Free Camellia by Lesley Pearse

brightened. Now in late afternoon the sun had emerged. It made the leaves of a large copper beech by the gate gleam, the windows sparkle. A few sparrows were sitting on the edge of a large ornamental bird bath in the middle of the lawn, watching one of their tougher brothers washing himself.
    It had been a long uphill walk from Archway tube station and though Camellia had few clothes in her suitcase it had grown painfully heavy. She was a little dismayed too by the dilapidated houses and seedy shops on the route. The only part of London she'd been to before was the West End and somehow she'd imagined the whole of London being as smart. But, as she'd turned into Hornsey Lane and seen the big, rather splendid houses, her spirits had immediately lifted. Now she'd found the hostel she felt even better.
    It must have been built around the middle of the last century: there were two Gothic fancy spires and an arched stone porch. The odd positioning of the front door on the right-hand side showed that it had once been two houses, but the conversion of the second door and porch into a large window was masked by a vigorous ivy scrambling right up to the attics. Turning it into a hostel hadn't changed its character: Camellia almost expected the door to be opened by a parlour maid or a carriage to roll into the semi-circular gravel drive.
    She picked up her case and walked towards the stone steps which led to the front door. She was very nervous. It was all very well telling herself back in Rye that she was setting out on a big adventure working in a London store and that all the sadness was in the past, but deep down she knew she had a long way to go before she could wipe her memory clean.
    Yet as she reached the steps she smiled. Someone had put a thin red scarf round the neck of a weather-worn stone eagle perched on the stone balustrade. She felt she was going to like it here.
    'You must be Camellia Norton.' A thin woman with short iron-grey hair and thick spectacles smiled welcomingly as she opened the door. 'Do come in, my dear. Did you have a good journey? I'm Miss Peet, the warden, though I do hate that as a title. It makes me sound like a gaoler.'
    Across the hall Camellia caught a fleeting glimpse of a room with half a dozen tables set for an evening meal. To her right was a wide staircase and to her left what looked like a lounge. Although it was as quiet as a church, it didn't have any of the institutional austerity she'd expected. The walls were painted in gentle pastels and there were carpets on the floors.
    'Leave your case here,' Miss Peet said. 'I'll show you your room a little later. All the other girls are at work still, so we'll take advantage of the peace and quiet to have a cup of tea and get acquainted.'
    Camellia followed the older woman along a passage to the far end of the house.
    'What a lovely room!' Camellia gasped as she was ushered into Miss Peet's sitting room. The decor was autumnal, with chintz-covered armchairs, old gold velvet curtains and a fat tabby cat sitting in front of a real fire.
    'This is Sheba.' Miss Peet bent down to tickle the cat's ears. 'If you ever find her upstairs shoo her down, she has a penchant for sharing beds and some of the girls don't appreciate it.'
    Camellia suddenly felt very close to tears. She had been so very glad to leave Rye, yet all at once she felt terribly alone. 'I didn't expect the hostel to be this nice,' she said, struggling to control herself.
    'We do our best to make it homely,' Miss Peet said, as she switched on an electric kettle sitting on a tea trolley. A tray was already laid with dainty bone china cups and a plate of biscuits. 'Now sit down and make yourself comfortable.'
    Gertrude Peet glanced over her shoulder as she waited for the kettle to boil. The girl was hunched awkwardly in a chair, looking pale and frightened.
    A teacher from the Secondary Modern in Rye had contacted Miss Peet to book a place for this girl, and through this teacher she had learned