Opal Plumstead (42 page)

On Friday 31 July I was so happy because I knew that Morgan was packing up in Scotland, ready to come down south. He and his mother took the journey in stages, travelling to York on Saturday, staying overnight at a grand hotel, then returning home on Sunday. It seemed a long and cumbersome journey, but Morgan promised he would be up bright and early for our August bank holiday outing.

I didn’t even think to worry about the news that the London Stock Exchange had closed. Mother didn’t seem fussed either.

‘What do we care? We haven’t any stocks or shares, have we?’ she said bitterly.

I did get frightened that weekend when I saw all the newspaper placards in the town saying that Britain was on the brink of war. I longed for Father, because he had always explained any national crisis to me, and given me calm and measured assurances. That learned, knowledgeable father seemed to have been taken way for ever, not just a year. His monthly letters were alarming now. His handwriting had changed considerably, the words barely legible and the lines wavering up and down as if his hand were shaking uncontrollably. He wrote the same few sentences every time, practically word for word, as if he were a little child writing lines for a punishment. It seemed that his hard labour had affected his brain.

The thought of a war terrified me. What if Morgan had to go and fight?

ON MONDAY MORNING
I was up at dawn. I dressed carefully in my cream frock, taking my cashmere shawl in case the sea breezes were chilly. Morgan had suggested we meet at the railway station at seven thirty, so as to have as long a day as possible at the seaside. I skipped breakfast, too excited to eat, and set off for the station at twenty to seven. I knew I would be there half an hour early, but I was in such a fever of excitement I couldn’t wait any longer.

It was a beautiful bright morning, still fresh, but it was clear that it was going to be a warm day. I found I was walking faster and faster. Even though I was so early, I still gathered speed. By the time I turned into Station Road I was running. The road was crowded. Some people were hurrying to the station like me, but others were going the other way, looking annoyed or upset – strange expressions for a bank holiday.

I got nearer and nearer the station. I knew that Morgan probably wouldn’t appear for a full half-hour, but I kept thinking I saw him, although I was always mistaken. Then I started wondering if I would instantly recognize the real Morgan. It had been nearly four months since I’d seen him. I’d drawn his face two dozen times since then, but it had become harder and harder to get the line of his jaw, the exact curve of his mouth, the true wave of his hair. When I shut my eyes I could see him, but a little indistinctly, surrounded by a golden haze. Now, though, my eyes were wide open, and there he was, standing just outside the station entrance hall, the real Morgan, looking very tanned in his cream shirt and cricketing flannels, with a cream jersey slung casually around his shoulders. He wore a straw boater hat at a jaunty angle, his hair longer and wavier than ever.

‘Morgan!’ I cried and I ran to him.

‘Opal!’ He smiled and held out his arms. We embraced, hugging hard, both of us going pink with emotion. ‘Oh, Opal, it’s so good to see you at last.’

‘I’m so glad you came. I was so scared you wouldn’t,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t miss our day out for the world,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid there has to be a little change of plan. Look!’ He gestured inside the station. There was a big placard.

‘Oh my goodness, there are no trains because of the war? We’re not at war
now
, are we?’

‘No, not yet, but it looks horribly likely. Don’t let it spoil our day, though. By hook or by crook I’m going to get us to the seaside. I’ve been talking to a chappie who says that there are motorized coaches taking folks to the coast on day excursions. They stop outside the bus station. He thinks they leave at half past seven. Do you think you could run very fast? Then we might just catch one.’

‘I’ll run like the wind,’ I said, hitching up my narrow skirts a little in preparation.

‘Oh, you’re such a good sport. How wonderful that you’re as early as me! Come on, then, let’s sprint.’

Morgan seized my hand and we ran hard, dodging through the gathering crowds, rounding the corner, down to the end of the road, and there was the omnibus station. There was a line of big shiny green and cream coaches.

