Opal Plumstead (7 page)

I wanted to believe him, but he was acting so strangely, and he looked so tired and shaken. Was he
really
happy?

‘What about your work, Father? Were they very angry when you went in late again? Did you explain?’

‘Oh, those cold-hearted slave-drivers are never interested in explanations,’ he said. ‘They gave me another warning. If I’m even one minute late starting work now, it means instant dismissal.’

‘But that’s so unfair! What if a bus breaks down? What if you’re taken ill?’

‘Don’t be so concerned, dearie. I won’t need the job soon, will I?’

‘I – I suppose not.’

‘That’s right. There, dear girl.’ Father reached round and hugged me close. ‘Be happy now.’ He cleared his throat and chirruped in a bad attempt at a budgie voice, ‘
Happy days, happy days
.’

‘Oh, Father.’ I was laughing and crying together.

‘There now, my little girl,’ said Father, patting my back. ‘We’d better get along home now, hadn’t we?’

We stood up and linked arms. I kept glancing anxiously at Father as we walked, trying to work out what was true and what wasn’t. I didn’t feel I could start questioning him again. No one wants to accuse their own father of lying.

There was a great clamour from Mother and Cassie the moment we got home, wanting to know where he’d been.

‘I took a little walk to clear my head, my dears,’ Father said. ‘I must admit, I did stop off at the Black Lion to have a celebratory drink.’

‘Celebratory?’ said Mother.

‘Yes, yes, Lou, they love my reworked novel. They couldn’t be more pleased.’

‘And did they give you a cheque?’ Mother asked, clapping her hands.

‘Yes, indeed they did.’

‘Oh marvellous! Let’s see it, dear.’

‘I’ve already paid it into my bank account,’ said Father.

‘So we can go on a spending spree!’ said Cassie. ‘Can I have the money for a wonderful pink gown, Father? I know pink’s a surprising colour for a redhead, but it truly suits me.’

‘I’m sure it does, my darling, but wait a little while for the cheque to clear – just a few days and then we can all indulge ourselves.’

‘Oh, you’re the best father in the world,’ said Cassie.

‘And quite the best husband too,’ said Mother. ‘Now sit down, my dear, you must be famished. I’ll whip up some gravy to moisten this poor old joint. I’m afraid the roast potatoes are past their best.’

‘I love them crispy – they couldn’t be better,’ said Father.

He went over to the birdcage and made little tutting noises to Billy. ‘Sing for us, little birdie,’ he said. ‘
Happy days, happy days!
’

Billy chirped obediently, and we all laughed.

I ate my meal and sipped wine-and-water and joined in all the celebrations that evening, but my tummy was churning all the time. I couldn’t sleep for ages that night. I lay rigidly in my narrow bed in my cupboard room, feeling as if the walls were moving in on me, the ceiling pressing down on my head. I could hear Cassie snoring next door. It was always a surprise that such a lovely-looking girl could snort like a warthog at night. After a while I heard a door open and then the soft pad of bare feet along the landing.

I knew it was Father. I heard him rustling downstairs, then the soft clump of shoes being dropped on the carpet. Had he carried his clothes with him? Was he now getting dressed? I imagined him putting on his shabby suit, his white work shirt with the sad paper collar, the muffler to keep his thin neck warm. I had made him that muffler for his Christmas present last year. I wasn’t nimble with my fingers like Cassie. The muffler was unevenly knitted, tightly stitched in some places and very slack in others so it wouldn’t hang straight. I’d tried to be so careful, but there were several dropped stitches. It was a disgrace of a garment, though Father said he loved it and wore it proudly even on warm days.

Was he wearing the muffler now, putting on his hat and creeping to the front door? Was he planning to walk out on us?

I sat up in bed, suddenly terrified. I ran to my door and listened hard. I heard slight movements downstairs, slow and regular. It sounded as if Father were pacing the floor, trying to make up his mind.

