Camellia by Lesley Pearse

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