Opal Plumstead (38 page)

‘You don’t have to. Please don’t,’ I said, suddenly worried that Morgan would be horrified by my ordinary, shabby terraced house. It was a whole world away from the charms of Fairy Glen. But he insisted on coming all the same.

When Mitchell drew up outside my house, Morgan just seemed calmly interested.

‘So which one is your room, Opal?’ he said, peering out at the lace-curtained windows.

‘It’s at the back. It’s the little box room. It’s not much more than a cupboard.’

‘I bet it’s full of books and paintings,’ said Morgan.

‘Yes, it is.’

Mitchell cleared his throat, indicating that it was time for me to go.

‘I
have
enjoyed meeting you,’ said Morgan. ‘We can meet up again these holidays, can’t we?’

‘Yes, I’d like that. Very much.’

We smiled at each other. Morgan took my hand again and squeezed it. It was difficult to let go. We just sat there until Mitchell glanced round, clearly wondering why I was waiting.

I jumped out and walked to my front door. I heard the car revving up and departing as I fumbled for my key. When I looked back, it was already at the end of the street. I waved, even so. Then the car turned the corner and disappeared, and again I had that weird feeling that it had never been there at all. Had I made it all up? This couldn’t really be happening to me, could it?

MOTHER CERTAINLY THOUGHT
I was making it all up. I tried to tell her that I had spent the afternoon with Morgan Roberts and that he was the most extraordinary young man I’d ever met, but she actually put her hands over her ears.

‘Don’t you start this wicked nonsense too, Opal. I had enough lying from your sister to last me a lifetime,’ she said.

‘But it’s true, Mother, really. We got on splendidly. He wants to see me again. I swear it’s true.’

‘You’re telling me that Mrs Roberts’ son, the one who will inherit the factory, is interested in
you
?’ she said.

Her tone was so scathing that I gave up and rushed to my room. All right, I wouldn’t say another word to Mother, not if she was going to insult me. I didn’t want to talk about Morgan to her, anyway. She would somehow spoil it all even if she did begin to believe me.

I was desperate to confide in someone, though, so the next day I went to Hurst Road. Cassie was actually dressed this time, in a curious black satin smock patterned with big red poppies.

‘Do you like it, Opie? Isn’t it artistic? I embroidered all these poppies myself. I fashioned myself a smock because Daniel said he would give me painting lessons. Don’t laugh – I know I’m not really good at art like you, but I thought it might be fun to try my hand at painting portraits. I have this idea of painting a nude of Daniel. After all, he’s painted many of me now. But would you believe it, he utterly refuses to pose, even when I suggested a little loincloth to preserve his modesty. And this smock has turned out so prettily, perhaps it would be a shame to get it all covered in paint . . .

‘Do come and see Daniel’s Venus portrait of me. He’s going to show it at the Academy. Just fancy, all of fashionable London peering at my nether regions! Daniel’s busy working up a portrait of some dull old duchess. He didn’t really want the commission at all, but he says he needs the money to keep me in the style to which I’ve rapidly become accustomed! He’s such a tease, but a dear, dear man. I couldn’t be happier, Opie. I’m so in love.’

Cassie burbled on and on like that. It was quite a while before I could get a word in edgeways.

‘I think it’s happened to me too!’ I blurted out eventually.

‘What’s happened to you, Opie? Oh, let me show you the hat I’ve made – a true Easter bonnet. I don’t need to finish my boring old apprenticeship. I can make better hats than old Madame Alouette herself.’ She showed me a mad concoction of tulle and straw covered in a veritable garden of silk flowers.

‘Mmm, yes. It’s lovely,’ I said. ‘But listen, Cassie. It’s quite extraordinary – I never thought it would happen to me in a million years, but I think . . . I think I’ve fallen in love.’

‘What?’ I had Cassie’s full attention at last. ‘Not with Freddy?’

‘No! Of course not. No, I think I’ve fallen in love with Morgan Roberts.’ I said the name slowly and proudly, but Cassie looked blank.

‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’

‘Mrs Roberts’ son. Mrs Roberts who owns the factory.’

‘Oh goodness. So she has a boy?’

‘He’s not a boy. He’s eighteen. He’ll be going to Oxford this autumn.’

