Opal Plumstead

  ‘What about my training?’ I said shakily. ‘What about my scholarship?’

  ‘Oh, Opal, don’t start!’ Mother sighed wearily. ‘I’m too tired for arguments. I’m sorry you don’t like it at Fairy Glen. We’ll keep looking for another job for you. There might be a suitable position in one of the shops, especially just before Christmas.’

  ‘I don’t want to work in a shop! I don’t want to work in a horrible factory. I don’t want to work at all.’

  ‘And what good’s that going to do you?’ said Mother. ‘It will just give you even more airs and graces and turn you into a frump of a bluestocking. And what would you do if you stayed on at that silly school till you’re a great girl of eighteen?’

  ‘I – I could manage to go on to university. Go to Oxford, like Father,’ I said.

  ‘And what good has a varsity education done him,’ said Mother bitterly. ‘Now get to bed and wrap that wet hair up in a towel or you’ll catch a terrible chill.’

  I decided I wanted to get a chill. I hoped I’d wake up so ill and feverish I couldn’t go to work. I lay on my bed feeling wretched, crying into my damp pillow.

  ‘Opie?’ It was Cassie, creeping up to my bed. ‘Don’t cry! I’m so sorry you have to go to that factory. Look, I’ll start making eyes at every passable rich man I come across. If I make a good marriage, I’ll be able to keep us all in style.’

  Cassie’s kindness only made me feel worse. She was doing her best to help out. And although I was angry with Mother, I had to concede that she was trying her hardest to help out too. I knew I should be brave and suffer silently like a martyr, but all I could do was grind my teeth and mutter, ‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair.’

  Father was the only one who would understand, but he wasn’t here. I ached to talk to him. I woke up in the middle of the night, missing him dreadfully, terrified of going back to the factory in the morning. I had so lost my senses I had a desperate urge to call for Father. I even found myself moaning his name aloud, as if by sheer need alone I could summon him through his prison bars all the long way back home.

  I sat up in bed, lit a stump of candle and found my sketching pad. I tried to draw a portrait of Father but couldn’t get the likeness right, though I made four or five attempts. It was as if I’d already forgotten what he looked like, though I’d seen him only last week.

  I tore the crude sketches into shreds and started writing a letter to him instead. I wrote a blow-by-blow account of yesterday’s events, recalling every slur and insult from Patty and the girls. I told Father about the desperate tedium of moulding all day long, the stifling smells of warm sugar and dense starch, the heat, the harsh conditions. My legs were cramped and aching, my shoulders and neck so stiff I could barely move, from standing up hour after hour. I exaggerated my physical woes and wrote paragraph after paragraph about my psychological misery.

  Father was the only member of my family who had taken pride in my scholarship. I knew he’d hoped for a great future for me. Maybe I could have gone to Oxford or Cambridge. I couldn’t take a degree like the gentleman undergraduates, but women were now allowed to study alongside them. I thought of learning Latin and Greek, such strange, magical languages. I hungered after all those wondrous volumes in vast college libraries. I yearned for inspirational lectures. I saw myself walking across grass lawns in medieval colleges, talking to my fellow students.

  But now I had no chance of learning a single phrase of Latin, opening just one of those books, hearing even a sentence of a lecture. I would never tread on one blade of that grass. My only future was the Fairy Glen factory – day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. My prison sentence was even worse than Father’s because I was now trapped for life. I ranted on for several closely written pages, long after my candle flickered and went out. Even after my pad and my pencil fell to the floor I still wrote on in my head.

  I went to sleep and dreamed of the factory. It was staffed by a thousand terrifying Pattys. They prodded and pushed me until I tumbled right into a huge vat of simmering sugar, then they stirred me with great wooden paddles and I felt myself dissolving into sticky syrup.

  ‘I’m me, I have to stay me!’ I screamed, and woke myself up.

  In the dawn light I looked at the long letter I’d written to Father. The last two pages were completely incoherent, the lines swerving up and down and crisscrossing at random. I read it through as far as I could, blushing at my rambling self-pitying rant. What was I thinking of? How could I seriously send such a letter to Father? He would only blame himself for my misery.

