Camellia

  Camellia had no choice but to leave Rye for good. Once the funeral was over, people treated her like a stray dog. They pitied her, offered her titbits, but no one really wanted her, or understood her feelings. Even weeks after Bonny was laid to rest they were all still gossiping about the expensive, anonymous bouquets of flowers which had arrived for the funeral. Not one of these mysterious admirers had the courage or the compassion to send a few comforting words to Camellia, or even a few pounds in an envelope to help her rebuild her life. The only letters which arrived were more unpaid bills.

  Mr and Mrs Rowlands were kind, but in the weeks Camellia was with them the debt of gratitude was mounting up so high she felt smothered by it. She had been working like a slave in the bakery to try to repay them. Getting a job in Peter Robinson's in Oxford Street and living in a hostel wasn't that much better than what she had in Rye, but at least she could start with a clean slate.

  Miss Peet did not seem at all surprised by Camellia's outburst. 'Shall I tell you something?' she said as she reached out across the narrow coffee table and took Camellia's hand. 'I adored my mother. She too was widowed when I was young. We were so close I didn't want or need any friends. But it wasn't until she grew old and frail that I realised just how unhealthy that is too. I could have travelled, made something of my life, but she held me too tightly. I'm not sure which is worse, the mother who loves too much or the one that doesn't love enough.'

  Camellia was a little thrown by this admission, yet it reminded her of the things her mother had said when Granny died. Camellia was only ten then and she'd gone to London with her mother for the funeral. Afterwards they'd gone to Granny's house in Dagenham to sort things out. Bonny broke down and cried when she saw the pictures of herself as a child, almost filling the tiny living room. Upstairs her old bedroom was just as it had been when she was little – her dolls on shelves, her nightdresses, socks and knickers still tucked away in the drawers, almost as if Granny thought her small child was just away visiting friends.

  On the way home Bonny had tried to explain her feelings. She said as a child she'd felt smothered by love and blind adoration, that it was too big a burden knowing her mother's sole reason for living was for her. She went on to explain how the war and evacuation had liberated her, that while other eleven-year-olds pined for their mothers, she had hoped she would never have to return home again.

  'So what did you feel when your mother died?' Camellia asked. Her own feelings fluctuated between anger, disgust and loathing, but every now and then a wave of pure grief would hit her and that was worse than hating.

  'Mostly relief.' Miss Peet sighed deeply, as if this admission was painful. 'I knew I'd never have to get up in the night to give her medicine again. I could travel and live my life without having her to worry about.'

  Camellia just stared at the older woman. She wasn't used to adults being so open about their feelings.

  'I'm only telling you this to illustrate my point,' Miss Peet said gently. 'Both of us have had our lives spoilt by our mothers, though in entirely different ways. You're luckier than me in some respects because you have your whole life ahead of you. I was in my mid-forties before I was free. Remember the good things about your mother, Mel. Don't let bitterness get the upper hand. Now let's finish this tea and I'll show you your room. The other girls will be home soon.'

  If Miss Peet hadn't brought the matter to an end when she did Camellia just might have told her about the file of letters she'd found. But as it was she felt better inside. Maybe she could show them to her some other time, and ask her advice.

  Camellia soon learned she had been wrong in thinking that her life was about to change dramatically for the better. In Rye her biggest problem had been gossip. In London it was a wall of complete indifference. There were many times in her first four months of living in the hostel and working at Peter Robinson's when Camellia would almost have welcomed being at the centre of another scandal, just so that someone would notice her. She felt as if she had become invisible.

  She liked her job on the handbag counter at Peter Robinson's. She found she had a flair for selling, and was complimented by the floor supervisor for her skill at display, her attentive attitude to customers and her reliability. The store had been so busy in the run-up to Christmas, and afterwards with the January sale, that Camellia hardly had time to consider that all she knew of the other salesgirls was through observation and overheard gossip. But back home at Archway House she was totally aware of her isolation from the other girls. She had not made one friend.

