Camellia (84 page)

The newspapers had struck a rich seam of gold. By Monday morning Mel's name was in the headlines, as papers recounted her mother's death in 1965 and revealed the probability that she too had been murdered by Manning. They dug up the story of the events in Chelsea in 1970 for good measure. They had discovered that Bonny and Helena were old dancing partners, and that Sir Miles Hamilton had been instrumental in helping Helena's film career. Not even Magnus escaped their scrutiny. Along with hints that he was Helena's lover, they slanted his background with the implication that he had been a devious and unscrupulous post-war speculator.

Nick, Magnus and Miles met on the Monday evening to discuss what to do. They knew the press would continue with this barrage of half-truths and innuendoes unless they could offer something to defuse them.

Nick was astounded by Miles's courage when he said he intended to prepare a statement for
The Times.
He was stricken with grief at losing Helena, but he took the view that by acknowledging her as his love child, and Camellia as his granddaughter, he could in some way protect Camellia and by association, Nick and Magnus from further scandal.

On Wednesday morning
The Times
printed Miles's statement. Entirely factual, it stated exactly why, how and when everything took place. The only fact omitted was that John Norton had believed Mel to be his child. Copies of it were sent by his secretary to all the other papers with a clear warning that any deviation from the truth would result in libel action.

They were astounded in the days that followed by how each paper treated the same story. The
Mirror
gave it a hearts and flowers touch, the
Sketch
played up the 'tragedy caused by secrecy' angle. When Sunday came round again the
News of the World's
version made Miles sound like a villainous stage-door Johnny who had deflowered a young dancer and left her and his child to perish in the slums of Stepney.

But Helena's courage in protecting Mel prevented too much being made of her handing over her baby to a friend. She was a tragic heroine, and there was no mileage in laying blame at her door.

Nick read every word written on the subject. He was convinced Miles had done the right thing. But however glad he was that there was no further need for secrecy or lies, either within Oaklands or without, and that Camellia and Miles could now take their rightful places as chief mourners at the funeral, he was still troubled by a shameful inner bitterness that his personal triumphs had been eclipsed. All he could do to purge himself of guilt was to be what everyone needed – comforter, organiser, the rock everyone else could lean on.

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.