Opal Plumstead (33 page)

‘But you’re at Madame Alouette’s on Saturdays.’

‘He wants to take you to the National Gallery, and it’s not open on Sundays.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ I said. I didn’t think I wanted to meet Mr Evandale at all, but I longed to go to the National Gallery. ‘But then I’ll be seeing him on my own!’

‘Yes,’ said Cassie. She didn’t sound too happy about it, either.

‘I’m not sure I want to do that,’ I said.

‘Well, tell you what – I’ll come too.’

‘You’ll ask for a day off work? Will Madame Alouette let you?’

‘Probably not, especially on our busiest day. But I’ll invent a bad toothache on Friday, and then she’ll believe I’ve gone to a dentist in desperation.’

‘You’re such a liar, Cassie! Your heart will be covered in black spots by now.’

‘As long as my chest stays white as snow I don’t care,’ she said.

‘You keep that snowy chest hidden away from Mr Evandale,’ I told her. ‘I’m glad you’ll be there too. I should feel so awkward otherwise. But you’ve always said you find the idea of art galleries boring.’

‘I haven’t really changed my mind. I can’t see the point of peering at a whole load of old paintings, unless they’re Daniel’s portraits of me! But I’m not sure I want you trotting around with him half the day. You know a lot about art and you use long words and show off. He might decide to swap sisters,’ said Cassie.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘You know perfectly well that no man would ever give me a second look while you’re around.’

‘Maybe that was true once, but you’re looking a little different now,’ said Cassie.

When we went up to bed, I stared hard in the looking glass. I’d had a mad hope that I’d suddenly transformed into a beauty. That hope was dashed immediately. I was as small and sharp and bespectacled as always. But when I smoothed my nightgown, I acknowledged that I was at last getting a little curvier, though on a very modest scale, and even properly clothed I had a different stance. I didn’t slouch like a schoolgirl any more. Although my face hadn’t changed shape, I wasn’t quite as pale and my eyes had a different look in them, even though they were covered by my glasses. I had all the same depressing features, but now they assumed a different expression. I just wasn’t quite sure what it was.

It was late and I only had a stump of candle that gave off very poor light, but I tried to sketch a quick portrait of myself. I managed a reasonable likeness in about fifteen minutes, and then stared at it intensely. I didn’t have a portrait from before to compare it with. I’d always hated the idea of drawing myself and had only ever achieved a miserable caricature, which I’d always torn up. I realized I used to tilt my chin in a rather aggressive manner and often had a pinched line between my eyebrows. This was smoothed out now, which made a lot of difference. My face was still thin but not so taut. It seemed less cocksure, more confident.

However, I felt anything but confident the next Saturday at the prospect of meeting Mr Evandale with Cassie. She’d wailed all Friday at Alouette’s, and Madame herself had told her to attend an emergency dentist on Saturday instead of coming to work. Cassie didn’t try the same tale with Mother, who might well have bound Cassie’s jaw up and marched her off to a dentist herself. She simply told Mother that Philip had begged his aunt to allow him to take Cassie up to London on Saturday morning, to make the most of the shops and the sights, and Madame Alouette was so fond of Cassie that she had agreed just this once.

So Mother understood when, after breakfast, Cassie got herself up in all her green finery. But she frowned at me when she saw that I was wearing Cassie’s grey costume and white blouse.

‘And where are you off to, missy? Mixing with those dreadful suffragettes again? You’re going to get yourself into terrible trouble. All decent folk think those women want horse-whipping. The destruction they’ve caused! All the shop windows broken, policemen and politicians assaulted. Someone’s going to get killed soon, you mark my words.’

‘Someone already
has
been killed – Emily Davison was trampled to death at Epsom under the King’s horse,’ I declared. ‘And pretty soon some of the poor brave women stuck in prison and tortured with force feeding will die soon too. People say Mrs Pankhurst herself is in danger.’

‘They bring it on themselves with their silly hysterics.’

‘They’re hysterical on
our behalf
, Mother. They want better rights for women. Once we have the vote, then everything will change.’

‘I wouldn’t vote if you paid me. Women have no business in the polling booths. We know nothing about politics or running the wretched country.’

‘So we need to educate ourselves until we do,’ I insisted passionately yet again. I felt boiling hot in my flannel costume and throttled by the high neck of my blouse.

‘Oh, do stop getting so het up, both of you,’ said Cassie.