  An ache grew inside her as she saw the other girls in tight little cliques, closing ranks against her. Her weight, clothes, even her Sussex accent set her apart. It was just the way it had been at school, almost as if she had 'Reject' stamped across her forehead. So she pretended she liked to be alone, avoided going in the lounge, went to bed early with a book and on Sundays took herself off for long walks, mentally listing all the things she had to be grateful for. She had her own cubicle in a dormitory which she shared with three other girls. It was on the first floor overlooking the back garden, bright, clean and warm, with a very comfortable bed and her own pictures and posters on the walls to make it homely. The meals were always good with lots of fresh vegetables and fruit. She could have a bath daily if she wanted to, there were washing machines and irons in the basement and the only cleaning she was required to do was to dust her cubicle.

  But at night she lay awake listening to the other three girls chatting and giggling. They borrowed each other's clothes and make-up, did each other's hair, but ignored Camellia.

  Her sixteenth birthday went by without any cards. Christmas, a few days later, passed with only Miss Peet and a new girl called Janice, who kept bursting into tears. Everyone else had gone home to their families. Camellia had a card and a woolly hat from Mrs Rowlands, a gift voucher from Bert Simmonds and bath salts from Miss Peet. They ate roast chicken, pulled crackers and sat watching the television, but although Miss Peet tried to be jolly, even she seemed to be dwelling on happier times.

  One morning in February, four months after she'd arrived in London, Camellia was travelling to work as normal on the tube when she felt slightly giddy. She guessed it might be that she was hungry: she had skipped the evening meal the night before and had rushed out that morning without any breakfast. But around ten, just before the mid-morning break when she intended to get a sandwich from the canteen, she suddenly felt strange again. There was a buzzing sound in her head, and her eyes wouldn't seem to focus properly. Before she could get to a chair to sit down, everything went black.

  She came to, finding herself lying on the floor, surrounded by a crowd of customers and shop assistants. Suzanne, the small blonde girl from hosiery, was kneeling beside her smoothing back her hair.

  Suzanne was the most popular girl in the entire store. She was the one everyone went out of their way to share their breaks with. Until now she hadn't so much as smiled at Camellia, much less showed any interest in her.

  'I'll take care of her, Miss Puckridge,' the blonde insisted, helping the supervisor to get Camellia on her feet. I'll take her to the rest room and make her a cup of tea.'

  As Camellia was led away supported by Suzanne, she was still too dazed from fainting to feel embarrassment or indeed to offer any explanation. It was only once the other girl had sat her down in an armchair, put the kettle on and then crouched down in front of her, her small elfin face full of concern, that Camellia realised she'd accidentally broken through the wall of indifference.

  'You aren't pregnant, are you?' Suzanne asked.

  Camellia shook her head. It was such a preposterous suggestion, but even in her shaky disorientated state she knew she must somehow turn her predicament to her advantage.

  Everything about Suzanne made Camellia feel inadequate. She was a mod, and she looked good in her mid-calf tight skirts and Granny shoes: small and slim, with silky blonde hair which hung over one eye like a silk curtain. All day other girls risked Miss Pu
ckridge's displeasure by nipping off from their counters to chat to her. She was only a year or so older than Camellia, but she had all the confidence and poise of a twenty-year-old.

  'I'm certainly not pregnant.' Camellia managed a watery smile. 'Not unless you believe in immaculate conceptions.'

  Suzanne laughed, her pale blue eyes crinkling up in merriment. 'Well, that's a relief,' she said, turning back to the kettle to make the tea. 'That leaves the other theory, that you've been starving yourself. Any truth in that?'

  Camellia looked at Suzanne through her eyelashes as she poured the boiling water into the teapot. Not one bulge of flesh spoiled the line of her tight skirt. She even dared to put a belt round her jumper. Could she possibly understand what it felt like to be fat? 'Not faying to starve, but I have been dieting,' she said lightly.

  'What on earth for?' Suzanne turned round sharply, her false eyelashes fluttering in surprise.

  'Come on!' Camellia smiled. 'You don't have to be polite. I know I'm huge, but I've been trying to do something about it.'

  Suzanne looked puzzled. She took a step or two back, one finger on her little pointed chin, and studied Camellia. 'I thought you were a bit podgy when you first came here,' she said thoughtfully. 'But honestly you aren't now. You can't possibly weigh more than nine stone.'