  I tore up all the pages in shame and wrote a short, loving note instead:

  Dearest Father

  I’m missing you so much already. I wish I could see you! It must be so sad and lonely and worrying for you. You must be fretting terribly, especially with the thought of your trial before you. Perhaps the judge will be kind and compassionate and understand that you’re not a wicked man at all and let you off lightly. You only wanted to make us all happy. If only the publishers hadn’t let you down over your book! Perhaps you can write another while you are away from us?

  We all love you very much – especially

  Yur loving daughter,

  Opal

  P.S. You mustn’t worry about us. We’re all coping splendidly. I go out to work now and it makes me feel very grown up.

  I didn’t feel very grown up going to work. I felt incredibly little, like a tiny mouse scuttling along the gutter on the way to Fairy Glen. I had been nervous enough yesterday, but today was five times worse because I knew what it would be like.

  Mr Beeston was in his office, and when he saw me through the window, he gave me a cheery wave. I managed to wave back, though my arm felt like lead. He beckoned me in.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Opal Plumstead.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Beeston,’ I replied.

  ‘Lovely manners! What a girl you are. So, how was your first day?’

  I hesitated. If I told him everything, perhaps he’d move me downstairs. Maybe I could even try rolling out the sugar jellies? I would sooner work anywhere than in the fondant room. I’d even prefer to scrub the water closets all day.

  ‘Speak up, little Opal. You don’t seem like a girl who’s usually lost for words,’ said Mr Beeston.

  My words were sticking in my mouth. If I told him that Patty and her friends had tormented me all day long and then tipped an entire box of starch over my head, he would surely be sympathetic. But what would he say to Patty? I didn’t care if she got into trouble. I wanted that to happen. But what would she do to me afterwards? What would all the others do? I had enough experience of school to know that everyone hates a telltale.

  I cleared my throat. ‘My first day was rather as I’d expected,’ I said carefully.

  Mr Beeston raised his eyebrows. ‘Mmm! Excellent answer! Off you go, then. See if the second day is the same.’

  I collected a clean overall and cap and went into the ladies’ room warily, fearful of Patty. She wasn’t there – but several of the girls from the fondant room were larking about, discussing the men on the factory floor.

  ‘What do you reckon to that Paul – you know, the one with the curly hair? I think he’s a real looker.’

  ‘Listen to her! Sounds like she’ll be down the alley with him at dinner time.’

  ‘He’s a bit too girlish for my taste. I like’em strong and beefy, like Bill. Oooh, what I’d like to do with him!’

  ‘He’s courting Lizzie Seymour. You know – does the candy twists.’

  ‘Her! He’s wasted on her, she’s so niminy-piminy. I reckon if I could just cosy up to Bill, he’d realize he’d be much better off with me.’

  ‘Watch out you don’t cosy too close. Some say it was that Bill got Jenny Moore in the family way.’

  ‘Think I don’t know how to look after myself? Catch me being landed with a baby.’

  ‘Well, teach us, then, because my Sandy’s getting very overheated on a Saturda
y night and I’m scared I’m going to land in trouble. But I just can’t help myself when he starts. The things he does!’ She squirmed and they all giggled.

  She saw me staring at her. ‘Watch out, the new girl’s all ears,’ she said. ‘Look, her specs are steaming up!’

  ‘Clear off, small fry. You’re not old enough for this sort of talk.’

  ‘I don’t want to be!’ I declared. ‘I think you should all wash your mouths out with soap.’

  I marched out while they all screamed with laughter. I stalked across the factory floor, scarcely able to look at all the men, especially when they started calling and whistling at some of the other girls. I blushed at the comments, feeling as prim as Miss Mountbank. If Mother knew the way folk talked, she’d surely sooner we all starved than leave me working here.

  ‘Hey, little’un! Got your mother’s overall on? Watch out you don’t trip!’

  I scuttled up the iron staircase to the fondant room. Geoff and George were already at work heating up the copper vats.

  Geoff gave me a nod. ‘All right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said.