Morgan raced ahead and started talking earnestly to the first driver. ‘Not this one!’ he said, when I caught up. ‘It’s going to Brighton. You don’t care for Brighton, I know.’

‘I don’t mind. Brighton’s fine,’ I said hastily, but Morgan was already dashing to the coach behind.

‘Where are you going, driver?’ he asked.

‘Hastings,’ he said.

‘Hastings?’ Morgan said to me.

‘Wonderful!’ I replied.

‘Then we’ll have two return tickets, please,’ said Morgan.

‘No can do, sir,’ said the driver. ‘I’m fully booked, every seat. Just take a look.’

The coach was crowded with families, with children clashing their buckets and spades, shouting and laughing.

‘What about asking some of the little ones to squeeze up together on one seat? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind too much,’ said Morgan. ‘Then I could pay you for two extra adults. In fact, why don’t I pay double for our tickets, just for your trouble?’ He pressed money into the driver’s hand.

‘Right you are, sir. Jolly decent of you. How about you two sitting three seats down on the right? You kids budge up in the front with the others. You’ll like that – you can make out you’re driving the bus. If you’re very good, I’ll let you sit up in my driving cabin for a mo when we get to the seaside.’

In less than a minute both men had smoothed out the situation to everyone’s satisfaction. We subsided onto the vacated seat. The driver started up his engine and we were off. There was a huge cheer from the passengers. The children kept whooping for a full five minutes.

‘Oh dear,’ said Morgan. ‘I didn’t realize it was going to be quite so rowdy. Do you mind terribly that it’s a motor coach?’

‘Of course I don’t, silly. I think it was brilliant of you to get us on it.’

‘I feel a bit of a fool not being able to drive. I could take us anywhere in a car. I’ll get Mitchell to talk me through it, and then, later this summer, I’ll take us out in true style. I’ll
have
to learn to drive anyway. When Mitchell picked us up from the station yesterday, we were discussing the likelihood of war, and he said he was keen to join up. I think he’d like to drive an army truck.’

‘Oh, Morgan,
you
won’t join up, will you?’ I said, squeezing his arm.

‘Me? No, I hate the idea of killing anybody. I can’t even stand hunting. I haven’t the stomach for it.’

‘You promise you won’t join up?’

‘You’re as bad as Mother, Opal. And this is all a bit premature. Maybe we’ll be able to wangle some kind of peace treaty at the eleventh hour.’

‘I do hope so.’

‘But we won’t think about it now. This is our day out. I do hope Hastings is jolly. I’ve never been there.’

‘Neither have I, but I’m sure it will be lovely,’ I said fervently.

It was truly lovely, though the sea still wasn’t storybook blue and the beach wasn’t as sandy as I’d hoped. But the sun was shining and we were together and, like most of the couples on their bank holiday outing, we walked hand in hand along the seafront.

It was crowded, with musicians and ice-cream sellers and fortune-tellers and tintype photographers clamouring for our custom. Morgan bought me an ice cream. I rather hoped we could have our photograph taken together, but he laughed at the idea.

We threaded our way through the crowds towards the quaint fishermen’s huts at the end of the beach. They were very thin and tall, made of blackened wood. The fishermen in their tan smocks were busy selling cod and plaice to eager folk. There were whelk and cockle stalls too. Morgan offered me a penny pot, but I didn’t fancy them at all.

‘Let’s find some
cooked
fish,’ he suggested.

We went into a little blue and white fish restaurant. Their fried fish was truly delicious: golden batter, very crisp, with the whitest cod, still tasting salty from the sea. I ate every mouthful, with a big portion of fried potatoes, a plate of bread and butter and two cups of tea.

‘And you’re such a scrap of a girl! I don’t know where you put it all,’ said Morgan admiringly. ‘This is such fun. I’ve always wanted to eat in a fried fish shop.’

We went for a walk around the old town, looking in all the strange curio shops. I’d brought a full purse with me, so I was able to buy Morgan a china shaving mug with an interesting mermaid design in blue and white. I liked the mermaid’s unusual blue hair and shiny blue tail.

