Camellia.

Lesley Pearse.

Synopsis.

Camellia Norton is orphaned at fifteen when her mother's body is fished from a river in rural Sussex. And when she discovers a cache of letters amongst her mother's effects she realises that the past she has always been so sure of has been built on a tissue of lies. Devastated, she runs away to London, and loses herself in a metropolis that offers opportunity, temptation and danger, especially to a young girl hungry for love and acceptance. But her past won't stay buried forever, and eventually Camellia begins the long journey towards uncovering the truth about her background, and also, ultimately, about herself.

Chapter One.

1965 Rye, Sussex.

'Hey mister.' A small boy tugged at the policeman's sleeve. 'There's a woman in the river!'

Sergeant Simmonds put his cup of tea on the counter of the quayside snack bar, looked down at the carroty haired boy and grinned good-naturedly. 'Swimming, boating or doing her washing?'

'She's dead, mister. Stuck in the mud!'

The boy was no older than seven, in torn shorts and a grubby tee shirt, his black gym plimsolls covered in mud, a handful of worms squirming in the bottom of a red toy bucket.

His expression was too earnest for a prank. He was out of breath and there were beads of perspiration on his little freckled nose.

'Where was this, sonny?'

'Way along there.' The boy pointed across the river, in the direction of where the rivers Tilling-ham and Breed meet and turned together towards the Rother and Rye harbour. 'I was digging up some worms to go fishing and I saw her arms.'

It was a glorious August morning, mist fast retreating with the promise of another hot, sunny day. Not yet seven, too early for holiday-makers to mar the tranquillity of the quayside, hours before day-trippers would arrive in their droves to admire the quaint old town.

Sgt Simmonds patted the boy's head. 'Go on home for your breakfast, sonny. Leave it with me. I'll check it out.'

'Maybe it's a stranded mermaid?' Alf, the snack bar's proprietor leaned forward over the counter, his swarthy, thin face breaking into a sardonic grin. 'That could be good for trade!'

'What imaginations some kids have!' Simmonds laughed, watching as the boy ran off down Wish Ward. 'Probably nothing more than a lump of driftwood. But I suppose I'd better amble round there and take a look.'

Bert Simmonds was thirty-six and easily the most popular policeman in Rye. Men admired his good humour and his prowess as a fast bowler in the local cricket team, children appreciated his friendly interest in them and the way he didn't always inform their parents about every act of naughtiness, not if he thought just a sharp telling off would do instead. As for the women, they just liked him, he was easy to talk to, just handsome enough with his blond hair and sea-blue eyes to set their pulses racing, but remarkably unaware of the effect he had on the opposite sex.

People were often fooled into thinking Simmonds was a soft touch because of his amiable disposition. In fact, there were few policemen in the rural areas of Kent or Sussex with as many arrests to their name, and very few with his tenacity or sharp wits.

Simmonds took his time going back along the quay and over the bridge, savouring the still cool air. Another hour or two and the High Street would be packed. He loved Rye, but it was too small a town to cope with the hordes of visitors it attracted in summer.

There was no real footpath on the other side of the river bank, just a track behind the laundry, overgrown with struggling buddleia bushes and nettles. Several times Bert had to make a detour round old sheds and climb through fences, but if he'd taken the easier route along New Winchelsea Road he might just miss whatever it was that the boy had seen.

Bert looked across the river for a moment. It was easy to see why Rye attracted so many tourists and artists. Boats moored at the quay, the tall black warehouses, then the town, almost unchanged since mediaeval times, rising behind them. Tiny houses clung precariously to the walled hillside, a pretty hotchpotch of terracotta-coloured tiles and white weatherboarding, interspersed with patches of sugared almond blue, pink and green, and above them all the square grey tower of the church.

