Opal Plumstead (27 page)

‘It’s Daniel’s ring. He’s had it all his life,’ said Cassie. ‘But he’s given it to me. It’s a little big for me and he says he’ll have it altered, but I don’t want to risk spoiling it as it’s so perfect. I can’t wear it anyway, not yet.’

‘But is it a real engagement ring? He’s asked you to marry him?’

Cassie fidgeted a little. ‘He’s asked me to be his love,’ she said.

‘That’s not the same thing.’

‘It’s
better
,’ said Cassie. ‘Oh, Opie, he really does love me, and I love him with all my heart. You’ve no idea how wonderful it is. You don’t understand. You’re too young.’

‘You’re young too – much too young to be seeing a middle-aged man,’ I said. ‘Especially when all your meetings are so – so
clandestine
.’ I wasn’t even sure what the word meant, but it sounded sophisticated and superior. I was struggling to hold my own, my feelings in a turmoil.

‘If you don’t watch out, he’ll have his wicked way with you,’ I said. It was a phrase frequently used in Cassie’s trashy romantic novels.

‘Maybe he’s done that already,’ she murmured.

‘I know you’re simply teasing me,’ I said.

Cassie giggled.

‘You
are
teasing, aren’t you?’ I said.

‘Of course I am,’ she said – but I couldn’t be sure.

I lay awake worrying long after Cassie had crept back to her own room. I couldn’t tell Mother. She would be heart-broken, and Cassie would never, ever forgive me. I had a mad fantasy of confronting this Mr Evandale and telling him not to toy with my sister, but I was sure he would only laugh at me. I imagined him as a pantomime villain with a twirly moustache and a furtive manner, and shuddered at the thought. I told myself that Cassie was a fool to be taken in by such a man. I thought of all the Pre-Raphaelite paintings of fallen women – their stricken faces, their wretched attitude. How could my sister be so stupid? Yet she seemed so happy, positively rapturous. Perhaps I was jealous of her as well as concerned.

I was feeling so bereft, I became ridiculously jealous of Mother’s babies too. She had abandoned her washing business. It was too hard on her sore hands, she hadn’t had enough customers to make a proper living and, worst of all, a frightening woman with a fierce face and arms like a navvy came knocking on the door one night demanding to see her. It turned out that she was a washerwoman too and lived only three streets away. She insisted that Mother was stealing customers from her, and she’d better stop or she’d boil Mother’s head along with the sheets and put her through her own mangle for good measure.

Mother decided she had better look for different employment. She tried doing the rounds of shops and factories all over again, with a humiliating lack of success. Then she ran into a young woman on the same job-seeking mission, carrying an infant in her arms because she had yet to find a reliable babyminder.

‘I’ve brought up two fine girls. I’m very good with babies,’ Mother found herself saying. ‘I’ll mind your child for you.’

It wasn’t long before she found herself minding four infants – two babes in arms, a determined little creature who crawled everywhere and had to be kept on a lead like a dog, and a docile little girl of three who loved playing with the bright scraps of silk and satin that Cassie brought home from work. Mother doted on the babies, making them soft little mashes to eat, crooning to them while they drank, and playing peekaboo games when they were awake. She didn’t even blink when she changed their reeking napkins.

I wondered if Mother had once been so doting and demonstrative towards Cassie and me. I had no memories of being sung to or rocked to sleep, but of course I would have been too little to remember. I was certain that she had never held me close or played with me when I was as old as four or five, though I could clearly remember her smacking me hard for climbing into the kitchen cupboard and ‘cooking’ with some flour and a few pots and pans. I also remember her forever wiping my face with a damp rag, twitching my skirts into place and buttoning my boots.

I
did
have the fondest memories of Father dandling me on his knee and reading aloud to me from
The Blue Fairy Book
. In fact, I rescued the battered old copy from Father’s bookshelf and wept all over it. I fingered the embossed gold illustration of a witch on the blue cover, remembering how I’d once shivered in delicious fear at the sight of her. I read all my favourite stories about Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella and Rumpelstiltskin. As I read, I could hear an echo of Father’s gentle voice as he turned page after page, patiently amusing me.

I wished they’d allow families to send books to prison. I’d tried to pack up a parcel of all Father’s favourite reading as a Christmas present, but Mother said I was being foolish.

