Opal Plumstead (47 page)

‘Opal, there will be precious few of our men returning from this war,’ she said. ‘I feel very sad about all my loyal workers now, but there’s a big new munitions factory opening in Miledon, and many will find work there.’

‘Couldn’t you just close for the duration of the war?’

‘Who knows when it will end? And to tell you the truth, Opal, I’ve simply lost heart. I can’t see the point of struggling to keep the factory going when Morgan isn’t here to take over. I don’t care about it any more.’

I nodded dully, understanding.

‘But I do still care about you,’ she added.

‘I don’t think you do,’ I said. ‘You made it very plain that you didn’t want me anywhere near Morgan.’

Mrs Roberts sighed. ‘Yes, I did. I wouldn’t have minded if you were simply friends, but it was more than that.’

‘It was much more,’ I said. I felt the tears welling up, though I had never cried at work.

‘I know,’ said Mrs Roberts. She took a deep breath. ‘I know how much Morgan meant to you. And he thought the world of you too, he made that plain enough. If he’d come back, I’m sure the two of you would have been devoted, for all that you’re still so young. I wouldn’t have been able to stand in your way. So for that reason – and because I
am
fond of you, Opal – I want to help you.’

‘How can you help me?’ When I said it, I sounded sullen and bitter. I didn’t mean it that way. I was just past caring about anything.

‘What are you going to do with the rest of your life?’ Mrs Roberts asked.

I shrugged again. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go and work in the munitions factory too, though obviously I won’t be painting fairies on each bullet.’

‘I think we both agree that you’re not really suited to factory life. Wouldn’t you like to finish your education?’

‘You mean go back to school?’

‘I could talk to your headmistress. Perhaps you could resume your scholarship.’

I thought about it. Father earned very little as a newspaper seller, but we could probably scrape by with his meagre wages and Mother’s baby money. My old school uniform was still in the back of my wardrobe.

I tried to imagine putting it on, sitting in lessons, arguing with Miss Mountbank, listening to music with Mr Andrews, resuming my friendship with Olivia. I thought of Miss Reed berating me for my artwork. I felt bereft when I had to leave to work at Fairy Glen, but now I couldn’t picture myself back there. I had grown too old to turn myself back into a schoolgirl.

‘I don’t see myself fitting in any more,’ I said. ‘Not that I ever did, really. But too much has happened to me, and I’ve missed out on nearly two years’ work. I don’t think I could manage. I don’t even want to try.’

‘I understand,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘I don’t think it’s a sensible idea, either, but I still think you might benefit enormously from further education. Have you ever thought about art school?’

‘Art school?’

‘You’re very talented, and we’ve benefited from your innovative ideas, but I think your art needs developing. You don’t want to confine yourself to fairies all your life, do you, Opal? I think you could go far as an artist if you had the proper training.’

‘But aren’t I too young for art school?’

‘Not nowadays, when so many young men are away in France. All the main art schools are accepting younger students, so long as they are exceptionally talented and disciplined. I have taken the liberty of writing to Mr Augustus Spenser, the principal of the Royal College of Art, and sent him a couple of your box lids. He wants to interview you first, but will certainly consider you for a place starting in September.’

‘But how will I pay the fees?’

‘He will give you a scholarship. And I am going to give you a small annual bursary. I think it would be a good idea for you to leave home. We can find you a young ladies’ hostel. I think it’s time you made a completely fresh start, Opal.’

I couldn’t stop the tears rolling down my cheeks.

‘Would you like that?’

‘Yes, I would. I would dreadfully. It’s so very kind of you. But what about you, Mrs Roberts? Can you make a fresh start too?’

‘It’s a little late in the day for me, but I shall try. I’m planning to shut up my house and live on the farm in Scotland for a while. There are too many memories at home. So will you accept my offer?’

‘Yes please,’ I said.

I stood up, walked round her desk, hesitated for a second, and then hugged her hard. We clasped each other tightly, both crying now.

SO I WENT
to art school. It was a revelation. The tutors were so different from schoolteachers – relaxed and casual, but brilliant at guiding and suggesting. At first I drew and painted on a very small scale, stuck in fairyland, but they encouraged me to be bolder, and soon I was filling each canvas with confidence. I didn’t care for my work at first. I had to unlearn many self-taught slick tricks. But I could see that I was gradually improving.