Bert walked on, smiling as he remembered other 'bodies' that had been reported to him in the past. One was an abandoned dressmaker's dummy, another merely a lump of wood to which some joker had attached old boots. Two very serious small boys had once informed him they'd seen a man burying a baby on the marsh. When they directed Bert to the spot it had turned out to be a dead cat. But all reports had to be checked out. There were a few boating accidents each summer and swimmers sometimes underestimated the strong current.

The tide was out now, thick glutinous mud gleaming in the early sun, the river just a thin trickle in the centre, making its way down to the sea. Ahead the marsh went on almost to infinity, broken only by the ruins of Chamber Castle and a couple of coastguards' cottages on the distant horizon. Black-faced sheep had the marsh all to themselves. The only sounds were the plaintive cries of the curlews and seagulls.

It was the seagulls which made Simmonds break into a run as he approached the sluicegates of the river Breed. Their shrieking and frenzied wheeling overhead suggested there was something in the mud, if only a drowned sheep.

But as he got closer, he saw a flash of turquoise. It lay on a high triangular mud bank, between the two rivers, brilliant against the brown mud. Four or five gulls were perched on it, pecking furiously and more were zooming down like fighter planes.

'Scram you blighters/ he yelled, hurling a stone at them. As they flew off squawking with frustration at having to leave their breakfast, Simmonds stopped short, staring in horror.

The boy was right. It was a woman. Instinctively he knew too who she was, even though she lay face down, half-submerged in mud. The curve of her hips, rounded buttocks and long slender legs gave her away immediately.

'Oh no, not you, Bonny,' he whispered, fighting against nausea. 'Not like this!'

He knew the correct procedure was to get help, before he even touched her, but he felt compelled to reach her and prevent the gulls pecking at her again. Throwing down his jacket on the bank, he lowered himself over the edge and inched forward.

In his fifteen years in the police force in Rye, this one woman had taken him through the whole spectrum of emotions. He'd admired her, desired her, and more recently despised and pitied her. As a young constable her sensual beauty had haunted his dreams.

There were cruel peck marks now on her thighs and arms, and as another gull swooped down to feast, he lunged at it.

'Clear off, you blasted scavengers! Leave her alone/ he bellowed, his feet sinking deeper into the mud.

The sound of a car stopping on the bridge by the sluicegate brought Simmonds back to his senses. As he turned his head and saw PC Higgins and Rowe clambering over the fence, he remembered that he could easily sink up to his waist in the mud without a rope.

'We had a telephone call at the station/ Higgins yelled. 'An old man out walking his dog saw something. We brought some waders just in case. Any idea who it is?'

'It's Bonny Norton/ Simmonds called back, struggling to regain his footing and his composure. 'We must get her out before a crowd gathers. Get the waders on and bring some rope and boards.'

It was obscene to haul out such a beautiful woman by her feet. The body which so many men had lusted after was revealed intimately as her dress was sucked back by the mud. Her lace panties were turned a filthy brown from the river, her golden skin smeared with muck. But as they turned her over on reaching firmer ground, one breast broke free from her bodice, pure white, pink tipped, small and perfect. All three men averted their eyes in embarrassment.

Higgins moved first, covering her with a blanket. 'What the hell was she doing by the river?' he said gruffly.

Rowe shrugged his shoulders. He was several years younger than his colleagues, a dour insensitive man who hadn't been in Rye long enough to have known Bonny in the old days. 'Drunk as usual, I expect.'

At twelve noon of the same day, Bert Simmonds came out of the police station and lit up a cigarette. He needed time alone to collect himself.

The police station was in Church Square, right opposite the parish church: a small Victorian redbrick building set back from the rest of the terrace, almost as if it were apologising for having had the impertinence to sit amongst its fourteenth and fifteenth-century neighbours. A new police station was being built in Cinque Port Street, down near the railway station. Though Bert welcomed this move for practicality, he knew he would miss the peaceful churchyard, the splendid views of the marsh from the back of the station and its central position. But today he wasn't considering the beauty of his surroundings, as he usually did when he paused here. His mind was filled with Bonny.

