Camellia

  She crossed Endell Street and paused outside the Greek delicatessen on the corner of Betterton Street, trying to summon up her courage. It was quarter past six now and the street busy with traffic. But there were few pedestrians: this was an area of small businesses and most of the work force had already gone home.

  Andreous, the flirtatious and portly Greek who owned the shop, was just inside, perched on a stool by the cash register, smoking a cigarette. Another half an hour and he would be closed.

  ' 'Ow are you today, pretty one?' he said, as usual. His accent was Greek but with a Cockney influence. Camellia liked him – his doleful dark eyes, his jollity and warmth. She knew she shouldn't be intending to rob him.

  'Fine thank you,' she said cheerfully and picked up a wire basket from the pile by the counter. There were three or four other customers further back in the shop. With luck someone would want cheese or ham cut from the deli counter and Andreous would be distracted. 'And you?'

  'Not so bad,' he grinned. 'Business 'as been better, but then it's been worse too. As Momma used to say "Andreous, not all the bottles of wine you open will be good ones." '

  Walking down the shop Camellia put a bag of sugar in the basket. A tin of salmon went straight under the cloak, quickly followed by a large piece of rump steak from the cold cabinet. Biscuits in the basket, a packet of bacon and half a pound of butter into the bag. Dougie often got a bottle of gin or whisky but she didn't dare risk that. Instead she briskly walked round the gondola in the centre of the shop and selected a small loaf in full view of Andreous, who was just replacing a salami sausage on its hook.

  'Have you got any mushrooms?' she asked. 'I can't see any.'

  'Maybe I 'ave some out the back.' His dark eyes looked weary, he'd had a long day. ' 'Ow many you want?'

  'Just a quarter. I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble.'

  She managed to get a good bottle of red wine and forty Rothman's from behind the cash desk while he was gone.

  Camellia was very scared while she was paying Andreous. The hidden bag was heavy and he had only to come round the counter and give her a playful hug for her to be caught out. Fortunately the telephone rang just as he gave her the change and he turned away to answer it. Camellia took her carrier bag in one hand, waved goodbye with the other and left hurriedly.

  'Groovy,' Dougie enthused when she got back. 'I always knew you could do it. You'll be an even better tea leaf than me with a bit more training. I never had the nerve to take fags.'

  Suzanne had once said that her only reason for stealing from Peter Robinson's was greed. In sixteen months of helping herself to clothes, Camellia had so many she was hard pushed to wear them all. But she had also discovered another reason, one she had never considered until she'd mastered shoplifting. The excitement.

  Big stores like Selfridges were the best. With all that wonderful array of items just lying there on counters and rails. The more difficult and dangerous it was, the more the excitement grew. Leaving the shop was terrifying. Sometimes she would pause at the doors, expecting any moment to feel the hand on her shoulder and hear 'Excuse me, madam, will you come with me to the manager's office for a moment?'

  Yet the moment she was well out on the street, scurrying away through the crowds of honest shoppers, Camellia felt absolute elation. It was better than drugs or sex, better than listening to Jimi Hendrix at full volume.

  All through the autumn she felt like an actress, playing a dual role. She learned to win the assistants' trust in her, breaking up their otherwise boring day with a friendly chat. Her knowledge of store procedure helped: she knew how to spot detectives and recognise assistants who were easily distracted. All the time she was helping herself to anything she wanted.

  Dougie was impressed at her skill and daring. He openly admitted she was far more adept at it than he was.

  Sometimes Dougie worked with her. He would create a diversion while she stole something big to sell on to a fence, or she would stuff a bag to capacity with stolen items, then at a given signal she would swop her bag for his identical one, often filled with old paperback books and perhaps a couple of worn sweaters. Only once was she stopped by a store detective and although Camellia was sure the man guessed she'd been working with an accomplice, he had no alternative but to apologise for stopping her.

  She and Dougie laughed helplessly for hours when they got home. Camellia acted out the whole scene for him, imitating the poor embarrassed security man, who had actually begun to stutter as he opened her bag. She felt all powerful, not just for beating the system, but because she'd found a way of becoming Dougie's equal.

