Read Online Camellia by Lesley Pearse - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lesley Pearse
Tags: Fiction
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the Sunday People. He was as thin as his wife was fat, almost bald, except for a few wispy strands stretched over from one ear to the other, but his eyes were kind. He smiled as she put his breakfast in front of him.
Last night she'd been so very glad to be here. The small bright rooms held all the comfort and security her own home lacked. It was soothing to have a bath run, to be tucked into bed and be clucked over with sympathy, but now in the light of day it felt like a prison.
Mrs Rowlands was a gossip, and until yesterday she'd always been quite cool towards her. Wasn't it more likely that the woman offered her a home here, more from the value of sensationalism than real kindness.
'What's that?' As Mrs Rowlands came in with Camellia's and her own breakfast, her sharp eyes noticed the bag immediately.
'Just a few things from home,' Camellia said, blushing with guilt. 'I was going past there so I thought I'd nip in and collect them.'
'You shouldn't have gone there alone.' Mrs Rowlands clucked round her like a mother hen, pushing her towards the breakfast table. "The police didn't want you in there yet, until they've had time to look around. I could have taken you there later.'
Camellia felt tears pricking her eyelids. 1 only wanted my nightie and things. I didn't touch anything else.' She held her breath, terrified Mrs Rowlands might open the bag, but Mr Rowlands spoke out.
'Of course you wanted your things, my dear.' He reached out and patted her hand, his small, hangdog face full of sympathy. 'Enid can't help worrying, she's made that way. Now eat up your breakfast before it gets cold.'
At seven that evening a smell of yeast rose up through the house as Mr and Mrs Rowlands began mixing the dough for the next day down in the bakery.
Camellia crept out onto the landing to check one last time. She could hear their voices, muted by two flights of narrow stairs. Now was her chance.
The day had been interminable. Although she'd known the Rowlands for most of her life, she'd found it impossible to communicate with them.
It seemed rude to read a book, even ruder to ask if she could go to her room and be alone. Mr Rowlands had his nose in the newspaper and his wife kept up a stream of gossip. If she'd only talked about Bonny Camellia might have been able to cry, but instead she made a point of never bringing up her name.
During the afternoon Camellia had heard Mrs Rowlands talking about her on the telephone to one of her friends, commenting on how much roast beef and Yorkshire pudding Camellia had eaten. She'd claimed she didn't think the girl was upset at all.
It seemed as if Mrs Rowlands were intentionally embarrassing her. She'd remarked on the holes in her shoes, offered her a huge cotton dress of her own because Camellia's blouse gaped at the bust, and dabbed at her spots with TCP. Maybe she was trying to be motherly, but it felt remarkably similar to the cruel jibes Camellia experienced daily at school.
The clock hands went round so slowly Camellia felt she might break down and scream. Her whole being longed to be outside, walking in the sunshine alone. She was burning to read those letters, yet at the same time she felt guilty at taking them. When at last Mr Rowlands suggested she had an early night when they went down to the bakery, Camellia could have kissed him.
'You'll feel easier after the funeral,' he said in genuine sympathy, as if he'd guessed how it had been for her today. 'You're far too young for something like this, but we're here to help you.'
Camellia got into bed, arranging the covers so she could pull them up sharply if interrupted, and at last opened the file. There were two or three dozen letters in all and a few old photographs of people she didn't know. But if she'd hoped to find some kind of comfort in the letters, she was bitterly disappointed. All she found was betrayal.
It was hours after she'd finished reading them before she could cry. She lay in bed listening to the kneading
Last night she'd been so very glad to be here. The small bright rooms held all the comfort and security her own home lacked. It was soothing to have a bath run, to be tucked into bed and be clucked over with sympathy, but now in the light of day it felt like a prison.
Mrs Rowlands was a gossip, and until yesterday she'd always been quite cool towards her. Wasn't it more likely that the woman offered her a home here, more from the value of sensationalism than real kindness.
'What's that?' As Mrs Rowlands came in with Camellia's and her own breakfast, her sharp eyes noticed the bag immediately.
'Just a few things from home,' Camellia said, blushing with guilt. 'I was going past there so I thought I'd nip in and collect them.'
'You shouldn't have gone there alone.' Mrs Rowlands clucked round her like a mother hen, pushing her towards the breakfast table. "The police didn't want you in there yet, until they've had time to look around. I could have taken you there later.'
Camellia felt tears pricking her eyelids. 1 only wanted my nightie and things. I didn't touch anything else.' She held her breath, terrified Mrs Rowlands might open the bag, but Mr Rowlands spoke out.
'Of course you wanted your things, my dear.' He reached out and patted her hand, his small, hangdog face full of sympathy. 'Enid can't help worrying, she's made that way. Now eat up your breakfast before it gets cold.'
At seven that evening a smell of yeast rose up through the house as Mr and Mrs Rowlands began mixing the dough for the next day down in the bakery.
Camellia crept out onto the landing to check one last time. She could hear their voices, muted by two flights of narrow stairs. Now was her chance.
The day had been interminable. Although she'd known the Rowlands for most of her life, she'd found it impossible to communicate with them.
It seemed rude to read a book, even ruder to ask if she could go to her room and be alone. Mr Rowlands had his nose in the newspaper and his wife kept up a stream of gossip. If she'd only talked about Bonny Camellia might have been able to cry, but instead she made a point of never bringing up her name.
During the afternoon Camellia had heard Mrs Rowlands talking about her on the telephone to one of her friends, commenting on how much roast beef and Yorkshire pudding Camellia had eaten. She'd claimed she didn't think the girl was upset at all.
It seemed as if Mrs Rowlands were intentionally embarrassing her. She'd remarked on the holes in her shoes, offered her a huge cotton dress of her own because Camellia's blouse gaped at the bust, and dabbed at her spots with TCP. Maybe she was trying to be motherly, but it felt remarkably similar to the cruel jibes Camellia experienced daily at school.
The clock hands went round so slowly Camellia felt she might break down and scream. Her whole being longed to be outside, walking in the sunshine alone. She was burning to read those letters, yet at the same time she felt guilty at taking them. When at last Mr Rowlands suggested she had an early night when they went down to the bakery, Camellia could have kissed him.
'You'll feel easier after the funeral,' he said in genuine sympathy, as if he'd guessed how it had been for her today. 'You're far too young for something like this, but we're here to help you.'
Camellia got into bed, arranging the covers so she could pull them up sharply if interrupted, and at last opened the file. There were two or three dozen letters in all and a few old photographs of people she didn't know. But if she'd hoped to find some kind of comfort in the letters, she was bitterly disappointed. All she found was betrayal.
It was hours after she'd finished reading them before she could cry. She lay in bed listening to the kneading
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