  Camellia felt a moment of elation. Her clothes had got a bit baggy, but until now she just thought they'd stretched. She wasn't brave enough to weigh herself in a chemist's. 'A doctor weighed me for my medical, back in September,' she insisted. 'I was eleven and a half stone then and he gave me a diet sheet.'

  Suzanne looked triumphant. 'Well the diet obviously worked. Have you weighed yourself recently?'

  'I didn't stick to it.' Camellia dropped her eyes. 'I couldn't. I was working in a bakery you see. I was supposed to go back to him before I left Sussex, but I didn't. I guess I'd had enough of questions after my mum died.'

  Suzanne looked startled. She covered her mouth with her hand, clearly embarrassed. 'I'm so sorry,' she said hastily. 'I didn't know. Was this recently? Is that why you came to London?'

  Camellia had told herself after her initial talk to Miss Peet that she was going to put her mother's death behind her and never speak of it again. Seeing Suzanne's sympathetic reaction, though, she realised that this might have been a mistake. 'It's okay. It was back in August,' she said, hoping she could keep the girl's interest. 'She drowned you see. I'll tell you about it if you like. But maybe I ought to get a sandwich first. I don't want to keel over again.'

  Suzanne put a mug of sweet tea in Camellia's hand, then went to get a sandwich from the canteen. Judging by the speed at which she came back, she had run all the way to the fourth floor.

  The rest room was a small messy place with an adjoining toilet, used only for tea and cigarette breaks. The fug of cigarette smoke, the dilapidated chairs, piles of well-worn magazines and unwashed cups was at odds with the spotless and ordered department store just beyond its door. From time to time Miss Puckridge insisted the window was left open to air it, but the noise of the traffic from Oxford Street below meant her orders were disobeyed.

  Camellia explained everything between mouthfuls of cheese sandwich and gulps of tea.

  Suzanne's eyes filled with tears, and she even left her cigarette burning away in the ashtray.

  'Oh, Mel,' she sighed at last. 'That's so awful. I can't imagine how I'd manage if anything happened to my mum.'

  Camellia reached out a tentative hand and touched the girl's arm. 'I feel much better now. Thank you.'

  They had a second cup of tea, even though Suzanne should've gone back to work by now, and Camellia admitted how lonely she'd felt, both at work and at the hostel.

  'We all thought you were stuck up when you started here. I wish I'd known what had happened – I wouldn't have been so mean to you.' Suzanne's crisp London voice was subdued now, frown lines furrowing her forehead.

  'You weren't mean.' Camellia smiled – all Suzanne had done was to ignore her. 'Besides the last thing I wanted was pity. I'd had a basin full of that. And I know fat plain girls don't set the world alight.'

  There was a moment's silence, then to her surprise Suzanne started to giggle.

  'You silly cow!' She caught hold of Camellia's hand and pulled her up onto her feet and over to a mirror on the wall. 'I've already told you, you aren't fat! You certainly aren't plain either. Take a real look at yourself!'

  They stood side by side. Camellia saw what she expected: a big girl almost dwarfing the smaller blonde, hair scraped back into a ponytail, sallow skin, dark slanty eyes. But Suzanne caught hold of her skirt and cardigan behind her back, pulling the fabric tight to show the lines of her body.

  'See what I mean? You aren't much wider than me. It's just those dowdy clothes of yours. And your face is great! You've got really good bone structure and skin, you just haven't learned how to make the best of yourself. Look at your hair dragged back like that! It should be cut nicely and left loose. If it's quiet this afternoon I'll get Carol on make-up to give you a few tips.'

  They had to go back to work then, but Camellia's head was reeling with what Suzanne had said. She didn't believe for one minute that she'd got better looking, even though her spots had cleared up. Yet shielded by the counter, she ran her hands down over her hips. To her utter astonishment she found she could no longer grasp much flesh.

  There was no mirror in the bathrooms at Archway House; the only full-length one in the dormitory was by Wendy's cubicle and she certainly wouldn't dream of studying herself in that in case someone saw her. Could just giving up sweets, cakes and pies really have worked a miracle without her noticing?