Finding her body was one of the most traumatic events in his entire career. Now he was faced with breaking the news to her daughter.

It was so hot. His shirt was damp with sweat and his serge trousers sticking to his legs, still smelling of river mud.

'How do you tell a fifteen-year-old something like this?' he sighed.

From the first day in the summer of 1950 when Bonny, with her husband and baby, moved into the pretty house in Mermaid Street, she had made an impact on the town. It wasn't just that she was only twenty-one and stunningly beautiful, or that her serious-faced, much older husband was wealthy enough to call in craftsmen to renovate their home. She was outstanding in every way.

Bonny was an embodiment of the leap forward from the austere war-torn forties to the fifties. Her blonde hair was pure Hollywood glamour, she wore brightly coloured tight sweaters, mid-calf clinging skirts and high heels. The sight of her tight round buttocks wiggling provocatively as she wheeled her baby in a pushchair was enough to stop traffic, and the way she spoke airily of her time in West End theatres left her more retiring neighbours gasping in astonishment. There were those of course who didn't really believe she'd been a dancer, but she soon set the record straight when she joined in an amateur production and left the local girls looking like carthorses. The Desk Sergeant summed her up in a few well chosen words: I've seen pictures of girls they call "Sex Kittens", but until I saw Bonny Norton I thought it was just a photographic trick.'

Bonny was an enigma: a pin-up girl, but a loving wife and mother too at least in those days. While men envied John Norton and secretly lusted after his wife, their women befriended her, tried to emulate her style.

Bert was guiltier than anyone of watching her too closely when she first arrived in town. He too was only twenty-one then, the youngest constable at the station, a shy, rather awkward young lad. It was a good couple of years before he so much as spoke to her.

One summer when Camellia was around three or so, Bert found her sitting on the doorstep in Mermaid Street playing with her dolls.

She was an odd little girl, very plain considering how beautiful her mother was, with poker-straight dark hair and almond-shaped dark brown eyes, old beyond her years. Bert guessed she was a bit lonely; he'd never seen her playing with other children. He paused to chat to her that day and before long their conversations became a regular feature of his beat. She would tell him where her daddy had gone on business, show him her dolls and books. Bert often brought her a few rationed sweets.

The first time Bert was invited into the Nortons' home was engraved deeply on his memory, perhaps because it was his first real close-up view of them as a family. It was a hot summer's evening,and as always he was lingering longer than necessary in Mermaid Street.

Camellia was sitting on the doorstep in a long pink nightdress, holding a small doll in her hands. As Bert approached her serious small face broke into a wide, welcoming smile. 'My daddy's come home,' she said.

'Has he now?' Bert crouched down on his hunkers beside her. John Norton was one of the top scientists for Shell Petroleum and was often away in the Middle East.

'Daddy brought me some new things for my doll's house. Would you like to see them?'

A gust of laughter from inside the house warned Bert the Nortons had visitors. He was just going to make an excuse when John came to the door. 'Bedtime, Melly,' he said, scooping the little girl up into his arms.

John Morton had the label of 'a real gent' in Rye. He was always impeccably dressed in hand-tailored suits, with sleek dark hair, a neat moustache and a deep yet soft voice. A great many women likened him to the actor Ronald Coleman. His face was too lean and his manner too serious to be considered really handsome, but yet he had a quiet endearing charm. He lifted his hat to women, always remembered people's names and asked about their families. Local tradesmen never had to chase him to pay his bills. He was courteous to everyone, however humble their status in life and he'd been accepted into the community in a way which was rare for a relative newcomer.

'This is Mr Simmonds, my friend,' Camellia said, playing with her father's moustache. 'Can he come and see my doll's house?'

'I've heard a great deal about you, Mr Simmonds,' he said and he smiled as if he liked what he'd heard. 'I'm pleased to meet you at last. The house is packed as always, but do come in. I'm sure my wife would love to meet you too. Maybe Camellia might be persuaded to go to sleep once she's shared her new treasures with you.'