  I glanced around fearfully for Patty. She didn’t seem to be there yet, but some of her friends were frowning at me. A large girl with strands of red hair escaping from her cap came over to me.

  ‘Saw you having a chat with old Beeswax this morning,’ she muttered.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘Telling on us, were you?’

  ‘No, I was simply exchanging pleasantries,’ I said.

  ‘What? Talk proper! You sound like a blooming schoolmarm,’ she said.

  ‘I was just passing the time of day with Mr Beeston,’ I said, spacing out my words and pronouncing them with emphasis.

  ‘No need for that tone, you stuck up little ninny,’ said the red-haired girl.

  ‘Did she grass on us, Nora?’ asked another.

  ‘I’ll bet she did,’ said Nora. ‘I hate telltales. Wait till I let Patty know!’

  ‘I thought you hated telltales,’ I said, and dodged round her to the cupboard where the moulds were kept. ‘Excuse me, I want to get on with my work.’

  ‘You little whatsit!’ said Nora.

  The girls muttered together while I started working. I tried not to take any notice, but my hand was trembling so badly I couldn’t make precise moulds.

  Patty sauntered in five minutes later. She seemed to be trying to assert her authority by arriving as late as she dared. She walked past me, deliberately barging into my back, so that my whole box shook and the starch scattered everywhere.

  ‘Patty!’ said Geoff.

  ‘Whoops!’ she said. ‘So sorry, Opal Plumbrain. Did I accidentally knock you?’

  ‘Can’t you leave her alone today? You’ve had your fun,’ said Geoff.

  ‘Have we?’ said Patty, wide-eyed.

  ‘We think she grassed on us to Beeswax,’ said Nora.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Serve you right if she did,’ said Geoff.

  ‘But I didn’t,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t do that, even though I had just cause.’

  ‘Don’t believe her, Patty. I saw her nattering away to him in his office,’ said Nora.

  ‘Well, see if I care if she did,’ said Patty, shrugging. ‘She can’t prove anything, can she? It’d be her word against ours, right?’

  They all agreed.

  ‘There, see!’ said Nora, giving me a shove.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, you’re like nasty little children at elementary school.’ I struggled to sound superior, though my heart was thumping hard.

  They all made ridiculous ‘Oo-ooo’ sounds, mocking me. I struggled to ignore them all, resolutely moulding, though I jumped whenever one of them came near me.

  Halfway through the long morning Mr Beeston strolled into the room. I saw Patty stare at him and then look at me. All the girls were looking. Several were fearful, but Patty put her chin up and squared her shoulders.

  ‘How do, Mr Beeston,’ she said boldly. ‘Come to keep an eye on me and my girls?’

  ‘As if I need to do that, Miss Pattacake,’ said Mr Beeston. ‘I know you little lasses are all as good as gold. No, I’ve come to chivvy these two work-shy rascals here – the saucy lads.’ He patted Geoff and George on the back, while everyone laughed uneasily. Geoff and George were the steadiest, most hard-working men in the entire factory, and everyone knew it.

  Mr Beeston had a stir of the syrup in the big copper vat, nodding approvingly at the texture. He stepped into the drying room to count the boxes.

  The girls whispered to each other while he was in there:

  ‘She did tell. He’s come to tick us off!’

  ‘He’s just playing with us. He’ll suddenly turn nasty – you wait.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll dock our wages?’

  ‘That hateful tattletale Plumbrain!’

  But Mr Beeston came back smiling. ‘Well done, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t stand there staring at me now. On with the good work!’

  He patted me on the head, squashing my cap. ‘Mould on, little Opal Plumstead!’ he said, and then he walked out of the room.

  The girls all breathed out heavily.

  ‘So Plumbrain didn’t tell,’ said one.

  ‘She did, I saw her,’ Nora insisted.

  ‘Did you tell, Plumbrain?’ Patty asked menacingly.

  ‘Can’t you girls give it a rest? You’re making my head ache,’ said Geoff.

  ‘Oh, gallant Sir Geoff, all a-quiver to protect little Plumbrain,’ said Patty unpleasantly.

