Chapter Six
'What are you doing that for?' Dougie came up behind Camellia as she was cleaning the windows, pressed himself against her back and cupped her breasts in his hands.
'They're filthy,' she said reprovingly. 'You can hardly see out of them.'
'I rarely got up in daylight before you came here, let alone looked out the windows.' Dougie tweaked at her nipples, burying his face in her hair. 'Let's fuck?'
'Don't you ever think of anything else?' Camellia dropped the cloth into the bucket. Dougie turned her on by merely being close to her, but her mind had been on making his flat more homely, especially now that it was getting colder. It was ten weeks since she'd first met Dougie, and the summer was nearly gone. 'We should paint the room, make it pretty. It's horrible in here during the day.'
She had cleaned it thoroughly, using copious amounts of Vim, bleach and other cleaning fluids, but though the kitchen looked much better, she could see little improvement in the main room. She dreamed of it all painted glossy white, with an orange carpet, Op Art large floor cushions and big bright framed prints on the walls. She had made little changes: a red tablecloth now covered the scarred sideboard, a red and gold Chinese lantern softened the overhead light, and two giant Zodiac sign posters covered the worst stains on the walls. But it wasn't enough.
Dougie opened the zip on her jeans and slid his hand inside, fingers reaching down towards her pubic hair. 'Sod painting the room when I could be fingering you,' he whispered. 'I'd rather look at your fanny than the walls!'
Since Camellia spent her first night with Dougie her life had turned upside-down. Maybe if she'd spoken to Miss Peet herself that night instead of leaving a message to say she was staying with Suzanne, she might still be living at Archway House and working at Peter Robinson's. But Miss Peet had been suspicious when she saw Rose's note and had rung Mrs Connor, Suzanne's mother, only to find Camellia wasn't there.
When Camellia got home the following evening, Miss Peet had called her into her sitting room to cross-examine her.
'Don't make things worse by telling more lies,' she snapped angrily as Camellia tried to pretend Rose had given the wrong message. 'I have a great deal of experience with teenage girls and I know you weren't with any girlfriends but spending the night with a man. What's more you haven't been at work today.'
If Miss Peet had been satisfied with giving a lecture on the dangers of pregnancy, venereal diseases, and the folly of rushing headlong into a relationship with a man she had only just met, Camellia might've stopped to consider that this older woman was only concerned with her well-being. But Miss Peet said that unless this 'boyfriend' was prepared to come to Archway House so she could meet him, Camellia would be grounded for a month.
'If he's a nice lad and cares about you, he won't object,' she said firmly, making it quite clear she would settle for nothing less. 'You are only seventeen and I am responsible for your safety while you live here.'
Camellia couldn't meet Miss Peet's eyes. She stared sullenly at the ceiling and refused to even apologise, much less agree to the woman's request. She could no more imagine Dougie with his long hair, tight trousers and cowboy boots waiting politely in the hall to meet this tyrant, than working on a building site, or going to church.
The next day Dougie was waiting for her as she came out of work. He looked like a rock star in a black sleeveless singlet, tight jeans and a huge studded belt.
'What's going on?' he asked angrily. 'I rang the hostel last night and asked to speak to you and some woman said I'd have to come out there so she could meet me. Who the hell does she think she is?'
Camellia explained what had happened. She was feeling very low: Miss Puckridge had given her a dressing down for not turning up for work the previous day and she had no good excuse to offer.
'Just leave the hostel,' Dougie said dismissively. 'That old bag has no right to tell you who you can see. And I'm bloody well not going cap in hand to her.'
Camellia couldn't think straight. On the one hand she was absolutely certain she was in love with Dougie. On the other hand a little voice was whispering that she should exercise some caution before jumping in feet first. She knew so little about Dougie, and his lifestyle seemed so strange.
'Couldn't you put on something smart and come out there just once?' she asked. 'It would make it so much better for me.'