Bert had never seen the inside of the house before, but it was just as perfect as he'd imagined it to be.

There was only one large room downstairs, with polished oak floorboards, thick fringed rugs and antique furniture. Everything just perfect in that understated, classy way that rich people had of doing up their homes. The Nortons' friends were all plummy voiced strangers to him, six couples in all, elegantly dressed, standing around with drinks in their hands. They smiled as John introduced him, but Bert felt uncomfortable.

Bonny was at the far end of the room lighting long green candles on the dining table, which was laid for dinner with silver, starched napkins and flowers. Behind it open windows gave a view of a small walled garden. To Bert, who was only used to canteens and transport cafes, it looked like something from a film set.

Bonny turned to greet him, a little unsteady on her feet, as if she'd had a few drinks already. 'So we meet our baby's policeman friend at last! We didn't expect someone so young or handsome,' she said, making Bert blush with embarrassment. I hope she hasn't been pestering you, Mr Simmonds. She's a great deal like me, expecting everyone to adore her. Now can I get you a drink?'

It would have been hard for any man not to adore Bonny Norton, especially the way she looked that night. She wore a floaty blue dress with full skirt, her bare arms golden from the sun. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, loose tendrils escaping from the pins curled around her neck and ears, and her cheeks were flushed with the heat.

'I'm on duty,' he managed to get out, suddenly acutely aware of his rustic vowels. He'd heard rumours the Nortons entertained titled people. 'I'll just see Camellia's doll's house, then I'll get out of your way.'

Camellia's bedroom was the prettiest Bert had ever seen: a white bed with a kind of canopy affair above it, dolls, teddy bears and books arranged on shelves, a thick carpet and a padded seat at the window, with a view over the rooftops and the marsh across to Winchelsea.

Camellia bounded across the room towards the big Georgian-style doll's house. John smiled at Bert. 'I'm glad of this opportunity to thank you for taking an interest in Camellia,' he said, with genuine warmth and sincerity. 'I'm away from home so much and it's good to think she has a friend to share things with.'

'She's a lovely kid.' Bert felt an immediate affinity with the man. 'She counts the days till you come home you know!'

'Come on, Mr Simmonds,' Camellia said impatiently, beckoning him to join her at the house. "These are the new things I got today the piano, the lady sitting at it and the maid with the tea trolley.'

To a man of simple tastes like Bert, it wasn't a toy but a work of art. Everything was to scale like a real house. Little chintz-covered armchairs, table lamps, even plates of food on the dining table.

Camellia took out the piano and placed it in Bert's hands. It must have cost a small fortune, a tiny replica of a real grand piano.

'It even plays,' she said reverently, tinkling it with one small finger. 'Daddy finds me the best things in the whole world.'

It was soon after that evening at the Nortons' house that Bert discovered Bonny was a tease. She sensed he had a crush on her and used it to her advantage.

She would invite him in for a cup of tea and it would always transpire that she wanted some furniture moved, or some other little job. Bert didn't mind this one bit, but she often asked him very personal questions, and sometimes he had the feeling she was waiting for him to make a pass at her. One sunny afternoon when they'd taken their tea out into the garden, Bonny had stripped off her sundress. Beneath it she wore a minuscule bikini, the first Bert had ever seen other than in pin-up pictures in the newspapers.

'Well?' she said with a provocative pout, lifting her hair and striking a model-like pose. 'Does it suit me?'

He was aroused instantly. Dressed she was sensational enough, almost naked she was ravishing: a tiny waist, long slender legs and the pertest of rounded buttocks. He gulped down his tea and left hurriedly, with the flimsiest of excuses, then spent the next few days wishing he'd had the courage at least to compliment her. He didn't dare confide his growing passion for her to any of his friends at the station. Superintendent Willis was very chummy with John Norton and Bert knew if it got to his ears he'd be out of a job.