‘
You’d
vote if you had the opportunity, wouldn’t you, Cass?’ I appealed to her.

‘Oh, of course I would. I’d vote for any candidate who was handsome. It seems to be a rule that all politicians are ugly. And then I’d want all the laws changed. I’d have everyone only working one hour a day, and I’d give all women a very generous dress allowance, but all millinery will be extremely expensive so Alouette’s makes five times the profit.’

‘But how could that possibly be economically viable?’ I asked.

‘Oh, you’re such a pain, Opie. I’m not serious. Now do stop getting so agitated. I have to be off now to meet Philip, and you don’t want to be late for your boring old meeting, so let’s say goodbye to Mother now and be on our way.’

I let Cassie hustle me out of the house.

‘Dear goodness!’ she said as we were hurrying down the street. ‘If you start all this suffragette nonsense with Daniel, he’ll tease you unmercifully, I warn you.’

‘It’s not nonsense,’ I said crossly, and proceeded to tell her
why
women needed the vote until she actually put her hands over her ears as we walked along. But the nearer we got to the railway station where we were to meet Mr Evandale, the less assertive I became.

I didn’t need Cassie to point him out when we got there. He stood idly reading a newspaper, taller and broader than most men, a large soft trilby on his dark unruly hair. He was wearing a greatcoat left unbuttoned and a long purple scarf draped round and round his neck, contrasting vividly with the cherry red of his velvet waistcoat. His clothes were made of soft materials in girlish colours, but he still looked the most masculine man I’d ever seen.

‘Oh my, isn’t he wonderful?’ Cassie breathed proudly.

She went rushing forward and peeped round his newspaper to surprise him. He laughed and took her hand. There was nothing especially intimate about their greeting, and yet somehow it seemed as if they were embracing. I felt myself going pink.

‘Daniel, dear, this is my sister, Opal,’ said Cassie. ‘Opie, this is my Daniel.’

I quivered a little that she should call this man ‘my Daniel’. It was clear that they were far more than friends.

‘I’m delighted to meet you, Opal. The child wonder who has set the whole of Fairy Glen a-twittering with the wonder of her fairy designs,’ said Mr Evandale.

I couldn’t decide if he was being serious or sarcastic. I felt even more gauche than usual, stuck out my hand stiffly, and then recoiled at the warmth and vigour of his grasp as we shook hands.

‘Cassie has told me so much about her brilliant little sister,’ he said.

‘I am hardly brilliant,’ I said gruffly.

‘Yes you are,’ said Cassie. ‘My Lord, you should have heard her this morning, Daniel, sounding off about women’s suffrage and all sorts of dreary political stuff until I thought I should scream.’

‘Really, Opal? Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me too while we journey up to London,’ he suggested.

‘Perhaps not,’ I said, because even I could see that this would not be sensible.

The journey took less than an hour, but it seemed interminable. Mr Evandale was determined to draw me out, asking me all sorts of questions, seeming to flatter me – but I became more and more awkwardly monosyllabic.

‘Don’t be shy, Opie,’ Cassie said, trying to encourage me. She was certainly the opposite of shy. Now that we were in an enclosed carriage, just the three of us, she snuggled up close to Daniel Evandale, tucking her hand under his arm and gazing up at him adoringly. He smiled at her every now and then, sometimes patting her absentmindedly, as if she were a little lapdog. I would have found such an attitude deeply offensive, but Cassie was clearly in seventh heaven.

I was starting to wish I had never agreed to come. I even hatched a wild plan to push off by myself when we reached Waterloo, but Mr Evandale swept Cassie and me into a cab. This was a novelty I didn’t want to miss. It felt so grand to be swooping along through the busy traffic to Trafalgar Square. I’d never been there before, though I’d seen pictures of the huge Landseer lions and Nelson on his column. Little urchins were swarming all over the lions. It looked such fun that I longed to lift up my hobbling skirts and join them, but of course I refrained.

There were vast flocks of pigeons hopping and fluttering about the square. An old man was selling bags of birdseed to the children at a penny a time. Mr Evandale saw me looking at them and laughed. He handed me a penny from his trouser pocket.

‘You don’t want to feed those nasty flappy things, do you?’ said Cassie. ‘Aren’t you afraid of getting pecked?’

‘They’re not
eagles
, Cassie,’ I said.

