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 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 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 Bonny the way she really was, a glamorous show-off, and she hoped the plain older woman would understand.

'She hardly looks old enough to be your mother.' Miss Peet smiled in commiseration. It was difficult to imagine how such a beautiful woman could produce such a plain, big girl. 'A hard act to follow eh?'

'I don't want to be like her.' The words came out before Camellia could stop herself. 'She was cruel and selfish.'

She hadn't been able to admit this to Mrs Rowlands or even to Bert Simmonds, but now she found herself pouring everything out to this elderly and intuitive stranger.

Camellia had no choice but to leave Rye for good. Once the funeral was over, people treated her like a stray dog. They pitied her, offered her titbits, but no one really wanted her, or understood her feelings. Even weeks after Bonny was laid to rest they were all still gossiping about the expensive, anonymous bouquets of flowers which had arrived for the funeral. Not one of these mysterious admirers had the courage or the compassion to send a few comforting words to Camellia, or even a few pounds in an envelope to help her rebuild her life. The only letters which arrived were more unpaid bills.

Mr and Mrs Rowlands were kind, but in the weeks Camellia was with them the debt of gratitude was mounting up so high she felt smothered by it. She had been working like a slave in the bakery to try to repay them. Getting a job in Peter Robinson's in Oxford Street and living in a hostel wasn't that much better than what she had in Rye, but at least she could start with a clean slate.

Miss Peet did not seem at all surprised by Camellia's outburst. 'Shall I tell you something?' she said as she reached out across the narrow coffee table and took Camellia's hand. 'I adored my mother. She too was widowed when I was young. We were so close I didn't want or need any friends. But it wasn't until she grew old and frail that I realised just how unhealthy that is too. I could have travelled, made something of my life, but she held me too tightly. I'm not sure which is worse, the mother who loves too much or the one that doesn't love enough.'

Camellia was a little thrown by this admission, yet it reminded her of the things her mother had said when Granny died. Camellia was only ten then and she'd gone to London with her mother for the funeral. Afterwards they'd gone to Granny's house in Dagenham to sort things out. Bonny broke down and cried when she saw the pictures of herself as a child, almost filling the tiny living room. Upstairs her old bedroom was just as it had been when she was little her dolls on shelves, her nightdresses, socks and knickers still tucked away in the drawers, almost as if Granny thought her small child was just away visiting friends.

On the way home Bonny had tried to explain her feelings. She said as a child she'd felt smothered by love and blind adoration, that it was too big a burden knowing her mother's sole reason for living was for her. She went on to explain how the war and evacuation had liberated her, that while other eleven-year-olds pined for their mothers, she had hoped she would never have to return home again.

'So what did you feel when your mother died?' Camellia asked. Her own feelings fluctuated between anger, disgust and loathing, but every now and then a wave of pure grief would hit her and that was worse than hating.

'Mostly relief.' Miss Peet sighed deeply, as if this admission was painful. 'I knew I'd never have to get up in the night to give her medicine again. I could travel and live my life without having her to worry about.'

Camellia just stared at the older woman. She wasn't used to adults being so open about their feelings.

'I'm only telling you this to illustrate my point,' Miss Peet said gently. 'Both of us have had our lives spoilt by our mothers, though in entirely different ways. You're luckier than me in some respects because you have your whole life ahead of you. I was in my mid-forties before I was free. Remember the good things about your mother, Mel. Don't let bitterness get the upper hand. Now let's finish this tea and I'll show you your room. The other girls will be home soon.'

If Miss Peet hadn't brought the matter to an end when she did Camellia just might have told her about the file of letters she'd found. But as it was she felt better inside. Maybe she could show them to her some other time, and ask her advice.

Camellia soon learned she had been wrong in thinking that her life was about to change dramatically for the better. In Rye her biggest problem had been gossip. In London it was a wall of complete indifference. There were many times in her first four months of living in the hostel and working at Peter Robinson's when Camellia would almost have welcomed being at the centre of another scandal, just so that someone would notice her. She felt as if she had become invisible.

She liked her job on the handbag counter at Peter Robinson's. She found she had a flair for selling, and was complimented by the floor supervisor for her skill at display, her attentive attitude to customers and her reliability. The store had been so busy in the run-up to Christmas, and afterwards with the January sale, that Camellia hardly had time to consider that all she knew of the other salesgirls was through observation and overheard gossip. But back home at Archway House she was totally aware of her isolation from the other girls. She had not made one friend.

An ache grew inside her as she saw the other girls in tight little cliques, closing ranks against her. Her weight, clothes, even her Sussex accent set her apart. It was just the way it had been at school, almost as if she had 'Reject' stamped across her forehead. So she pretended she liked to be alone, avoided going in the lounge, went to bed early with a book and on Sundays took herself off for long walks, mentally listing all the things she had to be grateful for. She had her own cubicle in a dormitory which she shared with three other girls. It was on the first floor overlooking the back garden, bright, clean and warm, with a very comfortable bed and her own pictures and posters on the walls to make it homely. The meals were always good with lots of fresh vegetables and fruit. She could have a bath daily if she wanted to, there were washing machines and irons in the basement and the only cleaning she was required to do was to dust her cubicle.

