Camellia (10 page)

'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.

But when the tube halted between Kentish Town and Tufnell Park, her thoughts suddenly moved on to that file of letters. Now for the first time she found herself thinking of those three men with interest rather than rage.

Which of them was her father? Was it Magnus in Bath, Jack in Arundel or Miles in Kensington? She had read their letters so many times now, that she'd formed images of all of them. She felt Jack was the childhood sweetheart who had rescued Bonny from drowning. He was clearly a rough, uneducated man, his address a garage in the same village in Sussex where she had been evacuated to during the war.

Magnus in contrast seemed older and very well educated, a married man who had been tormented by his illicit affair with Bonny.

The third man, Miles, had only written once, a coldly dismissive letter as if Bonny was beneath his contempt. Camellia felt she ought to know who this man was. She wondered if he and his wife were one of the couples who used to come to dinner when her father was still alive.

Then amongst these letters was just one from a woman. She signed herself 'H' and it sounded as if she were a dancer too. It was an odd letter, written in a very cryptic manner, but yet there was such warmth, such affection for both her friend and Camellia she had to be important.

Camellia was just about to get off the tube at Archway when in a flash of clarity she saw a new dimension to those letters. Back in Rye they had seemed final proof that her mother was just a cold-hearted, calculating tramp. She had been afraid to hand them over to Bert Simmonds, not just because of further scandal, or indeed because one of these men might have been the cause of her mother's death, but because
she
was scared of facing any more unpalatable truth.

But now with her confidence boosted a little by discovering she could make friends, that she wasn't quite as fat and as plain as she'd always thought, she wasn't so much scared, as curious.

She would need to work on herself and become
someone
before she had enough nerve to approach each of these three men. But she must do it one day. She wouldn't be a complete person until she knew the whole truth.

Camellia walked into Archway House soon after six thirty. She was so happy she felt she might burst. Fat, frumpy Camellia was about to be buried and a slim, potentially attractive new one was about to emerge.

Miss Peet was tidying up the notice board in the hall as Camellia came through the door. Even at a glance she could see something good had happened today. The girl looked quite different. 'You look happy,' she said. 'And it's not even pay day!'

'I feel wonderful,' Camellia beamed. 'One of the girls at work did my make-up and I weighed myself.' She stopped short, suddenly feeling foolish.

Miss Peet smiled knowingly. She had noticed Camellia was losing weight for some weeks now. She made sure all her girls had a carefully balanced evening meal without too much stodge and many of them grew slimmer and more confident because of it. She wished she could work such miracles where making friends was concerned, but perhaps now Camellia could manage that herself.

'A word of advice from the old dragon,' she said with a smile. 'No more skulking in your room, after tea, get down into the lounge with the other girls. You can do it if you put your mind to it.'

Camellia put her head tentatively round the door of the lounge. There were five girls there in all. Madeline, who was one of the girls in her dormitory, was sharing the big settee with two new girls who had arrived a week ago. Rose, a big redhead,and Karen, a small dark girl from up North somewhere, sat on the floor in front of them.

'Hullo.' Rose looked round and smiled. 'Coming in to join us? There's nothing on the telly, so we're all moaning about our lack of boyfriends.'

Miss Peet had endeavoured to make the lounge homely, warm and comfortable. The armchairs and settees didn't match, and some of them were old and shabby, but a big fire was lit every evening, the shelves were full of books, and there was a piano and a big television. Boyfriends were allowed in this room until ten, but they were a rare sight; for most young men it was hard enough to face Miss Peet at the door, let alone an evening with half a dozen giggling girls.

'Come on,' Karen smiled, with unexpected warmth. 'We don't bite.' Rose introduced the new girls and then paused for a moment. 'I can't tell you anything about Camellia,' she said to them with a tinkle of laughter. 'Until now she's been a hermit. Madeline believes she's about to take Holy Orders.'

All these months Camellia had been so immersed in herself it had never occurred to her that most of the girls in the hostel were as alone as she was. She found it hard to jump in and talk in the easy way Rose and Madeline did, but she listened to them attentively, biding her time before she told them about herself.

Rose had left home to escape her new stepmother. Brenda and Christine, the new girls, said they'd left Scotland because there were no good jobs there. Karen had come straight from a children's home, and Madeline had left her home in Birmingham after a row with her parents about her boyfriend. Yet the conversation wasn't centred on hard-luck stories, even though not one of them appeared to have the cosy comfortable backgrounds Camellia had assumed. They also spoke about clothes, pop stars and boys – and before long they wanted to know about Camellia.

The events earlier in the day had removed Camellia's intentions of hiding her past. Instinctively she knew if she wanted to be accepted by these girls she had to be open. She told the story simply, without any attempt to tug on their heartstrings.

As she looked at the girls' faces she saw not only interest, but complete acceptance. She knew then that her life was going to change. She was one of them at last.