'I can't see how,' he sneered. 'She'll take one look at me and decide I'm not suitable. She's a frustrated cow, I know that without even meeting her. It's up to you. Either you come and live in my pad and be my chick, or we leave it right here,'
He began to walk away, through the crowds of people rushing to Oxford Circus tube station. Camellia looked at his narrow hips and black curls gleaming in the late afternoon sunshine and she felt faint with the fear of losing him.
'Dougie!' she called out, running after him, elbowing her way through the crowds. 'Don't go like that.'
She caught up with him about twenty yards down Regent Street. 'Please don't be cross with me?' she pleaded, catching hold of his arm. 'I do want to be your girl. I'm just a bit scared.'
'Scared of what? I only want to have fun with you.'
Camellia wanted to admit that she hated knowing that Miss Peet and Miss Puckridge were disappointed in her, but she knew he would sneer at that. 'I don't know,' she said weakly. 'I suppose it's because everything's gone a bit haywire since I met you.'
He caught hold of her two arms and pulled her close to him. He smelled of sweat, he was hot and his almost black eyes burned into hers. I'll look after you. You belong with me.'
He kissed her then, hard and long, ignoring the curious glances from passers-by. When he eventually released her he cupped her face in his two hands.
'You've got this Saturday off haven't you?' he said. 'Pack your bags and catch a taxi to my place. You said you love me. Prove it.'
Camellia had agonised all week. Suzanne and Carol both advised her not to be hasty. Yet back at Archway House, Madeline encouraged her.
'You go with him if that's what you want,' she said forcefully, hands on hips. 'Miss Peet's as bad as my parents, she doesn't want anyone to have any fun. So maybe it won't work out, but you'll regret it if you don't try. I gave up my boyfriend, Colin, in Birmingham because my parents didn't approve of him, and I've never met anyone I like as much since,'
In the end Camellia wasn't brave enough to give notice, or even say goodbye to Miss Peet. When she saw the older woman leaving on Saturday morning to go shopping, she hastily stuffed the last of her belongings into a couple of pillowcases and called a taxi. Rose, Wendy and Madeline all hugged her and urged her to stay in touch, but their eyes showed they knew they were seeing her for the last time.
Camellia hadn't really thought about what living with Dougie would mean, other than wondering how she would wash her clothes and where she would hang them. She was soon to discover his lifestyle was completely alien to everything she knew.
He had no set routine and time meant nothing to him. He slept when he was tired, got up when he chose, ate on the move and hated any kind of conformity.
Yet he was surprisingly organised in some ways. He erected a rail across an alcove for her to hang up her clothes. Within four days of her moving in he had found a doctor willing to prescribe birth control pills for her. She only had to mention wanting something, whether shampoo, steak or a jar of coffee, and he stole it.
Less than a fortnight after moving in with him, Camellia was given the sack from Peter Robinson's. She had been late on four consecutive days, arriving with dark-ringed eyes. When she couldn't offer a sick note to back up her claim she'd been ill, she was handed her cards.
Dougie was delighted. 'I'll teach you ways to make three times what they paid you,' he said, laughing at her protests that she needed money of her own. 'Don't worry babe, there's more to life than work.'
Camellia soon found that his last statement was entirely true. Once she'd got over the initial anxiety, she felt as if she were on
one glorious long holiday. Idle summer days spent smoking dope, listening to rock music and making love, lounging in parks with Dougie's friends or cruising the boutiques in Carnaby Street, then moving on to bars and clubs for the night.
Dougie's friends were the sort she wanted to be like: fascinating people who laughed a great deal, who talked knowledgeably about exotic places, about music, art and poetry. Any form of authority was a joke to them. Love and sensation was all. Camellia was touched by the way they included her in their deep conversations, their wild clothes and their mystic ideology.
Although Camellia was a little disturbed at first to discover that all the money Dougie splashed around came from selling drugs, this was soon to become a source of pride.
By day they were just another couple of flower children, indistinguishable from thousands of others who thronged the West End, but as darkness fell and Dougie dressed up in velvet trousers, frilly shirts and snakeskin boots, he was 'The Man', sought after, admired and respected. Camellia's role was primarily a decoration on his arm, but also a distraction and lookout until every last packet of drugs concealed in his boots, crotch and pockets were gone, the money belt strapped under his shirt bulging.