‘Eighteen’s far too old for you,’ said Cassie.

‘Cass! Daniel’s much, much, much older than you,’ I said.

‘Yes, but I’m not still a little girl.’

‘Meaning I am?’ I said indignantly.

‘Don’t go all hoity-toity. You’re ever so clever and talented, blah blah blah, but you’re still terribly young and naïve when it comes to romance. What’s actually happened with this Morgan boy? Do you just have a pash on him?’

‘We had lunch and then spent the entire afternoon together,’ I said.

‘Where?’

‘At Fairy Glen, Mrs Roberts’ house.’

‘Oh, I
see
. Don’t you think he was just being sweet because his mother’s taken such a shine to you?’

‘No I don’t. Why do you have to be so horrible? Don’t you believe that anyone could ever be interested in me? You’re just like Mother,’ I said, fighting back tears.

‘Oh, Opie, don’t be so upset. I just don’t want you to be hurt. You’re so intense. And even if this Morgan is a bit interested in you, it’s not going to go anywhere, is it?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s a gentleman who will own a huge great factory and have pots of money, and you’re just a girl who
works
in the factory, and you’ve got a father who’s in prison and a mother who’s a babyminder and a sister who’s an artist’s model and living in sin,’ said Cassie. ‘I somehow think you’re not Mrs Roberts’ number-one choice for her son.’

I went flouncing off home in a huff. Perhaps I felt so upset because Cassie was probably right. I wished I’d kept my mouth shut now. Maybe I’d made a fool of myself. I tried to go over every nuance of the afternoon I’d spent with Morgan. Was he simply treating me like a bright child?

I spent Sunday night in turmoil, and had a splitting headache on Monday morning when I had to trudge to the factory. For the first time in weeks I had no inspiration whatsoever when it came to inventing new fairies for my deluxe specials. I sat sighing and stretching, stirring my paint water and fiddling with my brushes.

‘You’d better not let Mr Morgan see you like that,’ said Alice, the girl who had taken over from Miss Lily.

‘Mr Morgan?’ I said.

‘The boss’s son, dopey. He’s come to work with his mother today and I dare say he’ll be doing the rounds, peering here and there. Mrs R likes him to take an interest, seeing as it will all belong to him one day.’

‘Oh my goodness,
that
Morgan!’

‘Mister to you. He was Master Morgan until he was fifteen or so, but we have to call him Mister now, though he’s not much more than a lad.’

It was a shock to think that Morgan might be only a few yards down the corridor. It gave a jolt to my inventive powers. I applied myself to the meadow design, inventing two magpie fairies joyously racing their birds through the air. I turned an ordinary bush into an azalea with its own flock of fairies flying above it, decked in the brightest pinks and purples. I was so absorbed that I jumped when Mrs Roberts suddenly came into the room, Morgan following.

‘Good morning, ladies. Good to see you all hard at work,’ said Mrs Roberts. She went across to Alice and started murmuring. Morgan looked around, saw me, and came straight over.

‘Hello! Do let me see,’ he said. He bent over my box lid. ‘Ah, magpies. Two for joy! And azalea fairies. I wonder where you got that idea?’

I felt my face glow fiery red.

Morgan smiled. ‘They’re wonderful. Do you realize how popular your fairy range is?’

I shrugged, embarrassed.

‘I’ve just been going over the books with Mother. Your boxes have done astronomically well. They’re outselling the ordinary deluxe range by three to one, even though they’re a shilling dearer.’

‘Really?’

‘Truly. And I can see why. Mother will have to get a full set of your box lids, frame them and put them up on the wall beside her own Anster Fitzgerald fairy paintings. I think you’re better than him.’

Mrs Roberts came over to us. She smiled at me, but there was something a little chilly in her expression. ‘Come and see the other girls’ work, Morgan,’ she said. ‘They’re all doing splendidly.’

Morgan raised his eyebrows at me, but said blandly enough, ‘Of course, Mother.’

He wandered off obediently and murmured praise to everyone, but before he left he looked back at me and gave me a little wave.

‘Oh, look at you, sucking up to the boss,’ said Alice sourly.

I took no notice. I went on painting, but in my heart I was flying through the air with my fairies.

