Camellia had opened up to his mother, as people usually did. But although she had confessed her diet consisted of fish and chips and sandwiches, she had staunchly insisted Bonny loved her. There were descriptions of picnics out by Camber Castle in the summer, days out to Hastings, and weekend trips to London. As Bert's mother pointed out, behind the visible part of Bonny, the drinking, the stream of men friends and wild spending sprees, there was a woman who cared enough to make some occasions memorable.

'I know it might seem kinder to get Camellia taken away from her mother,' his mother said as he left, catching hold of his hand, her eyes full of compassion. 'But don't do it, son. There is something between them that is fine and good, however it might seem otherwise to you. I can't explain this very well, but I know I'm right. Let's try and make things better for Camellia. Let me encourage her to come here for a bit of home cooking, and I'll teach her a few homemaking skills. Maybe I can help her with a diet too. Bonny's all she's got right now, and they need and love one another.'

Camellia sat up again as they drove up the High Street. It was quiet now, the shops soon to close and just a few people strolling along.

'Will you be all right with Mrs Rowlands?' Bert asked. He would have preferred to take her to his mother's again, but the baker's wife had been so insistent that Camellia was to stay with her.

'I'll be fine,' Camellia said, her tone implying it was all the same to her wherever she was sent. 'Don't worry about me, Mr Simmonds, you've got your own children to think about.'

That struck Bert as a remarkably adult retort. He felt she meant that his wife would take a dim view of him fussing over Bonny Norton's child.

'Well, I'll be popping in and out to see you. If things don't work out you can tell me then,' he said.

Some half an hour later, up in the Rowlands living room above the bakery, after Mr Simmonds had left, Camellia took the offered cup of tea in silence. Mrs Rowlands was talking ninety to the dozen, flitting from the amount of cakes and pies they'd sold that day, to what people had been saying about Bonny's death and then onto what they'd have for tea, without even drawing breath. The room was cluttered with ornaments, china or glass cats, dogs and other animals filled every surface, but it was bright, sweet smelling and welcoming, so very different from Fishmarket Street.

Camellia couldn't talk, or even cry. All she could think of was that she was finally released from a huge, impossibly heavy burden.

No more noisy parties, no 'uncle this' and 'uncle that' walking around the house in their underpants or waking her at night with the sound of bestial grunting and thumping. No more cleaning up vomit or finding the kitchen and lounge floor awash with beer and dog-ends blocking up the sink. Never again to face the humiliation of asking for credit at the corner shop.

She couldn't think of one thing she would miss her mother for. She was used to being alone, she'd been left for long weekends since she was eleven. The only difference now was that Bonny wouldn't dance back in with a bag of cream cakes or a soft toy and empty promises. This time her absence was forever.

Yet if she really was glad it was over, why did she feel as if she'd been torn apart?

Chapter Four.

Camellia woke with a start, drenched in sweat. For a moment she was confused when she saw the sloping attic ceiling and the unfamiliar rose wallpaper. Then it all came back. Enid Rowlands had taken her in, a doctor had been called and given her a pill. It was real, not a nightmare.

The church clock struck seven. Pink curtains flapped at the tiny window, a picture of a little boy and a dog hung on the wall, a bedside lamp made out of a wine bottle and two china dogs with chipped ears were on the mantelpiece. The smell of baked bread was trapped up here, and under any other conditions she would have enjoyed being in such a clean, fresh room. But although Mr and Mrs Rowlands were kindly enough, she knew she was only here on sufferance, until someone else decided where she should go.

She got out of bed slowly. Her head was muzzy and she had an evil taste in her mouth. Looking down she saw she was wearing a pink nylon nightie that wasn't hers. On the chair was her navy skirt, white blouse and underwear. Mrs Rowlands had washed and ironed them, but even that made her embarrassed. Had she looked at that big cheap cotton bra and knickers, grey with age and careless washing, the elastic shedding bits of rubber and felt disgust?

Bonny had never worn such ugly things. She threw clothes away when they got spoiled in the wash or went out of fashion.