As Camellia went with him from one club and bar to another, she learned for herself the difference between 'Tourists' and 'Heads'. The former could be made to pay twice the price; the latter were dangerous if the goods weren't up to scratch. Uppers, Downers, African Black, Lebanese Gold, Moroccan, Durban Poison, Acid and Grass, Camellia tried them all and learned to identify their peculiarities. She could spot a plain-clothes policeman a hundred yards off and became as practised as Dougie at giving them the slip.
They moved around: to the Hundred Club in Oxford Street, Tiles and The Scene, but mostly to UFO or the Middle Earth, fitting in the Whiskey-a-Go-Go or The Discotheque en route. London was buzzing, young people pouring in daily from all corners of England and further afield, and as that summer of 67 slowly turned to autumn, Camellia felt she'd removed the last traces of the fat, plain girl from Rye. Once or twice she'd tried to tell Dougie about how it was for her then, but he said it was only the present and future that counted, the past was as dead as her mother. Camellia had been a little hurt by that, she wanted to share everything with him. But she had come round to his way of thinking, and in private moments alone she thought of Bonny, understanding her a little better now that her own life wasn't squeaky clean.
Miss Peet, the girls at Archway House, and even her old job at Peter Robinson's were all so distant, a period in her life to be looked back on sometimes with nostalgia but mostly with relief that she no longer had to conform to their rules. Only the memory of Bert Simmonds occasionally prickled at her conscience. He would most definitely not approve of how she was living now. But she couldn't speak of that to Dougie, he wouldn't understand why anyone should consider a policeman's opinion important.
Camellia Norton was beautiful, so everyone told her. She was in love, she had money in her purse. She was 'someone' at last; she had achieved her goal.
Dougie encouraged her to dress in tiny suede miniskirts, embroidered blouses that revealed her bare jutting breasts, Red Indian headbands and wild jangly silver jewellery. He wanted other men to lust after her as it all added to his prestige and Camellia was pleased to find herself the centre of attention.
But however exciting it was being Dougie's 'chick', seeing envy on other girls' faces and basking in his reflected glory, it was the time alone with him at home she loved most. For the first time in her life she felt truly wanted and needed. When Dougie barricaded the door and took her in his arms, all her little niggling doubts and insecurities seemed to vanish.
As Dougie's fingers delved deeper and deeper into her jeans, Camellia felt her enthusiasm for cleaning the windows evaporate. When he turned her round to kiss her, she dropped her cloth and responded eagerly.
Dougie was usually sparing with his kisses. Now she held him tightly, insinuating her tongue between his lips, pressing herself against him. She could feel him pushing her jeans down over her bottom and he nudged her backwards until she was resting against the windowsill.
Camellia found it hard to understand his preference for making love to her in strange positions and places. It seemed unnatural to her to be pinned-up against walls, on the floor or astride a chair when they had a perfectly good bed to lie on. But then he was unconventional in every way, and she had quickly learned that if she wanted to keep him interested she had to go along with him.
But when he dropped to his knees in front of her and pulled her jeans and knickers right off it seemed his only intention this time was to please her. He grasped the tops of her thighs, parting the lips of her vagina with his thumbs, looked up at her with a wicked expression, then thrust his tongue into her.
This was an unexpected treat, and all resistance vanished. Camellia bent forward towards him, winding her fingers into his dark curls, watching his long red tongue darting in and out, and moaned in bliss.
'Do you want to come?' He halted for a moment, grinning up at her, and then pushed two fingers deep inside her.
Camellia could only nod and pull him closer to her.
He looked up at her, his mouth wet and slack, his eyes black unfathomable pools of wickedness. 'Then promise me you'll go and nick some groceries afterwards?' he said. 'No bottling out like you've done before?'
