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
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
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