I was desperately shy initially. The other students were all so bright and confident and colourful. I felt like a dull little sparrow amongst a flock of parakeets. They nearly all came from better families than mine. They might swear and tell shocking stories, but their accents were cut-glass. Most of them had money, though they affected poverty with their bright market-stall scarves and unravelling jerseys.

I kept myself to myself at first, but they were curious and friendly and repeatedly asked me to tea, to supper, to impromptu parties. I couldn’t resist for more than a couple of weeks. By the end of the term I was firm friends with everyone.

I got to know the boys as well as the girls. There was one boy, Sam, who became my particular friend. He also came from a humble background. His father was a window cleaner. During the vacation Sam went out to help his father. He had to work one-handed because he had a withered arm, but he managed wonderfully, climbing up the tallest ladders and then locking his knees in the rungs while he washed the windows vigorously with his one good hand.

He had tried to enlist in spite of his bad arm, but had been turned down. Some of the other boys manufactured spurious ailments when conscription came in. I couldn’t blame them – but I didn’t respect them, either.

I found myself spending more and more time with Sam. He was always patiently friendly, even when I was going through a very dark time. I’d told him about Morgan and he understood.

‘I like you very much, Sam, but you do realize I can only ever be friends,’ I said. ‘I can’t ever love anyone but Morgan.’

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Though I’ll stick around just in case you ever change your mind.’

We painted portraits of each other. I think he flattered me outrageously. My portrait of him was more exacting, catching the resolution in his face as well as his determined cheeriness.

I painted Morgan too, of course. I did quick pencil sketches, I worked in smudgy charcoals, I painted miniature watercolours, I spent weeks on elaborate oil portraits. I had no photograph for a likeness but I felt I didn’t need one. All I had to do was close my eyes and I could see him now.

By the end of my final year at art college his image wasn’t quite so clear. I could reproduce the portraits I’d already done, but when I strained for some new aspect, Morgan stayed vague and hazy in my mind’s eye.

I was terrified he was fading away – though perhaps I secretly welcomed it. Sam and I and four of the other students planned to spend the summer in Cornwall, living off bread and cheese and beer, and painting all day long in the open air. I was looking forward to it tremendously. I knew what that summer might also entail. I was ready to start a proper relationship with Sam, but I felt so guilty, as if I were betraying Morgan.

I went back home the day before we were due to leave. I visited Mother and Father. Mother tutted over my red blouse and turquoise skirt and purple stockings. Father patted me absentmindedly, almost as if he didn’t quite know who I was.

I went to Hurst Road and spent several hours with Cassie and Daniel and little Danny and new baby Viola. Cassie was larger and more luscious than ever. Daniel and I discussed painting with fervour. I built bricks with Danny and cradled tiny Viola, wondering if I’d ever want children myself.

Then I walked all the way to Fairy Glen house. The factory had never reopened and was now being pulled down. It had seemed so strange seeing the ripped open walls and crumbled brick.

The nearer I got to the house, the more anxious I became, afraid it might be demolished too. The gates at the start of the long driveway were locked, but I was so determined that I hitched up my skirts and climbed right over. I fell heavily and grazed my knees. I was almost running by the time the house came into view.

I peered in through the windows on the ground floor and saw white sheets over all the furniture. I wondered if Mrs Roberts had taken all the paintings up to Scotland with her.

I went round the side of the house, and stared at the garden in horror. The ivy had almost taken over. There were still flowers in the borders, but weeds rioted everywhere, choking all the blooms. The stream still trickled in spite of vast tangles of waterweed. I followed it to the end of the garden. The little Japanese house was lurid green with moss. I sat on the cold seat and shut my eyes tight.

I remembered the times I’d sat there with Morgan. I thought of him now in some dreadful muddy grave in France.

‘I’ll try to believe in ghosts, Morgan,’ I whispered. ‘Come to me now. Haunt me for ever. Please. I’m waiting. I still love you so.’

I waited for hours, but all I heard was the whisper of the leaves, all I saw was the ivy-strewn wreck of the garden.

Jacqueline Wilson is one of Britain’s bestselling authors, with more than 35 million books sold in the UK alone. She has been honoured with many prizes for her work, including the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award and the Children’s Book of the Year.

Jacqueline is a former Children’s Laureate, a professor of children’s literature, and in 2008 she was appointed a Dame for services to children’s literacy.

Visit Jacqueline’s fantastic website at
jacquelinewilson.co.uk

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OPAL PLUMSTEAD
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 446 47983 4

Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Penguin Random House Company