‘It’s lovely, Opal, but you mustn’t spend your money on me,’ he told me.

‘You’ve spent much, much more on me,’ I said. ‘You’ve spoiled me utterly.’

‘I don’t have to work so hard for my money,’ said Morgan. ‘But very well, I shall accept my mug with enormous gratitude if you’ll let me buy you a present in return.’

‘You’ve already bought me my beautiful shawl.’

‘I want to buy you something else,’ said Morgan, pausing at a jewellery shop window. ‘I tell you what! Do you own any opals?’

I didn’t have any jewellery at all, certainly not opals. I saw the prices of the opal necklaces in the jewellery shop and grew frightened. ‘No, Morgan. No, absolutely not,’ I said.

But he spotted a slim silver chain hanging on a black velvet stand at the back of the display. It had a small opal pendant in the shape of a teardrop. ‘That looks perfect,’ he said.

It
was
perfect. I wanted it desperately, though I protested that I couldn’t possibly let him buy it for me. He took no notice whatsoever. He went into the shop, had the little old jeweller take it out of the window, and told me to fasten the opal pendant around my neck.

‘It could have been made just for you, madam,’ said the jeweller happily.

‘Absolutely,’ said Morgan. ‘I shall buy it.’

When we left the jeweller’s, I looked to see if anyone was watching, and then I kissed Morgan very quickly on the cheek.

‘It’s the most beautiful present in the world. I shall never ever take it off,’ I said.

We wandered further until we came to the bottom of the cliffs. There was a little queue waiting for the East Cliff funicular lift. It took passengers all the way up to the cliff top.

‘Oh, we have to go up!’ said Morgan.

We waited patiently, paid our two pennies, and then ascended slowly and jerkily upwards. I was frightened we might come tumbling down and clung tightly to Morgan’s arm, but we finished our journey without mishap and stepped out onto the tufty grass.

We stood there for a while, admiring the view of the sea before us and the tumble of rooftops below. Then we set off further along the cliff. The sun was very hot now, too hot to wear a shawl or a jersey. We took them off and knotted them together. We swung them between us like two cream-clad babies.

It was a great relief when we reached trees and started walking through a beautiful shady glen.

‘Should we turn back now? We might get lost,’ I said.

‘I should rather like to get lost with you,’ said Morgan.

So we walked on. When we were entirely alone in this lush green world, Morgan pulled me gently to him, tipped up my chin and kissed me on the lips. He kissed me, he kissed me, he kissed me . . .

Then we walked until the trees thinned. We were on the cliff top again, with steps leading down towards a little beach. Morgan helped me all the way down. There we were, on our very own stretch of beach with no one else around.

‘Let’s be terribly common and paddle,’ he said, taking off his shoes and socks and rolling up his flannels.

I could take off my shoes easily enough, but I had to turn my back on him and lift my skirts furtively to undo my stockings. Still, I wasn’t going to let a silly thing like modesty stop me from splashing in that sea with my sweetheart.

It was colder than I’d expected, but wonderfully refreshing. I hitched my skirts right up like a little girl and ran back and forth in the shallow waves, squealing with joy.

‘Careful, you’ll get your pretty dress soaked,’ said Morgan.

‘Who cares?’ I said.

For two pins I’d have ripped off my dress too and gone swimming in my drawers, but when a bunch of little boys tumbled down the steps, threw off their clothes and dashed into the sea in nothing at all, I did turn my back again, feeling my face going pink.

‘I shall have to protect you from such an alarming sight,’ said Morgan. He put his hands over my eyes and led me further down the beach.

It was very strange not being able to see at all. I had to trust Morgan completely. He might lead me into the sea, he might make me stumble on the rocks, he might tip me over altogether – but he didn’t, of course. He led me safely back to a sandy patch near the steps which was in the shade. He made me wait while he fashioned me a cushion from his jersey and then carefully helped me sit down.