. 'But I don't see how you got away with it? Surely someone must have suspected?'

'It was a great deal easier than anyone would believe. You see no one asks you to prove your identity when you have a baby. In those first years after the war with the health service being set up there were few proper records. The house in Somerset was miles from anywhere. No one around there knew Bonny and for the last three months we just swopped roles when necessary. We made padding for Bonny to wear under a maternity dress. I bleached my hair blonde and posed as her to visit the doctors for check-ups. She bought a black wig for times when she was pretending to be the visiting friend and for accompanying me to the nursing home when I was in labour.'

Mel gasped. The reference to hair dye made sense at last. How many times she'd read and reread that line wondering what significance it had. 'But how could you plan such a massive fraud. Didn't you feel guilty about it?'

'Not then.' Helena looked up, pain etched across her lovely face. 'All that anguish was to come later. We were like little girls playing house, both excited that we'd found a solution. The last three months of my pregnancy were so happy – we shared everything, trimming your crib, making your clothes and doing up your little nursery. Bonny became your mother mentally long before you were born.'

Mel was torn with conflicting emotions. Half of her knew this story was true, and was trying to accept it. The other half was clinging to sweet, tender moments in her childhood, unable to believe Bonny wasn't her natural mother.

'Whatever else I have to reproach myself with, at least I didn't hand my baby over to a cold stranger,' Helena said in a croaky voice. 'Bonny was with me throughout my labour; she took you into her arms just seconds after you were born. She loved you from that first moment. When we took you home to The Chestnuts, she took over looking after you entirely. It was as if she was the rightful mother.'

'And John? Did he know?'

'He didn't come back from America until early January and he was so thrilled to see his daughter, he never questioned anything. No man I've ever known was such a natural father as John. He delighted in everything about you.'

Mel knew this was true. She could remember him bathing her, washing her hair, always attentive, never too tired to bother with her. 'But didn't you have qualms about it?'

Helena broke down then, put her hands over her face and sobbed. Mel felt she ought to take her in her arms and comfort her, but she couldn't.

'So many,' Helena sobbed. 'But John and Bonny could give you everything I couldn't. There were times when I wanted to pick you up and run away with you, but by then I was in too deep. You were registered as John and Bonny's child, and Bonny's parents, and all John's friends and relatives were standing by waiting to be invited down to see you. Cards and presents came with every post. I had nowhere to take you.'

Mel fell silent thinking about it all. The one thing she didn't need to question was the bond between Bonny and Helena; it was remarkably like the one between Bee and herself. If she and Bee were to be taken back twenty years earlier and put in the same circumstances as Bonny and Helena, she felt they might very well have chosen the same path.

'But if you'd come through all that together, why did you fall out?' she asked at last.

Helena dabbed her face with a lace-edged handkerchief. 'We'd made a deal. I was to be Auntie Ellie, friend of the family, and in return for my silence, Bonny would write each month and send me pictures and full progress reports about you. I told Bonny then that I was afraid jealousy would creep in at sometime. I was right, it did.'

'Conrad told me about how you became a big star after your first film
Soho.
I suppose Bonny didn't like that?'

Helena's eyes opened wide in horror. 'Oh no, it wasn't that. No one was prouder of my success than Bonny. She collected every review of mine, sat through my films umpteen times. She was so happy I'd made it. No, it was me who was jealous.'

Mel had been expecting Helena to blame Bonny for everything. When she so frankly admitted she held herself responsible, and remained unflaggingly loyal to her old friend, it put her character into a whole new perspective. She hadn't tried to whitewash anything. Mel suddenly knew that she could trust her.

'You know how life was for you in your first four years,' Helena said by way of explanation. 'Even though you were too young to actually remember it, you hold all that love John and Bonny showered on you inside you. You were the pivot their lives turned on. I was in America for much of that time, but even when I came back to England I had to limit myself to just a couple of days with them, because it was too painful for me seeing their delight in you. I sent presents, wrote and telephoned frequently, but I always had to remind myself that you were their baby, not mine.'

'So what happened?'

'I came to visit you in June 1954, when you were four and a half. I should've made it a flying visit like the previous times, but John was away on business. I'd always been nervous about giving myself away when he was there, and I weakened when I saw you, Mel. It was as if I was seeing myself again as a child. You were a plump, serious little girl with big soft eyes and a knack of slipping your hand into mine which made me feel as if someone was turning a knife in my heart. I had a splendid home in Hollywood, a big car, money, expensive clothes and millions of adoring fans. But for two days as we romped together on the beach, went to the fair in Hastings, ate cotton candy and ice creams, I knew I would gladly trade everything for you. Bonny hinted that I should go back to London on the second night, but I ignored her. I thought only of myself, and I was greedy for more time with you.'

