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Authors: Lesley Pearse
Tags: Fiction
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machine down in the bakery whirring away and the rage inside her swelled up like rising dough until she felt it was choking her.
She heard the machines being turned off downstairs, the clink of teacups and the whistle of the kettle as the Rowlands made themselves a last pot of tea. The church clock struck ten and she heard the stairs creaking as the Rowlands came up to bed.
Within minutes the house was silent. Outside in the street people were turning out of the George, high heels tip-tapping down the pavement to the occasional burst of laughter. It was only when the street was as quiet as the house that Camellia turned her face into the pillow and sobbed.
She could forgive Bonny for neglecting her, for drinking and sleeping around. She didn't care about the squandered family money. She had prepared herself for more humiliation, cruel jokes, gossip and sniggers behind her back in the weeks to come. But she hadn't reckoned on her mother robbing her of the one good thing she had left to hold onto.
John Norton, that kind, caring gentleman, was just another big fish Bonny had hooked by deceit. Not only had she tricked him into marrying her by saying she was carrying his child, but she'd told three other men the same thing and blackmailed each of them, starting even before John was dead.
'I hate you,' Camellia whispered fiercely into her pillow. 'Don't expect me to mourn for you, you lying whore. I'm glad you're dead.'
She had so many warm, wonderful memories of her father – sitting on his knee as he listened to her read, swimming with him down at Camber Sands, riding the carousel in Hastings with his arms holding her tightly in front of him. It was her father who took her to see new lambs and to find the first primroses in spring.
She had long since given up hope that she might become pretty like her mother, but she'd looked at his childhood photographs, seen that he was plump as a boy and hoped that like him at sixteen or seventeen the fat would vanish, that she'd become slender and elegant. Now she hadn't even that raft to cling to. She was the fat, ugly daughter of one of those other men.
For a couple of years now Camellia had believed her mother's selfishness, flightiness and lack of self-control were just minor character defects she couldn't help. But that belief was wiped out now. Bonny could help it. She was a calculating bitch who had lied and cheated her way through life. Even now she was probably laughing from beyond the grave, hoping each one of those three other men would be questioned, their families pilloried.
'I won't let it happen,' Camellia muttered as she tossed on her pillow. 'Even if one of them pushed you in the river, I don't blame him. You won't hurt Daddy again.'
Sleep wouldn't come. The file was hidden away under the wardrobe, but even in the dark she could still see those letters and guess at the torment her mother put those men through. She got out of bed and went over to the window, deeply breathing in the cool night air.
'You've got to get away from here,' she whispered, as she looked across at the church tower. The moon was hanging just over the spire, casting a silver swathe over the rooftops of the High Street shops. Any other night she might have been enchanted by the scene but all she could see now was ugliness. 'Forget about those other men. From now on you've got to look out for yourself.'
Chapter Five
Camellia put her suitcase down on the pavement, once again checking the address of the girls' hostel she had written on a scrap of paper. She was definitely in Hornsey Lane. It said Archway House plainly enough on the wooden plaque attached to the gatepost, yet she could hardly believe that such a welcoming-looking place was her destination.
It was mid-October, two and a half months since her mother died. That morning when Mrs Rowlands waved her off at Rye station it had been very cold, with sullen-looking black clouds threatening rain. But as she got closer to London the sky had
She heard the machines being turned off downstairs, the clink of teacups and the whistle of the kettle as the Rowlands made themselves a last pot of tea. The church clock struck ten and she heard the stairs creaking as the Rowlands came up to bed.
Within minutes the house was silent. Outside in the street people were turning out of the George, high heels tip-tapping down the pavement to the occasional burst of laughter. It was only when the street was as quiet as the house that Camellia turned her face into the pillow and sobbed.
She could forgive Bonny for neglecting her, for drinking and sleeping around. She didn't care about the squandered family money. She had prepared herself for more humiliation, cruel jokes, gossip and sniggers behind her back in the weeks to come. But she hadn't reckoned on her mother robbing her of the one good thing she had left to hold onto.
John Norton, that kind, caring gentleman, was just another big fish Bonny had hooked by deceit. Not only had she tricked him into marrying her by saying she was carrying his child, but she'd told three other men the same thing and blackmailed each of them, starting even before John was dead.
'I hate you,' Camellia whispered fiercely into her pillow. 'Don't expect me to mourn for you, you lying whore. I'm glad you're dead.'
She had so many warm, wonderful memories of her father – sitting on his knee as he listened to her read, swimming with him down at Camber Sands, riding the carousel in Hastings with his arms holding her tightly in front of him. It was her father who took her to see new lambs and to find the first primroses in spring.
She had long since given up hope that she might become pretty like her mother, but she'd looked at his childhood photographs, seen that he was plump as a boy and hoped that like him at sixteen or seventeen the fat would vanish, that she'd become slender and elegant. Now she hadn't even that raft to cling to. She was the fat, ugly daughter of one of those other men.
For a couple of years now Camellia had believed her mother's selfishness, flightiness and lack of self-control were just minor character defects she couldn't help. But that belief was wiped out now. Bonny could help it. She was a calculating bitch who had lied and cheated her way through life. Even now she was probably laughing from beyond the grave, hoping each one of those three other men would be questioned, their families pilloried.
'I won't let it happen,' Camellia muttered as she tossed on her pillow. 'Even if one of them pushed you in the river, I don't blame him. You won't hurt Daddy again.'
Sleep wouldn't come. The file was hidden away under the wardrobe, but even in the dark she could still see those letters and guess at the torment her mother put those men through. She got out of bed and went over to the window, deeply breathing in the cool night air.
'You've got to get away from here,' she whispered, as she looked across at the church tower. The moon was hanging just over the spire, casting a silver swathe over the rooftops of the High Street shops. Any other night she might have been enchanted by the scene but all she could see now was ugliness. 'Forget about those other men. From now on you've got to look out for yourself.'
Chapter Five
Camellia put her suitcase down on the pavement, once again checking the address of the girls' hostel she had written on a scrap of paper. She was definitely in Hornsey Lane. It said Archway House plainly enough on the wooden plaque attached to the gatepost, yet she could hardly believe that such a welcoming-looking place was her destination.
It was mid-October, two and a half months since her mother died. That morning when Mrs Rowlands waved her off at Rye station it had been very cold, with sullen-looking black clouds threatening rain. But as she got closer to London the sky had
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