Free Camellia by Lesley Pearse Page A

some of her family history. She'd imagined someone called Camellia to be very pretty; she certainly hadn't been warned that the girl would be so buxom and dowdy.
    'What a glorious name you have,' she said as she poured the hot water into the teapot. 'I've worked here since the hostel opened in 1948, but I've never met a Camellia before.'
    'I prefer it shortened to Mel,' the girl said in a small voice.
    It sounded as if she was used to having people make fun of her and her name, and Gertrude's heart went out to the girl. She had been plain herself: her nose sharp, her hair mousy and her body as thin and flat as a board. During the war she'd been in the WAAF and though she saw each and every one of her colleagues have love affairs, get married and have children, the closest she ever got to a man was at a dance in the NAAFI. She soon resigned herself to being a spinster. Now at fifty-eight with seventeen years' experience of looking after young women away from home for the first time, she could immediately identify with someone who felt she would never be accepted.
    Gertrude Peet knew that many of the girls here at Archway House considered her an impediment to their fun, a dragon who watched their every move and swooped down at the slightest hint of rule breaking. In fact she understood young girls very well and cared deeply about the well-being of each and every one of her twenty-four charges. More often than not, the girls who came here were running away from their families. In her time she'd encountered everything from victims of incest, wanton cruelty and neglect, to those who had almost been suffocated by parental love. Oddly enough it was the last kind who were the most difficult: they were the ones who flouted all the rules. By all accounts Camellia Norton was quiet, hardworking and sensible, despite her mother's flighty reputation and her somewhat sordid end. But Miss Peet never took others' opinions on trust. She believed in finding out for herself, as directly as possible.
    'Well then, Mel.' The older woman put the tray of tea down on a coffee table and took a chair opposite the girl. 'Now I know about your mother's death and I feel very deeply for you, but I can assure you I am the only person here who knows. If you ever feel you need to talk about that or any other personal matter, that's what I'm here for and I can assure you it will always be in the strictest confidence.'
    "Thank you,' Camellia whispered. She had been wondering all the way from Rye if the story had gone ahead.
    'I know it is all very recent and grief can play some very odd tricks,' Miss Peet continued as she poured the tea. 'We all assume it's over once the tears have dried. But that's often the time we feel most confused. We get mixed-up feelings – love, resentment, guilt, sometimes anger. That's when we need to share it with someone.'
    Camellia sat looking down at her lap. Miss Peet reminded her of the games mistress at school: skinny, a bit masculine, her grey hair cut unflatteringly short as if she had no time for any attempt at femininity. Even her Fair Isle cardigan and tweed skirt were old and worn. But her voice was soft, not the kind of bark one would expect from such an appearance. Camellia liked her.
    'Do you feel any of those things about your mother?' Miss Peet asked gently.
    'Yes,' Camellia whispered. It was the first time anyone had asked such a question. Perhaps most people thought they were being tactful, but to Camellia their silence had felt far more like indifference.
    'Why don't you tell me about her?'
    Camellia shrugged her shoulders, unable to meet the older woman's eyes. She wanted to say that a tight ball of hate was festering inside her, but she didn't dare. 'She was a dancer.'
    'Was she pretty?'
    Camellia opened her handbag and pulled out a photograph. It had been taken at a fancy-dress party a couple of years ago. She had no real desire to have it close to her or to show it to anyone. But this picture at least showed