Read Online Camellia by Lesley Pearse - Free Book Online

tall, slim grave-faced man with dark hair and a moustache. She could barely recall his face to memory now. But she could remember how it was when he was alive, the feeling of utter safety, being loved and wanted. Hearing his deep voice wafting up the stairs at night, arms lifting her up above his head when he came home.
    Maybe her mother had loved John more deeply than Camellia realised? Perhaps she was always searching for a replacement for him?
    Not even the jewellery box held any surprises. The pearl necklace, diamond earrings and gold bracelet she'd been given by her husband were all there. Wouldn't she have pawned those again, if it was money troubles?
    When Camellia had exhausted the possibilities of the room, she got down on her hands and knees to look under the bed, but even that revealed nothing but one laddered stocking. As she hauled herself back up though, holding onto the bed end, she noticed the bedspread was tucked in accidentally in one place, as if her mother had lifted the mattress to slide something beneath.
    Holding the mattress up with one hand, she put her hand in, moving it along slowly. Her fingers met something hard and flat, and out came a large brown envelope.
    It contained school reports, her parents' marriage licence and her father's death certificate. There were more photographs of her parents, many of them at their wedding, including one in a brass frame which had sat on the mantelpiece when they were in Mermaid Street. Her own birth certificate was there too, plus ten or twelve studio pictures of her up until she was about seven.
    She put them all back carefully. The police would let her have them all later, she didn't have to take them now. But as she slid them back under the mattress, her hands swept further under. Again something smooth, flat and stiff. Hastily she pulled it out, sitting on the bed to examine it.
    This wasn't an envelope but a wallet type file, made of stiff green card.
    A sudden noise from the street startled her and she moved over to the window. The Colleys next door were packing their car with picnic things and she suddenly realised she had been in the house for quite some time. The police could turn up any minute or Mrs Rowlands would find her missing and worry. She must leave now.
    Returning to the file she quickly flicked through it. It seemed to be letters from men, some of them so old they were discoloured. Bonny had tucked this away for safe keeping, along with the other envelope. It might only be old love letters, of no importance to anyone but Bonny, but the very fact it was hidden implied she didn't want just anyone to see them.
    'I'll destroy them if that's all it is,' she whispered, feeling Bonny's presence so closely she could have been standing beside her. 'I won't let on to anyone. I love you, Mummy.'
    It took only a minute to straighten the bedspread, close all doors and drawers. Another to get together a few of her own things in a bag, with the file tucked away beneath them and she was gone, closing the front door firmly behind her, leaving the key to swing on its string. 'Camellia! Where have you been?' Mrs Rowlands asked plaintively, turning from the bacon she was frying as Camellia came in the back way into the bakery kitchen. 'You can't imagine what I was thinking.'
    It was the first time Camellia had ever seen Mrs Rowlands without an apron. She looked like an overstuffed bolster in her candy-striped blue cotton dress. The kitchen looked strange too – no heaps of baking trays waiting to be washed or uncooked pies and pasties stacked on racks waiting for space in the huge ovens. It was cool and very well scrubbed.
    'I had to go out for a walk.' Camellia concealed the bag behind her back. 'I didn't want to wake you. I'm sorry if I made you worry.'
    'Well, you're here now. Take this up to Mr Rowlands.' She handed Camellia a plate of bacon and eggs. 'I'll bring ours.'
    Mr Rowlands was already sitting at the laid breakfast table in the living room, reading