She knew immediately she'd been conned. It wasn't passion which made him start playing with her, he was just asserting his power over her. Yet although she felt a moment's shame, she was helpless.
'I promise,' she murmured, throwing back her head till it banged against the glass behind her. 'Whatever you say!'
Over the last two years Camellia had altered immeasurably in her outlook and personality, but in the last few weeks Dougie had worked on her character too, already influencing her to think like him. She scorned the middle classes for their ordered lives, and regarded the teachings of the church and the law as just another trap to keep people in line. She was learning to believe too that drugs brought enlightenment, that only fools worked and that sexual experimentation was all important if you were to find your real self.
Yet Camellia wasn't entirely happy with the fantasies which came into her head while Dougie was making love to her. Deep down she felt shamed that instead of being filled with love for him exclusively, she sometimes imagined three or four men doing things to her in turn, being tied up and screwed senseless while vicars, doctors and even dentists took her in wild erotic situations. Sometimes Dougie played out these stories, pretending she was a school girl and he a teacher, doing things that made her blush with shame later when she was on her own.
This time she imagined someone watching from a window overlooking their room. A clerk in a pinstriped suit, masturbating while she writhed under Dougie's tongue.
She loved the way Dougie's eyes went all dreamy as he licked at her. Every now and then he looked up to see her reaction, stuffing his fingers inside her, smiling at her wild moans. She was afraid that he would suddenly stop, as he had in the past, taking her almost to the point of delirium, then getting up and walking away, making her beg for more. Other times he would throw her down on the floor and force himself into her, coming in two or three strokes, then getting up and going out without even a kiss. But then there were the other times when he only thought of her pleasure, hours and hours of playing and stroking until she had multiple orgasms, then sleeping, holding her in his arms.
Today Dougie was neither teasing nor cruel. He spread her legs wider, using both fingers and tongue with tantalising sensuality. She could see the tip of his cock rising out of his opened jeans and the imagined man outside the window disappeared as she looked down at his flushed, tender face.
She was coming, digging her nails into his shoulders, screaming out in ecstasy. While she was still shaking from the orgasm, Dougie turned her round, bent her over and pushed himself into her from behind. Now she had to hold onto the windowsill to preven
t herself from falling as he gripped her hips and hammered away at her.
'You love my big cock, don't you?' he shouted.
'Yes,' she replied weakly, wishing he didn't have to be so crude.
'Can you feel it right inside your cunt? Eight inches of meat stuck up you.'
He came with a roar, reaching up and squeezing her breasts so hard she screamed out in pain. Then he was still, his sweat turning cold on her bare back as he withdrew and fell panting onto the bed. Camellia followed him, curling herself round his long body. She adored him most after sex, when his dark eyes turned to pools of melted chocolate and his lips lost their sneer. Even his body grew softer. For a short while he was all hers.
'I love you, Dougie,' she said with a catch in her voice, leaning up on one elbow to kiss his lips.
'Don't settle down and get comfy,' he said, turning his head away from her. 'The shop will be closed soon and you've got a promise to keep.'
Camellia crept down the dark stairs. She could hear Mr Tharrup's small press whirring away at the back of the building and she didn't want him coining out to speak to her. Mr Tharrup gave her the creeps, as did his dark, dirty building. He was well over sixty, obese, with a sweaty, red face and he leered at her whenever he saw her. Camellia still hadn't worked out the relationship between him and Dougie. Although she had seen printed flyers for clubs in the shop and Dougie claimed this was business he'd brought to Mr Tharrup, she had a strong suspicion there was something more to their relationship, something dark and unpleasant, just like the building. It seemed strange that a businessman would allow Dougie to live above his shop rent free.
Once out into Nottingham Court, Camellia pulled her black velvet antique cloak more securely round her. She had bought it in Kensington Market just for its beautiful jet beading; she certainly hadn't intended to use it as a cover-up for shoplifting. But it was ideal. Hidden beneath it she was wearing a Greek tapestry bag, slung over her shoulder. With two hands on show, hopefully no one would notice her popping the odd item or two beneath her cloak.