The window overlooked the High Street, but she could see little besides the shops opposite and the church tower behind. It was so hot in here. Tomorrow morning when Mr Rowlands started baking it would get hotter still. She had to get out for some fresh air.

There was no plan in her head as she stood at Hilder's Cliff. It had always been her favourite spot and today was so clear and bright she could see right across the marsh to Lydd. Rye was at its most lovely early in the morning, before people broke the tranquillity. The ancient grey stone of the Landgate, brilliant splashes of colour from flowers in window boxes, latticed windows twinkling in the early morning sun, even the cobbles beneath her feet sparkled as if they'd been lightly sprinkled with glitter.

Behind her was Collegiate School, part of that dimly remembered happy past when her father took her for walks along the quay at this time of day, when visitors came down from London for dinner parties, when she was dressed up in a smocked dress to go out for lunch.

Fishmarket Street was down below. If she peered right over the rail she could just see their house to her right. Not that she wanted to look at it. She found it far more comforting to look at The Salts and remember being pushed on the swings by her father.

'I wonder what will happen to it?' she mused. Last summer she'd painted the living room herself in magnolia. Old Mrs Simmonds even gave her some better curtains to hang and showed her how to make covers for the two fireside chairs and it looked lovely for some time. But when winter came black mould crept up the walls and spoiled it. Bonny consoled her by saying it would be the last winter they'd spend there. For once she had spoken the truth.

Camellia had no idea why she suddenly felt compelled to take the steep steps down to it. She knew, though she hadn't been told, that she wasn't supposed to until the police had finished their investigations. But she wanted to. Just for one last look.

All the other houses in the terrace still had their curtains closed and bottles of milk stood on each doorstep. Aside from a scruffy dog out on his early morning business, there was no one to see her. She slid her hand through the letter box and found the key dangling on its string inside.

The house smelled as musty as ever. In the narrow hall there was a theatre poster hanging over the worst of the peeling paper. Bonny had put it there herself. She said she used to know the actress Frances Delarhey who was billed as starring in the play. Camellia had no idea how Bonny came by the poster, but then her mother rarely explained anything.

Everything was just as she left it yesterday morning: the rinsed-out cereal bowl on the wooden draining board, one mug, a spoon and the milk turned sour in the bottle. She wandered aimlessly, picking things up, then putting them down, uncertain now why she was here. Unpaid bills on the ugly tiled mantelpiece, a mountain of ironing in a basket, even the almost empty gin bottle left on the table might indicate to an outsider that her mother was depressed, but Camellia knew that this was nothing compared with how things had been sometimes.

On the living room table was Bonny's make-up mirror, her bright pink nail varnish, emery board and an orange stick for her cuticles. It was almost as if she'd just popped out for cigarettes, If Camellia just closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, she might find Bonny back at that table, golden head bent over as she filed her nails to perfection.

The ironing board was still standing in the corner of the lounge, with the burn mark right through the cover. Camellia didn't want to remember now that only a fortnight ago Bonny had burned the skirt she'd saved up for weeks to buy.

Going on upstairs, she hesitated outside Bonny's room. This one room had always been out of bounds in her mother's absence and to poke around seemed like snooping.

'She can't say anything now!' Camellia said aloud. Her words echoed on the uncarpeted landing, and with the echo bitter memories came flooding back.

Bonny's room was the only one which had been redecorated. She got the horrible Stan who moved them in to do it and must have bribed him with the promise he'd get to stay here sometimes, because he worked like a slave at it. Not just painting and papering either, but building a whole wall of wardrobes for Bonny's clothes. Bonny insisted he'd start on Camellia's room when he'd finished hers. But maybe even Bonny balked at sleeping with the man just to get him to do jobs, because Stan disappeared suddenly without putting handles on the doors. Bonny had to do that herself and Stan never returned to do Camellia's room.

Pushing open the door, she walked in and stared round defiantly at Stan's handiwork.