I waited, ready to run to him if I heard the snap of the bolt, the creak of the front door opening. There was a long silence, and then at last I heard the stairs creaking again. The footsteps returned along the landing. The bedroom door closed.

I couldn’t settle. I waited and waited, wondering if Father really was safely back in bed beside Mother. At last I crept along the landing myself and listened outside their door. I could hear Mother snoring, just like Cassie. I couldn’t hear Father at all.

At last I seized the doorknob and edged the door open a crack or two. I peered in. The room was very dark, but I could distinguish two heads on the pillows.

I had a sudden ridiculous urge to run to that bed and climb in between them, as if I were a tot of two or three and not a great girl of fourteen. I resisted, of course, and trailed back to my own bed, shivering.

THE NEXT FEW
days were very strange. Father went off to the office as usual and came home at his regular hour, but he didn’t go up to his bedroom and write after supper. He sat in the parlour with us. I didn’t feel I could steal away to my room as I usually did. I wanted to watch over Father.

Mother flicked through her ladies’ magazines and Cassie fashioned little flibberty items for herself. I did my schoolwork and sketched. Mother wouldn’t let me paint in the parlour in case I spilled water on the Turkey carpet. It was our one and only carpet – we made do with plain linoleum in every other room. But now Mother had plans to refurbish the whole house. She started cutting out items in the magazines – bedding, lampshades, great Chesterfield sofas, and every kind of domestic appliance. Father would have to have fifty books published to fulfil all Mother’s dreams.

Father let her show him pictures and rattle on, scarcely drawing breath. He nodded and murmured in all the right places, but it was clear to me that he wasn’t listening properly. He was equally absentminded with Cassie when she described her dream outfits in suffocating detail.

‘You’ll look a picture, my dear,’ he said several times, but I’m sure if Cassie had suggested she wear a sacking gown with a codfish on a plate for a hat he’d have mumbled the same response.

He gently cautioned both of them against making any purchases just yet. On the Friday he came home very late, but laden with gifts once more. He had another big box of Fairy Glen fondants, a huge bunch of brightly coloured asters and dahlias, a carton of fancy cakes, a great paper bag of strawberries, fresh cream and a bottle of port wine. Father had been drinking already, his face flushed almost as dark as the wine. All the presents were a little crushed: the Fairy Glen fondants tumbled about in their waxed containers, the flowers losing petals, the cakes colliding till their icing cracked, the strawberries bleeding through their paper bag, the cream dribbling out of its bottle.

Mother would once have berated him for carrying them so carelessly, but now she greeted him lovingly and rushed to redistribute the fondants, put the flowers in a vase, set the cakes on a fancy plate, put the strawberries in the best blue glass bowl, decant the cream into a jug, and pour Father a glass of port wine, all the while giving little oohs and aahs of admiration.

‘Has the cheque been cleared now, my dearest?’ she asked.

‘Oh, Father, may I have the pink dress?’ said Cassie.

‘Yes, yes, my girls can have anything they want,’ Father declared, opening his arms wide. His voice was a little slurred and his gestures unusually exuberant. It was as if a clever actor were impersonating him and fooling us.

I went to give Father a hug and looked straight into his eyes. ‘Is it really, really all right, Father? You can tell me, truly,’ I whispered.

‘Of course everything is superbly all right,’ he said. ‘What are you going to have for a treat, my dear? Another even more splendid paintbox? How about a set of oil paints, with your own easel? Or a series of art lessons from a good teacher? And why should Cassie grab all the pretty dresses for herself? Wouldn’t you like your share of silks and satins, Opal?’

‘Father, stop it. I think
you
would look less ridiculous in fancy silks and satins than me. I am far too plain.’

‘My little Jane Eyre!’ said Father, tapping me gently on the nose.

‘
Don’t
, Father. I know there’s something you’re not telling us,’ I whispered while Mother and Cassie were serving the supper. ‘I’m scared – and I think you are too, deep down. There’s something awful you’re not telling. I can sense it.’

