Camellia by Lesley Pearse Page A

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