I hoped Morgan might come into the factory every day during his holidays, but he didn’t put in another appearance that week. However, on Friday I received a card in the post. It was a comical picture of the Venus de Milo, with one onlooker saying to another, ‘I suppose it was them suffragettes who hacked off her arms.’ On the back it said,
Dear Opal, Don’t get too carried away at your meeting. I’m looking forward to seeing you at lunch afterwards. Your friend, Morgan.

‘So who’s this Morgan, then?’ said Mother, frowning.

‘Don’t read my personal post, Mother! I told you all about Morgan. You simply chose not to believe me.’

‘Is he
really
the factory owner’s son?’

I didn’t want to discuss him now. I wanted to keep the knowledge to myself. I read my postcard’s little message twenty times. I even tried copying the fine italic handwriting, so much more stylish than my clerk’s copperplate.

On Saturday morning I took immense trouble with my appearance, trying on and then discarding all my clothes. I couldn’t wear my usual elephant, it was just too gross, yet my tartan was garish and made me look sallow. I wished Cassie were home to help me.

I went to her room and inspected the clothes still in her wardrobe. It looked as if she’d abandoned them for ever. I tried on a cream dress with a matching jacket. It had violets embroidered on the lapels to match a purple material belt. It had been Cassie’s best summer outfit until she bought the green dress.

It was a cool spring day, not sunny at all, but I decided to wear the cream outfit because it was the prettiest. It would spoil the whole effect if I covered it up with my old coat. I decided I didn’t mind if I shivered.

‘Oh my Lord, you look as if you’re going to a wedding and trying to outdo the bride,’ said Mother.

I chose to ignore her, though all the way to the meeting I peered in shop windows, wondering if this were true. Certainly, most of the WSPU ladies were in business-like suits or plain white blouses worn with a purple and green striped tie. I told myself I didn’t care.

Mrs Roberts was right at the front with the two guest speakers. She hadn’t reserved a chair for me, but it didn’t matter. I was happy enough sitting at the back. I would join her when the meeting was over.

It went on for a very long time. Both speakers praised Mary Richardson and her attack on the Rokeby Venus, glorying in the coverage it had received. I was alarmed to hear them suggesting further damage to art treasures. When one of the ladies suggested attacking every Venus painting in galleries all over England, there was a rousing cheer.

The meeting ended with a panel discussion with the two speakers, the president of our local WSPU, two ladies in very grand hats and Mrs Roberts – the latter three were clearly generous benefactors to the cause. Many women in the audience put up their hands to ask questions. Not all were one hundred per cent supportive of WSPU action. One lady seemed worried about the escalating violence, anxious that someone might get badly hurt or even killed during future demonstrations.

‘How about our poor sister Emily Davison, who was trampled to death under the King’s horse last year at Epsom? And think of all the desperately abused suffragettes in prison as we speak, tortured by force-feeding,’ said the president. She went on to outline in grisly detail what this entailed. I felt great pity and sympathy, but surely this wasn’t quite the point.

I listened and listened. None of the other ladies stood up to ask anything further, so I found my own hand waving in the air.

‘Yes, right at the back? Oh, it’s Opal, our youngest member,’ said the president. ‘Speak up, dear.’

‘Of course I agree that the suffering of the suffragettes is terrible – but they are in a way self-imposed,’ I said. ‘And though I feel that all these women are incredibly courageous, their actions are surely ineffective.’

There was a huge surge of shock and horror at my words. All the ladies craned their heads round to stare at me.

‘I don’t think you can say they’re not effective when these actions make newspaper headlines,’ said the president, shaking her head at me.

‘Yes, but they haven’t achieved the goal of women’s suffrage. A woman has given her
life
, but that’s still not given us the vote. Our members are being tortured in prison, but that hasn’t given us the vote, either. Miss Richardson has damaged one of the most beautiful masterpieces in the world, and that
still
hasn’t given us the vote. The general public have been against women having the vote from the start of our campaign. That’s terribly depressing and shows ignorance and indifference – but we haven’t been able to change public opinion with our escalating campaign. Surely if we continue to destroy masterpieces, then history will look on us as we do the vandals in the past who destroyed all our medieval religious statues. Don’t you see the inherent danger of our motto,
Deeds, not words
? Can’t we achieve the vote by the persuasiveness of our tongues rather than the violence of our axes?’