When John joined the cricket team, Bert felt even more awkward. John was no longer a shadowy figure in the background, but a flesh and blood man who clearly wanted to be closely involved in the community. Bert liked the man's quiet humour, his intelligence and his total lack of snobbery, and if it hadn't been for his feelings for Bonny he knew they would have become very close friends. Sometimes over a couple of pints after a game, John would talk about both his wife and daughter, and it was clear they meant everything to him. He once confided that he had moved to Rye from Somerset because he had been afraid to leave his young wife alone in such an isolated place. He felt someone as vivacious as Bonny needed people around her, shops, cinemas and bustle. He was very anxious about being away on business so much, and Bert got the distinct impression John was asking him to keep an eye on his wife and daughter.

Bert tried very hard to see Bonny as just the wife of a friend, but he couldn't. He would wake from vivid erotic dreams of her feeling deeply ashamed. His heart leapt even if he saw her in the distance, and he knew he was guilty of inventing excuses to call at the house in Mermaid Street.

It was a bewildering and dangerous addiction, made worse by knowing she was totally aware of how he felt. She would fix him with her flirtatious turquoise eyes, her so-very-kissable lips pouting provocatively, and hold his hand just a little too long.

There were occasions too when she went a little further to tempt him, fastening her suspenders in front of him, leaning over so he could see right down her cleavage, on one occasion opening the front door to him wearing only a towel wrapped round her. What really baffled Bert though was why she played with him as she did. When she had everything any woman could ask for.

Bert knew the answer to that question now, some ten years later. Bonny Norton was a sensationalist who had to have a few admirers dangling on a string to satisfy her ego. Maybe if John hadn't died when he did, she might have grown out of it and come to realise how fortunate she really was. But John's death came unexpectedly. At twenty-seven Bonny was too young for widowhood and too giddy to cope with the pressures of bringing up a child alone.

'Poor Camellia,' Bert murmured. 'As if you haven't been through enough already!'

Chapter Two.

August 1965 Sgt Simmonds jumped as WPC Carter spoke at his elbow.

'A penny for them, Sarge,' Carter said. 'Wondering if you've posted your pools?'

Wendy Carter had been in the force a few years, but less than a year in Rye. She was an excellent policewoman, compassionate, sharp-witted, with a dry sense of humour. Bert thought she would go far. But she didn't know the Norton family history, or his involvement with it.

'Nothing so trivial,' he said. 'I was remembering Bonny as she once was. I wish it wasn't me who had to tell Melly.'

Carter looked puzzled.

'Melly! I thought her name was Camellia?'

'Her father called her Melly,' he sighed. 'He'll be turning in his grave at this moment. He once entrusted me to look after his wife and little girl. I didn't make a very good job of it.'

Carter studied the sergeant out of the corner of her eyes as they walked down East Street towards the High Street. Bert Simmonds was the kind of man she'd like to marry. Strong, dependable, good-natured and sensitive too. At thirty-six he was in his prime, with a firm muscular body and sun-streaked blond hair, just that little bit longer than the normal regulation cut. Not exactly handsome,but a good face, weathered by time and experience, his eyes grey-blue like the sea on a dull day. She thought Sandra Simmonds was very lucky. WPC Carter wouldn't mind being tucked up in bed with him.

Carter didn't get many offers from men herself. She was a plain stocky girl of twenty-nine with mousy hair and a snub nose, who had to rely on her intelligence and her cheerful nature to make friends, and those qualities didn't seem to get her very far with men.

Bonny Norton, on the other hand, had only to click her fingers and men came running. Carter had seen the woman many times, across a crowded bar, parading down the High Street, and like nearly everyone she had been fascinated by her. By all accounts Bonny was first with everything, the first woman to wear a bikini back in the fifties, the first adult to master the hula-hoop, and just recently the first woman of over thirty to dare wear the new short skirts. Carter admired such bravado.