  Stealing clothes and household items began to lose its attraction once there was nothing more they needed. Camellia had got table lamps, crockery, kitchen utensils, bed-linen and towels, and the miserable cold flat began to look a great deal more welcoming once she'd stolen gay bedspreads to put over the old settee and a few colourful Indian durries to hang on the walls. She had all the pretty underwear she needed, dozens of sweaters, dresses, handbags, jackets and coats. But the thought of stealing just to sell the items on to someone else for a fraction of their value, somehow dampened the excitement.

  One cold blustery afternoon in December, Camellia turned to pickpocketing. She was choosing a magazine from the newspaper stand at Piccadilly Circus when an American got out of a cab just beside her.

  She probably wouldn't even have looked at him if he hadn't been arguing with the driver.

  'Look, mate,' the driver was saying impatiently. 'If you think there's a quicker bleedin' way from Notting Hill to Piccadilly Circus than the way I brought you down Bayswater Road and Oxford Street, then I suggest you catch an 'effing bus next time.'

  The American was short and fat, wearing a loud checked overcoat that looked several sizes too big and a bright yellow wool scarf. As Camellia watched him dump his suitcases on the pavement and get out his wallet, she could see it was stuffed with notes. Instead of putting the wallet back into the inside pocket of his coat where he'd got it from, the American stuffed it angrily in his coat pocket, then picked up his bags and began walking back towards the Cafe Royal.

  Camellia forgot all about the magazines she was going to buy. All she could see was the end of that black leather wallet sticking out of his right-hand pocket. She followed him, picking up speed among the crowds until she was just behind him.

  The man's case and briefcase were so bulky that his arms weren't touching his sides. It was the easiest thing in the world to reach out from under her cloak, grasp the wallet firmly, pull it gently out, then withdraw her hand back into her cloak.

  Perversely she still followed him, allowing other shoppers to come between them. She felt absolutely no guilt, only pleasure. He was obviously a rich-man and a mean one at that.

  Dougie was astounded when she showed it to him.

  'You dipped his pocket?' His lean, olive face was a picture of disbelief, shock and awe. He touched the expensive wallet reverently and smelled the soft leather. 'Camellia, that's seriously bad. What if a pig had seen you?'

  'The hand is quicker than the eye,' she laughed and snatching the wallet back from him, opened it and spilled the contents onto their bed.

  They counted it together: two hundred and twenty pounds in twenty-pound notes, a hundred dollars and a few German marks.

  They threw away the snapshots of his family and the return air ticket to Chicago. When they went out that night to eat at the Bistingo in Queensway, they didn't give the owner of the wallet a thought.

  Camellia wore a white rabbit coat she'd helped herself to from C&A, over a new black Ossie Clark minidress; Dougie wore his new cashmere pea-jacket and a floral shirt she'd got him from John Stevens in Carnaby Street, and they took a taxi both ways.

  It was a wonderful night. Over French onion soup, pigeon in red wine and a bottle of sparkling wine, Dougie held her hand across the table and spoke of his plans for their future.

  'We'll start saving properly,' he said. 'I've got a coupl
e of deals coming up just after Christmas, then in March we'll pack up and go to Morocco. We can live like this all the time there, Camellia. I'll get some contact sorted out there to buy dope. We'll find a real house by the sea. When we need more bread we just buy a weight of dope, smuggle it back here and flog it.'

  He painted word pictures as picturesque and vivid as a postcard. Camellia saw them both in a little Arabic house, perched on a hill looking out to a turquoise sea, eating juicy peaches, drinking iced lemon tea. Their friends would drop by to visit them on their way through to Marrakech, they would swim and sunbathe all day and never be cold again.

  That night, when they made love, it was tender and sweet. It didn't matter that the gas fire didn't heat the room or that the shutters rattled in the wind. They had one another and soon they'd be looking back on this awful flat with laughter. Middle-aged American men around Piccadilly became Camellia's main target during December. She learned to track them down in banks and busy stores before robbing them in a crowded street. She dressed for this very carefully, never wearing anything which would make people suspicious, her fur coat left open to reveal a low-necked tight minidress, her hair and make-up as carefully done as if she was on her way to a wedding.