  ‘What did you girls do to her yesterday, then? It’s clear you did something if you’re all so scared of Mr Beeston finding out. Leave her alone, can’t you!’ he said.

  ‘All right, then, we will leave her alone,’ said Patty.

  They stopped speaking to me altogether. They turned their backs, and whispered and giggled as they worked. I heard my name and knew they were cracking stupid jokes about me. I tried to tell myself I didn’t care. I wanted to be left in peace, didn’t I? I could work quietly, free to think my own thoughts. But though these were the last girls in the world I wanted to be friends with, it was still horrible to be totally left out of their conversation. I felt lonelier than ever. When I next went into the drying room, I had a little weep.

  Geoff followed me in. ‘There now,’ he said softly when he saw me snivelling.

  ‘Why do they hate me so?’ I whispered.

  ‘They don’t hate you, silly. It’s just a spot of teasing. It’s because you’re a new girl. They’ll get used to you soon enough. Try to laugh along with them. They’ll only get worse if they see you’re upset,’ he told me.

  ‘I’m not really a laughing sort of girl,’ I said mournfully.

  ‘Yes, you’re a solemn little lass. It’s like you’ve got all the cares of the world heaped on your shoulders.’

  ‘That’s what it feels like,’ I said, sighing. This sounded such a self-pitying statement that I blushed and giggled in embarrassment.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Geoff. ‘You cheer up now, dearie.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said, but I didn’t think that was possible.

  I KNEW HOW much dinner cost now, but Mother could only spare me a penny a day until I got my wages at the end of the week. The oxtail soup and meat and potato pie smelled wonderful, especially now that I wasn’t feeling sick from eating fondants, but I resolutely joined the tea and bun queue.

  There was a whole bunch of women standing in a cluster and I hung back, not quite sure where the end of the queue was. I worried that they’d start abusing me if I stood too close.

  Another couple of women lined up after me.

  ‘Budge up, little darling,’ said one.

  ‘Yes, tell that lot of old natterers to sort themselves out. We’re hungry, aren’t we.’

  They spoke in such a friendly manner that I could have hugged them.

  ‘You are a little’un, aren’t you. Didn’t think they were employing inf
ants at Fairy Glen! Where have they put you, then?’

  ‘I’m in the fondant room,’ I said.

  ‘Oooh, with all the saucy girls. Are you going to sit with them now?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, come and sit with us. What’s your name? I’m Jess, lovey, and this is Maggie.’

  They were about twenty-five, I reckoned, both plump and rosy-cheeked. At first it was hard to distinguish one from the other in their identical caps and overalls, but by the end of the meal I realized that Jess’s plumpness was mostly because she was going to have a baby – and when Maggie took off her cap to scratch her head, I saw that her hair was pure white.

  She noticed me staring. ‘It went that way when I was nineteen and had my first baby. Weird, ain’t it? Still, my hubby likes it, would you believe. He calls me his little Snow White – though in my fairy-tale book she’s got black hair, but never mind.’

  ‘You have a baby too?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve got four, dear – two boys, two girls – couldn’t be better.’

  ‘Whereas I’ve got three girls, and if this little beggar isn’t a boy I’m going to give it a serious ticking off,’ said Jess.

  ‘Are you allowed to keep working when you’re . . .?’ I paused delicately.

  ‘Oh yes, Mrs Roberts is very understanding,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Who’s she? I thought Mr Beeston was in charge.’

  ‘He’s the manager, dear, but Mrs Roberts owns the whole bang-shoot. Well, it used to be Mr Roberts, but he died of pleurisy years ago, and so Mrs Roberts took over. There’s a son, but he’s still away at school somewhere. He’ll take over the firm in time, but meanwhile Mrs Roberts is a fair boss, especially to us women. She’s very keen on women’s concerns. She’s one of them suffragettes, wanting women to have the vote.’

  ‘How splendid!’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you think all them women make fools of themselves, throwing bricks through windows and yelling in Parliament?’ asked Jess.

  ‘But it’s for a very important cause,’ I said. ‘If we had the vote, then there would be fairer laws and happier times for all women, especially in the workplace.’