The conversation moved on to discussing Miss Peet's insistence at an eleven o'clock curfew for the girls who were under eighteen. Rose said they would need to think up some plausible excuse if they wanted to accept the invitation from some boys further down the road to their party next weekend.

'They're all art students from Hornsey,' Madeline explained with a giggle that implied she knew the boys quite well. 'They are beats and they all smoke reefers.'

A ripple of unease passed across all the girls' faces. Camellia saw an opportunity to score a few points. 'Sounds like fun,' she said with alacrity, even though her knowledge of beats and reefers was limited to one magazine article. 'I'll ask Miss Peet if you like. She thinks I'm a goody-goody and if I say we're all going together she can't very well refuse.'

'What on earth will we wear?' Brenda, the Scottish girl, looked down at her tidy pleated skirt.

'Jeans,' Madeline said firmly. 'And sloppy sweaters. The place is a pigsty.'

A week later, the day after Miss Peet had finally agreed to lift the curfew so all the girls could go to the party, Camellia decided she must buy a pair of jeans.

On her day off earlier in the week she had thrown caution to the wind and had her hair cut at a salon in Oxford Street. She had gone armed with a picture from a magazine with a model with a silky bob, but when the hairdresser combed her hair down right over her eyes and began snipping off a fringe, she was terrified she'd made a mistake. The feeling of panic grew as the girl chopped off at least three inches all round, but once it was blow-dried she felt like crying with happiness.

A heavy fringe rested on her eyebrows, at once hiding her big forehead and accentuating her dark eyes. Her hair was now shoulder-length, thick, shiny and heavy, and even when she tossed her head it bounced straight back into shape.

The successful haircut stimulated her into breaking into her savings. She had already bought a tight skirt, a pair of Granny shoes and a skinny-rib sweater to wear to work, along with new smaller underwear. Now it was time for the jeans.

"Those are much too big.' Suzanne looked into the changing room, while Camellia was trying some on in her lunch hour, and held out a smaller pair. 'You've got to have them skintight.'

Camellia thought the size fourteen pair were just about right, but she didn't dare say so. Obediently she took them off and accepted the size twelve from her friend's hands.

She got them on over her bottom but she couldn't pull up the zip.

'They're miles too small,' she gasped as she struggled with it.

Suzanne was standing there grinning at her. 'No they aren't. Lie down on your back, you'll get them done up then.'

Camellia giggled at this ridiculous suggestion,but she complied. She hoped no one would come in the changing rooms and see her lying there wrestling with a zip. 'I can't do this every time I go to the loo!' she squealed.

'They'll stretch, silly.' Suzanne was losing patience. 'You've got them done up now. Stand up!'

Camellia got up cautiously. She felt as if she were in a steel corset – she could hardly walk, let alone run or sit down.

'They look fabulous,' Suzanne insisted. 'Come out here and look at yourself.'

Camellia allowed herself to be led out to the mirror, blushing as a couple of customers stared at her.

But when she saw her reflection she gasped in astonishment. 'I look so skinny!' she exclaimed.

Jeans were a symbolic badge: they proclaimed I'm part of it all'. Camellia couldn't count the times she'd wished she could wear them. But now, seeing her bottom looking even sexier than Suzanne's, her stomach flat with no flab hanging over the waist, it felt like a miracle.

'How many times do I have to remind you of that?' Suzanne grinned good-naturedly. 'The only thing fat about you is your head. Now what are you going to wear with them?'

'Madeline said a sloppy jumper.' Camellia put her head on one side enquiringly. 'What do you think?'

'Only beatniks wear sloppy jumpers,' Suzanne snorted with disgust. 'You want something which shows your nice boobs. There's some really nice stripy Banlon tops over there. You'd look great in a red and black one.'

'They're too expensive,' Camellia frowned. T can only afford about three quid.'

Suzanne looked out the cubicle to check no one was listening. 'Nick one,' she whispered. 'Stick it in your pants when you go home.'

Camellia stared open-mouthed. She couldn't believe she'd heard that. 'I can't do that!'

'Most of the girls do it,' Suzanne smirked, 'including me, but don't you go splitting on us mind.'

Camellia bought the jeans and got her staff discount and they were sent down to the staff entrance for her to pick up as she went home. But Suzanne's suggestion kept niggling at her once she was back at work behind her counter. The top didn't matter that much to her; heaven knows she had enough sloppy jumpers which would do. Yet the desire to be in step with Suzanne clouded the moral issue. It would be so easy: the top would fold up to no bigger than a scarf. Suzanne claimed she had once even worn a jacket under her coat. The security man on the staff entrance always checked their bags, but he'd never been known to frisk anyone. If she chickened out wouldn't Suzanne think she was feeble?

As the afternoon wore on Camellia kept nipping over to the fashion department to look at the top. The one she fancied cost f6.19.11p red and black with long sleeves and a scoop neck. The more she looked at it, the more she wanted it.