I took great delight in feeding the birds. I didn’t have to encourage them at all. They positively mobbed me the moment they saw the bag in my hand. It was wonderful when their little claws fastened confidently on my shoulders and their soft wings brushed my face. One even perched on top of my head, artistically posing on my hat, a living decoration to my grey outfit.

‘Mind it doesn’t mess on that hat!’ said Cassie, shuddering. ‘It’s mine, remember.’

‘Anyone would think you didn’t like birds, Cassie,’ said Mr Evandale.

‘I don’t mind pretty coloured ones in cages,’ she replied.

We looked at each other, remembering poor lost Billy and
Happy Days
. My eyes filled with tears, and Cassie’s did too.

‘Come, girls – the birds are full to bursting now,’ Mr Evandale said gently, and he steered us towards the gallery. We hadn’t said a word. I was surprised by his sensitivity. Perhaps he wasn’t quite such a bad man after all. We went up the steps. The gallery was extraordinarily crowded, which was a surprise. I had imagined us drifting through empty rooms.

‘Shall we work our way through the paintings chronologically from the beginning, or shall we dart about at random, picking out favourites?’ said Mr Evandale.

‘Chronologically,’ I said.

‘Dart about,’ Cassie said simultaneously. ‘And not
too
many favourites.’

‘It’s Opal’s treat,’ Mr Evandale pointed out. ‘I think we shall begin at the beginning. But after an hour or so I shall take you off for a cup of tea and a bun, Cassie. How about that?’

‘I’ve got to look at paintings for a whole
hour
?’ Cassie complained. She sighed as we entered the north vestibule to start with the early Italian paintings.

I stared in wonder at the glowing pinks and golds and scarlets and the brilliant lapis blue. I had a well-thumbed book about the paintings in the National Gallery, with over seven hundred reproductions, but they were all in black and white.

I wanted to stand and marvel at each one. But everyone strolled past at a measured pace. I tried to do the same, but when I came across the Duccio Madonna in the second room, I stood rooted to the spot. I wouldn’t budge even when Cassie poked and pulled at me.

‘Do you like her?’ asked Mr Evandale.

I nodded, for once speechless.

‘She is beautiful, isn’t she,’ he agreed.

‘No she’s not!’ said Cassie impatiently. ‘Her face is all greeny and isn’t pretty at all. And she’s far too big. That baby’s out of proportion and the people are the wrong size. It doesn’t look real.’

‘It’s not trying to look real. The early Italian painters wanted to show Heaven in all its golden glory,’ said Mr Evandale. Right then I could have kissed him.

‘She
is
beautiful, Cassie. The baby is Christ, so He’s very magical. He’s a tiny baby and yet He’s already all-powerful. I love the way He’s lifting her veil so tenderly and reaching up to stroke her face,’ I said.

‘I don’t know why you’re going so googly over the baby. You won’t go near any of Mother’s,’ said Cassie. She flounced off, and Mr Evandale raised his eyebrows at me.

‘I’ll have to find paintings more to Cassie’s taste or she’ll make our visit very difficult,’ he said.

None of the early Italians pleased her, though she conceded that the Crivelli Madonnas were ‘more like it’, but she took issue with their long delicate hands. I marvelled at Crivelli’s enormous altarpiece, embellished here and there with real jewels. I wondered if this might be a good idea for Fairy Glen gift boxes, maybe at Christmas. A new design entirely – a dark night with a fairy Father Christmas flying through the air with sacks of toys in his sled and silvery enamel stars glittering in the sky.

‘That Virgin’s fingers are too long too,’ Cassie said dismissively. ‘And who are all the people?’

‘Let me introduce you,’ said Mr Evandale, as if we were at a party. ‘St Peter, with his key, St John the Baptist, St Catherine of Alexandria, St Dominic, St Andrew, St Stephen with the stones of his martyrdom embedded in his head, and St Thomas Aquinas. And up on the top tier I see St Jerome, the Archangel Michael stamping on a dragon, St Peter the martyr, and there’s dear little St Lucy carrying her plate.’

‘What are those weird things on the plate?’ Cassie asked.

‘Her eyes, my dear.’

‘Her
eyes
?’

‘She plucked them out with her own hands and sent them to a love-struck youth,’ I said, proud that I’d read about her in my art book.

‘How truly disgusting. These fanatical religious paintings are too bizarre for me. Don’t they ever paint anything else?’