  Camellia waited in Boots, the chemists, until a group of girls had moved right away from the scales, then slunk towards them, keeping her head down. It had been a very long morning, waiting for her dinner break so she could come here.

  She stood on the scales, opening her coat before she put the penny in the slot to stop anyone else seeing the result. As the penny dropped she put her hand over the eleven as a precaution, but to her absolute amazement the indicator only went to nine stone eight pounds.

  For a moment she could only stare in shock. Surely it was wrong. Could she really have lost over two stone?

  'Are the scales accurate?' she asked an assistant at the counter.

  'Of course they are,' the woman pursed up her mouth as if resenting such a question. 'They get tested each Monday without fail.'

  If Camellia hadn't gone over to Suzanne and whispered the result of her weighing session as soon as she got back to the store, maybe the pretty blonde would've forgotten her earlier promise about make-up. But she looked around the shop, saw how few customers there were and escorted Camellia over to Carol on the beauty corner.

  Carol, with her flame-red Cilia Black hair and talons to match, seemed even more formidable than Suzanne. Everything about her was perfection, from her creamy skin to her knowledge about cosmetics. She and Suzanne were the golden girls – pretty, popular and sought after. But all it took was one word from Suzanne and Carol whisked Camellia into a chair, dragged the rubber band out of her hair and brushed it through.

  'You, my girl, have got all the classic features of a real beauty, not like me and Suzanne with our fair skins and dyed hair,' she said with enthusiasm. 'Your hair is naturally shiny and bouncy. It just needs a decent cut. I've been dying to have a go at you for ages,' she admitted.

  Carol began by giving her a facial, tidying up her eyebrows, before starting on the make-up. 'You don't need a great deal,' she said as she smoothed on some foundation. 'You've just got to define the best bits, your cheek bones, eyes and those lovely luscious lips. Most women would kill for those!'

  Even Miss Puckridge, the strawberry blonde, haughty supervisor, came forward with advice. She didn't seem to mind one bit that Camellia wasn't at her counter. 'Listen to what Carol tells you,' she smiled down at Camellia in the chair. 'Anyone who's ever seen her or myself without make-up would testify
to its amazing powers.'

  It was a shock to Camellia to discover her face was not round as she'd always thought but oval. There were interesting hollows beneath her cheek bones and, now enhanced with mascara and eyeliner, her almond-shaped dark eyes stood out in a way she'd never noticed before. When the girls went on to insist she tried a mod knitted two-piece with a long tight skirt, she was even more astounded. Her hips were only marginally wider than Suzanne's, her stomach was almost flat, and she had a waist.

  'I don't wanna be horrible,' Suzanne said, picking up Camellia's navy-blue shapeless skirt and jumper with a disparaging look, 'but the best place for these is the dustbin.'

  Camellia laughed. She would gladly throw them away now. To think when Mrs Rowlands had helped pick them out in Rye she'd thought they were wonderful!

  For the rest of that afternoon, Camellia stood behind her counter mentally adding up how much she had saved and what she could buy with it. Was she brave enough to wear tight sweaters or a clingy skirt? What if someone laughed at her?

  But before she went back to the hostel, she had to thank Suzanne. She waited until Miss Puckridge had disappeared up to the first floor, then slipped over to the hosiery stand.

  Suzanne was tidying up the stockings. Seen from the back, her small bottom in her tight skirt looked like two grapefruits.

  'Suzanne,' she said hesitantly.

  'Yes, glamour puss.' The small blonde spun round grinning.

  'I just wanted to thank you,' Camellia said, blushing scarlet. She hoped she didn't sound pathetic. 'You've helped me so much today, talking and everything.' She stopped short, unable to get out what was in her heart.

  'That's what mates are for,' Suzanne grinned. 'Me and Carol will help you sort out some new clothes. Just don't you go back slimming or skipping meals!'

  For most of the tube ride home Camellia was lost in a wonderful daydream of how becoming slim and pretty would change her life. She could sunbathe in the parks this summer, and choose pink or red clothes instead of navy blue. She could go to dances and parties. She might even find a boyfriend.