But at night she lay awake listening to the other three girls chatting and giggling. They borrowed each other's clothes and make-up, did each other's hair, but ignored Camellia.

Her sixteenth birthday went by without any cards. Christmas, a few days later, passed with only Miss Peet and a new girl called Janice, who kept bursting into tears. Everyone else had gone home to their families. Camellia had a card and a woolly hat from Mrs Rowlands, a gift voucher from Bert Simmonds and bath salts from Miss Peet. They ate roast chicken, pulled crackers and sat watching the television, but although Miss Peet tried to be jolly, even she seemed to be dwelling on happier times.

One morning in February, four months after she'd arrived in London, Camellia was travelling to work as normal on the tube when she felt slightly giddy. She guessed it might be that she was hungry: she had skipped the evening meal the night before and had rushed out that morning without any breakfast. But around ten, just before the mid-morning break when she intended to get a sandwich from the canteen, she suddenly felt strange again. There was a buzzing sound in her head, and her eyes wouldn't seem to focus properly. Before she could get to a chair to sit down, everything went black.

She came to, finding herself lying on the floor, surrounded by a crowd of customers and shop assistants. Suzanne, the small blonde girl from hosiery, was kneeling beside her smoothing back her hair.

Suzanne was the most popular girl in the entire store. She was the one everyone went out of their way to share their breaks with. Until now she hadn't so much as smiled at Camellia, much less showed any interest in her.

'I'll take care of her, Miss Puckridge,' the blonde insisted, helping the supervisor to get Camellia on her feet. I'll take her to the rest room and make her a cup of tea.'

As Camellia was led away supported by Suzanne, she was still too dazed from fainting to feel embarrassment or indeed to offer any explanation. It was only once the other girl had sat her down in an armchair, put the kettle on and then crouched down in front of her, her small elfin face full of concern, that Camellia realised she'd accidentally broken through the wall of indifference.

'You aren't pregnant, are you?' Suzanne asked.

Camellia shook her head. It was such a preposterous suggestion, but even in her shaky disorientated state she knew she must somehow turn her predicament to her advantage.

Everything about Suzanne made Camellia feel inadequate. She was a mod, and she looked good in her mid-calf tight skirts and Granny shoes: small and slim, with silky blonde hair which hung over one eye like a silk curtain. All day other girls risked Miss Puckridge's displeasure by nipping off from their counters to chat to her. She was only a year or so older than Camellia, but she had all the confidence and poise of a twenty-year-old.

'I'm certainly not pregnant.' Camellia managed a watery smile. 'Not unless you believe in immaculate conceptions.'

Suzanne laughed, her pale blue eyes crinkling up in merriment. 'Well, that's a relief,' she said, turning back to the kettle to make the tea. 'That leaves the other theory, that you've been starving yourself. Any truth in that?'

Camellia looked at Suzanne through her eyelashes as she poured the boiling water into the teapot. Not one bulge of flesh spoiled the line of her tight skirt. She even dared to put a belt round her jumper. Could she possibly understand what it felt like to be fat? 'Not faying to starve, but I have been dieting,' she said lightly.

'What on earth for?' Suzanne turned round sharply, her false eyelashes fluttering in surprise.

'Come on!' Camellia smiled. 'You don't have to be polite. I know I'm huge, but I've been trying to do something about it.'

Suzanne looked puzzled. She took a step or two back, one finger on her little pointed chin, and studied Camellia. 'I thought you were a bit podgy when you first came here,' she said thoughtfully. 'But honestly you aren't now. You can't possibly weigh more than nine stone.'

Camellia felt a moment of elation. Her clothes had got a bit baggy, but until now she just thought they'd stretched. She wasn't brave enough to weigh herself in a chemist's. 'A doctor weighed me for my medical, back in September,' she insisted. 'I was eleven and a half stone then and he gave me a diet sheet.'

Suzanne looked triumphant. 'Well the diet obviously worked. Have you weighed yourself recently?'

'I didn't stick to it.' Camellia dropped her eyes. 'I couldn't. I was working in a bakery you see. I was supposed to go back to him before I left Sussex, but I didn't. I guess I'd had enough of questions after my mum died.'

Suzanne looked startled. She covered her mouth with her hand, clearly embarrassed. 'I'm so sorry,' she said hastily. 'I didn't know. Was this recently? Is that why you came to London?'