  To her, the way these men displayed their wealth was obscene. They deserved to be relieved of it.

  'Excuse me, sir,' She would smile right into their eyes, leaning forward a little so they could see down into her cleavage. 'I'm afraid a bird's done his business on your hair.'

  They always reacted the same way, a hand moving to their heads, their fat faces flushed with embarrassment, never for one moment suspecting the pretty girl with shining long hair and a tiny miniskirt was going to rob them.

  'I'll clean it off for you,' she'd say, smiling understandingly. 'It's supposed to be lucky but it isn't very nice, is it?'

  With a tissue in one hand she'd mop away at them, distracting them with her cleavage, long legs and friendly banter. It only took a second to get her hand inside the appropriate pocket, another to slip it into hers.

  Sometimes they tried to date her, almost begging her to come for a drink. 'You are a real sweety,' was her stock answer. 'But I've got to meet my boyfriend. Another time perhaps.'

  She was off into the crowd before they could draw breath, down into the underground toilets to count the notes and dispose of the evidence, then home to Dougie to while away the rest of the day smoking dope, listening to music, making love and basking in his admiration.

  Early in 1968 Dougie came home one afternoon grinning from ear to ear.

  Camellia was huddled over the gas fire, with a blanket round her. It was a little after four, but dark outside. She had closed the shutters hours ago to try and make the room warmer, but it did no good.

  Dougie had been gone since ten that morning. His Afghan coat was covered with snow and it gleamed on his dark curls like a sprinkling of sequins.

  'It's still snowing then?' she said, just for conversation. Dougie didn't like to be asked where he'd been.

  'Yup, it's six inches in places,' he said cheerfully, putting his coat over the back of a chair and coming closer to the fire to warm his hands. 'You should see Hyde Park, it looks like a Christmas card.'

  Camellia didn't really want any reminders of Christmas. Dougie hadn't been able to get any dope, either for himself to smoke or to sell, and he'd been like a bear with a sore head. Camellia had cooked a chicken and all the trimmings, but he'd found fault with everything.

  'How would you like a night in a posh hotel?' he asked. 'Long hot baths, loads of food and booze?'

  'I'd die for it,' she said. In fact she would settle just for getting into bed.

  'Well, princess, your wish is granted.' He made a low bow and kissed her feet. 'This Saturday, and get some kinky undies to please me.'

  He said he wanted to take her for a long weekend to Brighton, but he was afraid the trains would be cancelled because of the snow. But as Camellia had never stayed in any hotel, not since she was a kid and came to London with her mother, she was just thrilled to be going somewhere smart.

  'It's going to be like a fantasy,' he grinned as they chose underwear from a shop in Shaftesbury Avenue. 1 want you to make out you're a tart I've just picked up on the streets and I'll give you the time of your life.'

  It was just after eight when they got out of the taxi in Upper Berkeley Street. It had stopped snowing two days before and the roads had been cleared, but there was still a great deal on roofs, trees and walls. The George Hotel looked wonderfully inviting, golden light spilling out of the half-glazed doors down white marble steps.

  Camellia was wearing her white fur coat, and beneath it a tight red dress, black stockings and high heels.

  She was glad Dougie seemed so confident. Just walking into the plush foyer with a uniformed doorman and a smart blonde receptionist behind the desk made her blush. But Dougie announced himself as Mr Green and signed the register as if he'd spent his life in such places.

  'From now on you've got to play the game,' he said as they got in the lift.

  Dougie had given her some speed just an hour before but it wasn't until they got into the room that she noticed how stoned she was.

  The warmth and luxury wrapped round her like a blanket. The big bed was turned down in readiness for them, and the heavy brocade curtains, soft cream carpet and beautiful bathroom beyond made her feel like a film star. There was champagne in an ice bucket and a basket of fruit, and when Dougie switched on some soft music, Camellia felt herself being carried into the fantasy.