Mirrors on the wardrobes reflected back the ornate walnut bed and dressing table brought from the old house. The deep pink curtains and carpet, white lacy bedspread and twin cherub lamps on little lace-covered tables gave an instant image of luxurious femininity.

Camellia could picture Bonny lying across the bed the day it was finished.

'It won't be long, darling, before the whole house looks as nice,' she said, drawing her onto the bed with her and giving her a cuddle. 'I'm through with all the silliness and parties. It's just you and me now. I'll get myself a job and we'll be happy here. Maybe I had to leave Mermaid Street to start again. There were too many ghosts in that house.'

It was all lies. The parties, the drunkenness and the men just went on and on. She didn't find a job and made no attempt to make the rest of the house nice. While Bonny had this comfortable pretty room, her daughter across the landing had bare boards under her feet, a piece of cardboard blocked a hole in the window and her bed had springs sticking out the mattress.

Camellia felt a surge of anger as she looked at the carefully made bed, the dusted dressing table with all those sparkling bottles of perfume arranged so neatly. Until now she hadn't really considered how odd it was that a woman who slept late, drank all night and who wouldn't even iron a school shirt for her daughter, somehow managed to keep this room immaculately clean and tidy.

The anger grew as she flung open the wardrobes to see row after row of dresses, suits and blouses. How many times had Camellia pleaded for a new school coat or skirt and always got the same reply. 'I'm a bit short now, darling. Next week maybe!'

So many excuses. She was going for an audition. This job interview was important. But mostly, 'He adores me, darling. I have to look right, just think how good it will be to have a new father.'

Who was the man she went to meet in London?

Camellia had long since given up questioning Bonny about her boyfriends, because all her relationships ended the same way. One moment she was talking of flats in London, holidays in the sun and her belief their luck was changing, then the next it was all over. Bonny was like a fisherman, idly dreaming away her life on a sunny river bank, catching one, playing with him for awhile, then throwing him back, always looking for the illusive big catch.

Yet she had been unusually secretive about this last man. She'd made long phone calls late at night, her eyes glowing as if he really was important, and kept hinting that something wonderful was around the corner for both of them. Just a few days earlier she had spoken of getting them both a passport. Why hadn't she ever said his name or brought him back here?

'I suppose he was married,' Camellia sighed.

As she flicked through dresses, tears welled up in her eyes, splashing down her cheeks unheeded. A memory of an evening some four weeks earlier sprang into her mind, a good memory that softened some of the anger.

Bonny was sitting at the dressing table brushing her hair over her sun-kissed shoulders, wearing just her bra and panties. Her stomach was as flat as a board. She smiled as Camellia held out dresses for her to choose from.

'That one's too dressy for drinks.' Bonny rejected the emerald green one with beading on the shoulder. 'I don't feel like wearing black tonight. Get me out the pink crepe!'

'I wish I had a dress like this one.' Camellia held the pink one up to her and looked at herself in the mirror. Her reflection made her cry. She was a fat lump with piggy dark eyes, lank hair, sallow greasy skin and she felt she would never look good in anything.

She didn't hear her mother move, but suddenly she was there behind her, rubbing her soft perfumed cheek against Camellia's.

'You won't always be tubby, darling,' she said so very gently. 'One day you'll wake up and find it's all gone and you are beautiful.'

'How do you know?' Camellia sniffed back her tears. 'You've never been fat in your life.'

Bonny laughed, but this time there was no sarcasm in it.

'Because I had a good friend once who was every bit as plump as you. She turned out be one of the most gorgeous women anyone has ever seen. Besides you've got a lovely nature, darling, when the fat drops off, as it will, you'll be twice the woman I am.'

Camellia lifted out that pink dress and held it to her face and sobbed. She could smell her mother's perfume, feel that smooth cheek pressing against her own.

That night she'd gone to bed full of optimism. If she hadn't been so wrapped up in herself recently, perhaps she might have noticed something wasn't right with her mother.

All at once Camellia felt the full force of what Bonny's death really meant. She didn't care about the bad memories, the slights and humiliations. She just wanted her mother back, anyhow, anyway.