‘Now
you’re
playing at being Cassandra,’ said Father. ‘Little Opal foretelling the future. The voice of D-O-O-M.’

‘Don’t mock me, Father.’

‘Well, try to cheer up a little. These are happy days, remember.’ He began his ridiculous budgerigar imitation, capering around Billy’s cage, trying to get him to join in too. He grabbed my hand and made me dance along beside him. ‘
Happy days!
’ he said, as if it were a command.

‘
Happy days
,’ I echoed, giving up.

Saturday and Sunday
were
happy days. On Saturday we went on a delirious spending spree, buying all kinds of things we didn’t really need – a buffalo-horn walking stick with a silver crook for Father, though he could walk very well without one; a tortoise-shell hairbrush for Mother, though she kept her hair scragged back into a bun; a pair of three-button white French kid gloves for Cassie, though she’d already got them covered in smuts on the train by the time we got home again; a set of fine camel-hair paintbrushes for me, though the ones in my new paintbox were perfectly adequate. But it was a good day out all the same, and we had luncheon in a proper restaurant rather than an ABC teashop. There was a waiter who called Father ‘sir’ and Mother ‘madam’. He even ‘madamed’ Cassie and me, which made us giggle.

There was a set menu of four courses. We thought we were going to be royally stuffed, but the portions were actually on the small side. We had brown Windsor soup with a roll, a tiny portion of sole, then roast beef with horseradish sauce, roast potatoes and carrots and cabbage, with a trifle for pudding.

Father said the beef wasn’t a patch on Mother’s roasts, which was true enough, but we were all delighted by the trifle, which came in little silver goblets. Mother made us trifle for our birthdays, though it was a meagre affair – sponge and jelly, Bird’s custard from a packet, a smear of cream and a glacé cherry. This trifle was a very rich relation. There were exotic fruits studding the sponge, the jelly was blackcurrant, a flavour we didn’t even know existed, and the cream rose in high peaks, sprinkled with rainbow dust. We praised every mouthful.

I joined in enthusiastically. I’d been very aware of the other diners around us while we ate our way through the first three courses, worrying that they might be disapproving or mocking, but Father insisted I have a proper glass of the table wine, and now I felt relaxed and merry enough to enjoy myself properly. If Cassie had seized her trifle bowl and attempted to wear it like one of her hats, I think I would have simply laughed indulgently.

Cassie was certainly in the mood for foolishness as she’d had several glasses of wine, but she confined herself to eyeing up all the gentlemen in the room, including the waiters, who seemed very eager to flap about her. Mother was so jovial she seized Father’s hand and brought it to her lips.

‘You’re the best husband in the whole world and I’m quite the luckiest wife,’ she declared, making Father’s face crumple, as if he were going to cry.

I didn’t make any proclamations, but I raised my glass to Father. I drank it down to the dregs, consciously trying to drown all the doubt and fear coiled in my stomach.

When we reeled home, rather the worse for wear, Father and Mother went to their room to have a nap and Cassie starting trying on all her clothes, planning to discard most of them now that she had the promise of a whole new wardrobe.

I fetched my paintbox and tried experimenting with each of my new brushes. I composed a picture of our house, cut off down the front wall to resemble a doll’s house. I drew us cowering in corners and Billy flapping in a panic in his cage, while the animal originals of our new purchases stampeded through the house. The buffalo violently butted the coat-rack in the hallway, the giant tortoise took possession of the sofa, the kid bleated on the kitchen table, lapping up spilled milk, and the camel kicked down my bedroom door in a fury.

I was rather pleased with the effect and showed it to Cassie, but she shook her head at me and said it was clear that the wine had addled my brain.

On the Sunday Father took us for a pleasure boat trip on the river Thames, all the way up to London. It was a great novelty at first, looking along the riverbank and seeing all these different little islands. It made Cassie and me remember our games of ‘Island’, when she was Queen Cassie and I was Princess Opal and we ruled over our own desert island kingdom. We used to play it on Mother and Father’s big bed, pretending the dark lino all around was the sea.