She heard Bonny sigh and glanced round. Bonny had picked up a magazine, but she didn't seem to be reading it. Yesterday on the beach, Bonny had been just like she was at eighteen or nineteen, all dizziness, golden limbs and flying hair. She'd chattered about friends and neighbours, giggled at nothing in particular, and when Camellia wasn't in earshot she'd made saucy comments about the bodies of the men on the beach, just as she had in the old days. But today her manner was changed, more guarded. Helena knew she should ask her what was the matter, but she didn't. She didn't want to hear it.

Camellia put the last jigsaw piece in. 'That's it,' she crowed, clapping her hands together. 'Come and look, Mummy. It's all finished.'

I'm busy,' Bonny said in a sullen voice. 'I'll look at it in a minute.'

Camellia didn't appear to notice anything odd about her mother's tone. She got down from the table, skipped across the room to the window overlooking the street and stood up on a stool to look out.

'Come and look, Auntie,' she called out. 'There's a waterfall.'

Helena joined the child at the window. The overloaded drains could no longer carry away the heavy rain and it was cascading down over the cobbles in a fast-flowing river, lapping against the steps up to the old houses.

She missed so many English things. Quaint old streets like this one, fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, the jollity of the pubs and summer rain. Rain never seemed so fresh, soft or clean anywhere else in the world compared with England and it had a smell all of its own.

'My goodness!' she laughed. 'It's a good job there are steps up to the house, otherwise we'd be paddling in here.'

'If we had a little boat we could sail it down the street,' Camellia said wistfully, pressing her little nose up against one of the small leaded panes.

Helena looked sideways at the child and felt that old familiar pang of longing. The last two days had shown her how very empty her life was.

Helena looked down at her green silk dress and matching shoes. 'If we put on coats and wellies we could race paper boats,' she suggested.

Camellia looked up at her, dark eyes suddenly alight with excitement. 'You mean out there, now?'

'Yes, why not,' Helena laughed. 'Let me undo your frock and you go and put something old on. You don't mind, Bonny, do you?'

Bonny looked up from her magazine. 'If you're daft enough to sail boats in the gutter that's your funeral,' she snapped.

Helena might have changed her mind if Camellia hadn't already shot off out the door to change. But it wasn't fair to spoil a child's fun just because an adult wanted to be disagreeable.

It was the best fun that Helena had had in years. Dressed in an old mac and boots of John's, with Camellia in a yellow sou'wester, coat and boots, they made their way up past the Mermaid Inn to the top of the street, then dropped the paper boats Helena had made in the water.

The boats weaved, dipped and turned and, as one overtook the other, Camellia ran after them screaming with laughter.

'My one's winning. No, your one is now,' she called out and Helena ran after her, cheering and shouting just as loudly.

Helena was aware of net curtains moving as the older residents checked to see who was making all the noise, but she didn't care. The first two boats sank after becoming water-logged, but they hastily made more.

They forgot about the time, or how wet they were, and it wasn't until the rain turned to drizzle and the cascade of water turned to a mere trickle that they went back indoors.

Helena took off her coat and boots in the small hall and then turned to Camellia. She had fallen over a couple of times and she was wet right up to her waist.

'Skin a bunny,' Helena said, pulling the child's dress over her head taking her vest with it. 'And off with those knickers and socks.'

It was the sight of the plump little stomach and bare bottom that made her grab Camellia, lifting her up to nibble and tickle. She didn't hear Bonny move across the room towards them in the hall above the sound of Camellia's laughter.

'What on earth are you doing?' Bonny's harsh tone made her put the child down hastily.

'Just playing,' she blushed as if caught red-handed at something shameful.

'It was super, Mummy.' Camellia was rosy cheeked and excited. 'You should have come out too.'

'I could see when I wasn't wanted.' Bonny turned on her heel and flounced back into the lounge.

'Go on up and get changed.' Helena tapped Camellia's small naked bottom. 'Stay and play with your dollies for awhile. I want to talk to Mummy.'

As Helena went back into the lounge she saw Bonny pouring the last of a bottle of gin into her glass. 'Don't be a kill-joy, Bonny,' she said. 'I don't get to see her very often.'

Bonny looked coldly at Helena. 'Just as well. Fancy taking Camellia out in the rain. She might have caught pneumonia!'

'Don't be ridiculous.' Helena laughed nervously, but she shut the door so Camellia wouldn't hear. 'It's the middle of summer. Besides a bit of fresh air is better for her than sitting in here watching you sulk and drink.'