Camellia had told herself after her initial talk to Miss Peet that she was going to put her mother's death behind her and never speak of it again. Seeing Suzanne's sympathetic reaction, though, she realised that this might have been a mistake. 'It's okay. It was back in August,' she said, hoping she could keep the girl's interest. 'She drowned you see. I'll tell you about it if you like. But maybe I ought to get a sandwich first. I don't want to keel over again.'

Suzanne put a mug of sweet tea in Camellia's hand, then went to get a sandwich from the canteen. Judging by the speed at which she came back, she had run all the way to the fourth floor.

The rest room was a small messy place with an adjoining toilet, used only for tea and cigarette breaks. The fug of cigarette smoke, the dilapidated chairs, piles of well-worn magazines and unwashed cups was at odds with the spotless and ordered department store just beyond its door. From time to time Miss Puckridge insisted the window was left open to air it, but the noise of the traffic from Oxford Street below meant her orders were disobeyed.

Camellia explained everything between mouthfuls of cheese sandwich and gulps of tea.

Suzanne's eyes filled with tears, and she even left her cigarette burning away in the ashtray.

'Oh, Mel,' she sighed at last. 'That's so awful. I can't imagine how I'd manage if anything happened to my mum.'

Camellia reached out a tentative hand and touched the girl's arm. 'I feel much better now. Thank you.'

They had a second cup of tea, even though Suzanne should've gone back to work by now, and Camellia admitted how lonely she'd felt, both at work and at the hostel.

'We all thought you were stuck up when you started here. I wish I'd known what had happened I wouldn't have been so mean to you.' Suzanne's crisp London voice was subdued now, frown lines furrowing her forehead.

'You weren't mean.' Camellia smiled all Suzanne had done was to ignore her. 'Besides the last thing I wanted was pity. I'd had a basin full of that. And I know fat plain girls don't set the world alight.'

There was a moment's silence, then to her surprise Suzanne started to giggle.

'You silly cow!' She caught hold of Camellia's hand and pulled her up onto her feet and over to a mirror on the wall. 'I've already told you, you aren't fat! You certainly aren't plain either. Take a real look at yourself!'

They stood side by side. Camellia saw what she expected: a big girl almost dwarfing the smaller blonde, hair scraped back into a ponytail, sallow skin, dark slanty eyes. But Suzanne caught hold of her skirt and cardigan behind her back, pulling the fabric tight to show the lines of her body.

'See what I mean? You aren't much wider than me. It's just those dowdy clothes of yours. And your face is great! You've got really good bone structure and skin, you just haven't learned how to make the best of yourself. Look at your hair dragged back like that! It should be cut nicely and left loose. If it's quiet this afternoon I'll get Carol on make-up to give you a few tips.'

They had to go back to work then, but Camellia's head was reeling with what Suzanne had said. She didn't believe for one minute that she'd got better looking, even though her spots had cleared up. Yet shielded by the counter, she ran her hands down over her hips. To her utter astonishment she found she could no longer grasp much flesh.

There was no mirror in the bathrooms at Archway House; the only full-length one in the dormitory was by Wendy's cubicle and she certainly wouldn't dream of studying herself in that in case someone saw her. Could just giving up sweets, cakes and pies really have worked a miracle without her noticing?

Camellia waited in Boots, the chemists, until a group of girls had moved right away from the scales, then slunk towards them, keeping her head down. It had been a very long morning, waiting for her dinner break so she could come here.

She stood on the scales, opening her coat before she put the penny in the slot to stop anyone else seeing the result. As the penny dropped she put her hand over the eleven as a precaution, but to her absolute amazement the indicator only went to nine stone eight pounds.

For a moment she could only stare in shock. Surely it was wrong. Could she really have lost over two stone?

'Are the scales accurate?' she asked an assistant at the counter.

'Of course they are,' the woman pursed up her mouth as if resenting such a question. 'They get tested each Monday without fail.'

If Camellia hadn't gone over to Suzanne and whispered the result of her weighing session as soon as she got back to the store, maybe the pretty blonde would've forgotten her earlier promise about make-up. But she looked around the shop, saw how few customers there were and escorted Camellia over to Carol on the beauty corner.

Carol, with her flame-red Cilia Black hair and talons to match, seemed even more formidable than Suzanne. Everything about her was perfection, from her creamy skin to her knowledge about cosmetics. She and Suzanne were the golden girls pretty, popular and sought after. But all it took was one word from Suzanne and Carol whisked Camellia into a chair, dragged the rubber band out of her hair and brushed it through.

'You, my girl, have got all the classic features of a real beauty, not like me and Suzanne with our fair skins and dyed hair,' she said with enthusiasm. 'Your hair is naturally shiny and bouncy. It just needs a decent cut. I've been dying to have a go at you for ages,' she admitted.

Carol began by giving her a facial, tidying up her eyebrows, before starting on the make-up. 'You don't need a great deal,' she said as she smoothed on some foundation. 'You've just got to define the best bits, your cheek bones, eyes and those lovely luscious lips. Most women would kill for those!'