  'Let me take your coat,' Dougie said, just like a gentleman. As he slipped it off her shoulders he bent to kiss her neck. 'Now some champagne.'

  Camellia tried out the bed as Dougie opened the bottle. She felt like bouncing on it, but that wasn't in character for the fantasy. The black basque bought in Shaftesbury Avenue was tight and restrictive, but it made her feel deliriously naughty. She lay back on the bed seductively, propping herself up on one elbow, and pulled her skirt up so Dougie would just get a glimpse of stocking-tops. A long low mirror on the dressing table and another behind her above the bed gave her a perfect, all-round view of herself, something she never got at home.

  She felt she'd never looked so sexy. Her red dress was dramatic, the basque pushing up her breasts so they almost spilled over the low neckline. With her long dark hair loose on her shoulders and false eyelashes enhancing her almond eyes, she could be a beauty queen, or at least a high-class call girl.

  Dougie had never looked quite so cool before either. In a new red velvet jacket, a frilly shirt and black tight trousers, his hair freshly washed and tied back in a ponytail, he made her think of cardsharps on Mississippi river boats.

  'Come and sit on my lap,' he suggested, passing her a glass of champagne. 'Let's get to know one another a little better.' Camellia was only too pleased to do so. She kicked off her shoes, took a sip of her drink, giggled as the bubbles went up her nose, then wiggled her way over to where he sat in an armchair.

  'You're very beautiful.' He stroked her hair, then ran one finger lightly round her lips as if it was their first date. 'Can I kiss you?'

  This was the kind of fantasy that really got her going. Dougie smelled beautiful, he had shaved carefully and the drink was going straight to her head.

  He kissed her the way he had on their first night together, so tenderly she was reassured he really loved her. If she wanted him to do this more often she would have to make the night memorable for him too.

  Standing up, she turned the music up just a little louder and started to dance. Dougie smiled up at her, his eyes said he adored her. She was good at dancing and the soft lights, the deep pile beneath her feet made her feel wanton and abandoned.

  Swaying her hips she teased him, slowly reaching behind her to unzip her dress and let it slide down her body to reveal the basque, stockings and those wicked flame-red, crutchless panties.

  A glimpse of herself in the mirror brought a rush of excitement.
The exposed breasts, the white of her thighs between the black basque and the stockings, and the mound of dark hair peeping through the panties made her think of photographs she'd seen in Soho bookshop windows. She was the favourite girl in a harem, brought on for her master's delight. Tonight she would do everything he'd ever dreamed of.

  She opened her legs wider, lowered her hand to her vagina and parted her lips, gasping more at her own audacity than with passion.

  'More,' Dougie urged her. 'More!'

  He was always trying to make her masturbate in front of him, but until now she had always been too embarrassed. But it was as if she was someone else tonight. It was watching him that got her really excited. His eyes were glowing, lips red and moist, every now and then his tongue flickering across them. She put her fingers right into herself, groaning with pleasure and when Dougie moved from his seat to lift her up in his arms, she slid one into his mouth.

  'Delicious,' he whispered as he laid her down on the bed. He didn't seem to notice they were facing the wrong way, but then it hardly mattered to her either.

  The speed slowed things down, yet heightened the sensations. Each kiss was longer and deeper, as he stroked her thighs, her arms and back so lingeringly every nerve-ending responded. He moved one of the spotlights on the bed so it played right onto her open legs and pointed out her reflection in the mirror above the bed.

  'Watch yourself come,' he whispered, thrusting his fingers into her already wet and ripe fanny. She had no need to fantasise about anything now to heighten the sensation. Just the sight of Dougie's pointed red tongue moving down to lick her, her nipples like two big raspberries sticking out above the black satin, the suspenders, stocking-tops and the opulence of the room was enough. Dougie was licking at her like a man possessed, still fully dressed.

  'I want to suck you,' she commanded him, fumbling for the zip on his trousers. 'Now.'

  Dougie peeled off his clothes slowly, pausing every now and then to touch her again or to bend and kiss her. He was wearing new tiny black underpants and his bulge looked enormous.