‘Prisoners are not allowed Christmas parcels from home. I’ve already enquired,’ she told me.

It was so dreadful thinking of Father on Christmas Day, with no loved ones, no festive meal, no presents. Our own Christmas was bleak, but at least Mother and Cassie and I had each other. Poor Father must be desperately lonely.

‘Why don’t we all visit Father?’ I asked now. ‘I must come too. Cassie can dress me up again. I could leave the starch from the factory in my hair.’

Mother said I was talking nonsense and she very much doubted the prison authorities would allow Cassie inside, let alone me. I wrote eagerly to Father all the same, telling him to take heart, his family were thinking of him all the time and would visit him as soon as we’d saved the rail fare.

I was totally dashed when Father responded as follows:

Dearest Lou, Cassie and Opal
,

Please do not put yourselves to the trouble and expense of visiting me. I don’t think I could bear to let you see me in my current situation. It would only be distressing, most of all to me. Far better that you put me out of your minds altogether, until I can return home and be

Your loving husband and father,

Ernest

‘Perhaps he doesn’t really mean it,’ I faltered.

‘He’s made it plain enough, Opal,’ said Mother.

‘I think we should go anyway,’ I said.

‘It would be foolish to go all that way and spend so much money if your father refuses to see us. We must respect his feelings. He’s ashamed.’

‘But he shouldn’t feel ashamed. Mrs Roberts has been in prison and she acts as if she’s proud of it.’

‘What? The Mrs Roberts who owns Fairy Glen? She’s been in prison?’

‘She’s a suffragette and she’s been arrested at demonstrations,’ I said.

‘Then she’s a total fool,’ said Mother. ‘I don’t hold with these hysterical women throwing bricks at windows and behaving like hoydens. They’ve no business interfering in politics. They should leave it to the men who know best.’

‘I think women should be educated until they know just as much as men,’ I said. ‘Mrs Roberts is utterly splendid. I think I shall become a suffragette when I’m older.’

‘Then you’ll end up in prison too, and God help us,’ said Mother. ‘I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense. And anyway, it’s different when you go to prison for a political cause. I’ll bet she had an easy time of it because she’s a high-born lady. She won’t be doing hard labour like your father.’

‘It’s so wicked that he’s been given such a hard sentence. We know he didn’t embezzle all that other money,’ I said passionately.

‘We can’t positively
know
, Opal,’ said Mother. ‘And we
do
know he wrote out a cheque to himself. That’s a crime in anyone’s book. When I was a girl, I knew an old man who was so hungry he dug up some potatoes in a farmer’s field – just four or five potatoes. He was caught and sentenced to
five
years’ hard labour.’

‘But that doesn’t make Father’s case any less unfair,’ I said.

‘Opal, you’re making my head spin. You can be so aggravating at times. Why can’t you be more like your sister?’ Mother nodded at Cassie. She was sitting demurely in her chair, making herself a new petticoat, embroidering daisies all around the hem.

Yes, and I dare say she’ll be showing off those daisies to her darling Mr Evandale
, I shouted – but only inside my head.

I stomped up to my room and read
The Blue Fairy Book
. When was my fairy godmother going to appear and wave her magic wand?

When I trudged into the factory the next morning, Mr Beeston beckoned to me.

‘Hold your horses, Opal Plumstead. Mrs Roberts wants to see you this morning,’ he said.

My throat went dry. What had I done now? I hadn’t been in any more fights. I had moulded obediently, hour after hour. I completed more boxes than any of the other girls because I had a steady hand and I didn’t waste time gossiping.

‘Don’t look so stricken,’ said Mr Beeston. He reached out and snatched at my nose with his fingers. Then he made a fist of his hand with the thumb poking through, like a little nose. ‘Dear, oh dear, what am I doing, stealing your funny little button nose. Shall I give it you back?’ He dabbed at my forehead. ‘There! Back in place. No – whoops! Doesn’t it go
under
your eyes?’

‘Mr Beeston, I’m not a child.’

‘No? What are you, then, an ancient old woman? Well, child or crone, trot along to see Mrs Roberts, quick sharp.’

‘She’s not going to dismiss me after all, is she?’ I said fearfully.

‘There’s only one way of finding out,’ said Mr Beeston, flapping his hand in the air. ‘Off you go.’