'Why Mummy? Why?' she whispered. 'If things were so bad why couldn't you have just come home and told me? You were always telling me to hold my head up and ignore spiteful people. I'm not a child any longer, I could have helped.'

It was a mixture of anger and grief that made her search through everything. Somewhere here she might find an explanation or at least a clue. She turned out everything: shoe boxes, old handbags,even coat pockets. She found almost a pound in change, but nothing else.

Next the dressing table, flicking aside the silky underwear with its waft of Chanel perfume, but still nothing.

A few photographs in an envelope of her father made her cry again. In the pictures he was just a tall, slim grave-faced man with dark hair and a moustache. She could barely recall his face to memory now. But she could remember how it was when he was alive, the feeling of utter safety, being loved and wanted. Hearing his deep voice wafting up the stairs at night, arms lifting her up above his head when he came home.

Maybe her mother had loved John more deeply than Camellia realised? Perhaps she was always searching for a replacement for him?

Not even the jewellery box held any surprises. The pearl necklace, diamond earrings and gold bracelet she'd been given by her husband were all there. Wouldn't she have pawned those again, if it was money troubles?

When Camellia had exhausted the possibilities of the room, she got down on her hands and knees to look under the bed, but even that revealed nothing but one laddered stocking. As she hauled herself back up though, holding onto the bed end, she noticed the bedspread was tucked in accidentally in one place, as if her mother had lifted the mattress to slide something beneath.

Holding the mattress up with one hand, she put her hand in, moving it along slowly. Her fingers met something hard and flat, and out came a large brown envelope.

It contained school reports, her parents' marriage licence and her father's death certificate. There were more photographs of her parents, many of them at their wedding, including one in a brass frame which had sat on the mantelpiece when they were in Mermaid Street. Her own birth certificate was there too, plus ten or twelve studio pictures of her up until she was about seven.

She put them all back carefully. The police would let her have them all later, she didn't have to take them now. But as she slid them back under the mattress, her hands swept further under. Again something smooth, flat and stiff. Hastily she pulled it out, sitting on the bed to examine it.

This wasn't an envelope but a wallet type file, made of stiff green card.

A sudden noise from the street startled her and she moved over to the window. The Colleys next door were packing their car with picnic things and she suddenly realised she had been in the house for quite some time. The police could turn up any minute or Mrs Rowlands would find her missing and worry. She must leave now.

Returning to the file she quickly flicked through it. It seemed to be letters from men, some of them so old they were discoloured. Bonny had tucked this away for safe keeping, along with the other envelope. It might only be old love letters, of no importance to anyone but Bonny, but the very fact it was hidden implied she didn't want just anyone to see them.

'I'll destroy them if that's all it is,' she whispered, feeling Bonny's presence so closely she could have been standing beside her. 'I won't let on to anyone. I love you, Mummy.'

It took only a minute to straighten the bedspread, close all doors and drawers. Another to get together a few of her own things in a bag, with the file tucked away beneath them and she was gone, closing the front door firmly behind her, leaving the key to swing on its string. 'Camellia! Where have you been?' Mrs Rowlands asked plaintively, turning from the bacon she was frying as Camellia came in the back way into the bakery kitchen. 'You can't imagine what I was thinking.'

It was the first time Camellia had ever seen Mrs Rowlands without an apron. She looked like an overstuffed bolster in her candy-striped blue cotton dress. The kitchen looked strange too no heaps of baking trays waiting to be washed or uncooked pies and pasties stacked on racks waiting for space in the huge ovens. It was cool and very well scrubbed.

'I had to go out for a walk.' Camellia concealed the bag behind her back. 'I didn't want to wake you. I'm sorry if I made you worry.'

'Well, you're here now. Take this up to Mr Rowlands.' She handed Camellia a plate of bacon and eggs. 'I'll bring ours.'

Mr Rowlands was already sitting at the laid breakfast table in the living room, reading 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 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.