I went along the corridor, smoothing my hair and checking the buttons on my dress. It was one of Cassie’s cast-offs, a tartan worsted for the winter. Although she’d turned up the hem and taken it in a great deal at the chest and waist, it was still far too roomy. I looked like a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes.

I knocked on Mrs Roberts’ door, wishing I didn’t feel so nervous. It had been chilly on the way to work, yet now the tartan dress stuck to my back and my hands were clammy on the doorknob.

‘Come in!’

I went in, and even though I knew what the room was like now, its splendour still took me by surprise. There was a beautiful new arrangement of bulrushes in one of the tall Japanese vases, and a willow-pattern bowl of dried rosebuds on the desk filled the whole room with their sweet musky smell. In spite of my anxiety, I resolved at once to have bulrushes and rosebuds in my bedroom at home.

Mrs Roberts was looking especially splendid too, in a white silk blouse with lace trimming and a jade-green skirt with a purple cashmere shawl delicately arranged around her shoulders.

‘Good morning, Opal,’ she said. ‘Oh my, your tartan dress looks very delightfully Scottish.’

‘It was my sister’s. It suited her a lot more than it suits me,’ I said. I wondered if she would think it too direct if I complimented her on her own apparel.

‘I love your own outfit, Mrs Roberts. I think green and purple must be your favourite colours,’ I said.

‘And white. Do you know why?’

‘Because they go stylishly together.’

‘Well, I hope they do, but that’s not the reason. They’re the colours of the suffrage movement. White for purity, green for hope, and purple for dignity.’

‘Oh, I like that! I think it’s wonderful that you’re a suffragette, Mrs Roberts. I shall be one myself when I’m older,’ I said.

‘I like your spirit, Opal. You might try coming along to meetings now.’ Mrs Roberts felt in her desk drawer. ‘Here’s a leaflet about our local gatherings.’

‘Thank you!’ I was certain Mother would forbid it if she knew about it – but she didn’t have to know, did she!

‘Now, let’s talk about work,’ said Mrs Roberts, looking serious.

‘Oh, Mrs Roberts, I have tried to be very good and diligent and I haven’t fought Patty again, I promise,’ I said.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘I know you’re speaking the truth too, because I’ve had a chat with George. So I think that, as you’ve kept your side of our bargain, I might keep mine. As from Monday you will work in another part of Fairy Glen altogether.’

‘Oh, really!’ I had to clench my fists to stop myself clapping my hands. ‘Can I try rolling out the sugar paste now?’

‘No, you’re not going to work on the factory floor. Come with me.’

Mrs Roberts stood up and led me out of the room. She took me further down the corridor to another room. On the door was one word, written in fancy looping lettering:
Design
.

My heart started thudding. Mrs Roberts smiled and opened the door. It was almost as if she had that magic wand in her hand. The design room was quite wonderful: a large cream-painted studio with big windows and astonishingly bright electric lights. There were desks up and down the room in neat rows, reminding me of school. Women sat there, each wearing a delightful green pinafore instead of white overalls. The desks were set out with paintboxes even larger than my cherished box at home, china water jars and a selection of fine paintbrushes. Each woman was diligently painting onto a large padded satin box lid. I recognized the designs from the Fairy Glen deluxe gift range for fondants, toffee chews and candy kisses: flowers for the fondants, a meadow scene for the toffees, and butterflies for the candies. I sucked in my breath when I saw the flower box for the fondants. It brought back such sweetly painful memories.

‘I have decided to try you in the design department, Opal. It’s a decision that might well surprise that art teacher of yours. You will find it’s a very exacting job, but a little more varied than moulding. My ladies work on all three designs. They’re allowed two extra fifteen-minute breaks to rest their hands and eyes.’

‘Oh, Mrs Roberts! If I can work here, I won’t need any break whatsoever, I shall be so extremely happy,’ I declared.

‘I’m not saying this is a permanent position, Opal. I’m simply giving you a week’s trial. You might not be competent enough artistically. Don’t get too excited.’

I tried to calm down, but I couldn’t help feeling thrilled. I wanted to fling my arms round Mrs Roberts and thank her for the opportunity, but I knew this would horrify her, especially in front of all the other women. I contented myself with taking her hand and shaking it earnestly for a very long time.