‘No, I simply fancied a change,’ I said.
Mr Beeston nodded at me approvingly. ‘Very understandable. You’re a bright young girl and I see you are indeed a quick learner. Off you hop now.’
As I trudged back across the factory floor, Freddy spotted me. I saw him taking a deep breath and knew he was about to whistle piercingly.
‘Don’t whistle,’ I hissed as I approached his bench.
He swallowed convulsively, his pale blue eyes swivelling. I remembered Cassie saying her Mr Evandale made her melt every time he looked at her. Poor Freddy made me simply itch with irritation. I was certain this uncomfortable feeling wasn’t love or attraction, but I was feeling so low that I felt in need of his attention.
‘Hello, Freddy,’ I said, as affably as I could. I disliked his very name. ‘Is your full name Frederick?’ I asked hopefully.
‘No, I’m just Freddy,’ he said. ‘Though some of the lads here call me Lanky, or Big Lugs if they’re jeering at me, just in good humour.’
‘That’s nothing to what some of the girls call me,’ I said.
It didn’t matter unburdening myself to Freddy because he was as powerless as I was.
‘It sounds like it gets you down, Opal. Don’t take it to heart. I promise I’ll never call you names. I won’t whistle again, not if you don’t like it, though it’s meant as a compliment.’ Freddy beamed at me earnestly, his face glowing pink.
He was such a good-hearted fellow. I wished for once that I was more like a normal girl.
‘You’re a kind friend, Freddy.’
I meant him to understand that was simply how I saw him, but he reacted as though I’d made a declaration of love.
‘Oh, Opal,’ he said. He always pronounced my name strangely – Oh-pal. I couldn’t help feeling irritated by that too, but I tried not to let it show.
‘Haven’t you two young lovebirds got any work to do?’ said big Alfred, Freddy’s gaffer. ‘Come on, young Freddy, the sugar is sticking to the pan.’
‘Sorry, big Alfred. Just having a little dally with my sweetheart.’ Freddy grinned.
‘I’m not your sweetheart,’ I insisted, my irritation coming to the fore all over again. Perhaps I had better ignore Freddy altogether in future.
CASSIE CERTAINLY WASN’T ignoring her Mr Evandale. He’d made another visit to Madame Alouette’s to see how the hat he’d ordered was progressing.
‘Madame Alouette came rushing to attend to him personally. She’s particularly fond of Mr Evandale, but you’ll never guess what!’ Cassie said triumphantly over supper.
‘Mr Evandale asked if he could be served by little Miss Plumstead,’ I said.
‘Yes!’ said Cassie. ‘He asked for me. He remembered my name. And then he had me show him veiling and feathers and silk rosettes. He even asked if I’d make a rosette for him right there on the spot because he was so fascinated by the process.’
‘Or fascinated by you,’ I said, chewing my way through a mouthful of plaice and potato.
Mother put down her knife and fork. ‘Now I’ve told you, Cassie, you mustn’t go encouraging a much older man like that, especially one buying frou-frous in a ladies’ hat shop,’ she said firmly.
‘Oh, Mother. He’s not that old, and I told you, he’s buying a hat for his sister’s birthday,’ said Cassie, laughing.
‘Some men call all sorts of women their “sisters”,’ Mother sniffed. ‘You let Madame Alouette deal with the likes of him or you’ll get a reputation, and then no decent young man will want you. You listen to me, Cassie Plumstead.’
‘Oh, Mother, how you do go on! You don’t understand,’ said Cassie, shaking her head. She laughed – which wasn’t wise.
Mother was nearly always in a bad mood nowadays because she was so tired. She’d had to give up making the stuffed rabbits. She simply couldn’t manage the weekly quota, even if Cassie and I helped her in the evening. She tried looking for a proper job again, and actually got taken on as an assistant in a butcher’s shop. We ate steak for a week, which was wonderful, and Mother cured her sore hands by rubbing them in mutton fat, but the constant smell of meat and the unsanitary blood and guts out the back turned her stomach, and she was unfortunate enough to be sick in the shop.
Cassie and I squealed when she told us, and for some terrible reason found ourselves shrieking with laughter, though we knew it wasn’t remotely funny.
Mother was furious with us. ‘That’s it, laugh at me, you stupid, heartless girls! Well, let’s hope you can carry on laughing when there’s no food on your plates,’ she cried bitterly.
The butcher had sacked Mother on the spot. He didn’t believe she had a weak stomach. He accused her of drinking alcohol. Mother was mortally offended and now refused to set foot in his shop. His was the only butcher’s within walking distance, so unless Mother caught a bus to the next town, we had to be content with fish or cheese.
She started taking in washing, though she found this terribly demeaning, especially when Mrs Liversedge got wind of it and came knocking at the door with a basket of her soiled linen. It meant that every day was washing day now, with water boiling constantly, the smell of suds tickling the nose, and yesterday’s garments dripping on a rack overhead if it was too wet to string them in the back yard. Mother’s hands were now permanently deep red, as if she boiled them along with the babies’ napkins, and her temper was frequently at boiling point too.
She’d slapped me several times for my attitude, and now she slapped Cassie. Cassie burst into noisy tears. Mother put her head in her sore hands and wept too. I sat there, my own cheeks burning, but Cassie was a warmer girl than me and went flying to Mother, putting her arms round her and hugging her hard.
‘Don’t take on so, Mother. You mustn’t worry about me. I’m a good girl really. I don’t mean any harm.’
‘I know, I know, but I do worry,’ Mother sobbed. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to manage. I’m scared you girls will go to rack and ruin, and I’m so tired all the time – and look at the state of my hands. I used to be so proud of my soft white hands – real lady’s hands – and now they’re so rough and red and sore.’ She wrung them piteously. Her fingers were so swollen her gold wedding ring bit into her flesh. She twisted it desperately, unable to ease it.
‘Oh, Mother, don’t, you’ll make it worse.’ Cassie held her hands, stroking them gently. ‘There now. How could I have been so heartless as to laugh at you, dear brave Mother. Come, let me help you up to bed – you’re tired out. Opal and I will do the dishes and clear up, and we’ll make a start on the ironing so it is easier for you in the morning.’
She really was a good daughter, better than me, because I couldn’t force myself to make such a fuss of Mother. I washed our plates instead and set the iron to heat, though I was tired out myself and longed to escape to my own bed to read a little by candlelight.
Cassie was a while with Mother, so I got started on the ironing. I didn’t care for ironing my own clothes, but it was especially tiresome ironing other people’s. They were scrubbed clean, of course, but the camisoles and drawers and combinations were still so personal. It felt far too intimate ironing into every crease and corner.
My neck and shoulders and back ached fiercely after a day spent bending over boxes of starch. I tried singing softly to keep my spirits up, but the only songs I knew by heart were the hymns we sang at school. After one verse of ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’ I was in tears. I thought of Olivia and Mr Andrews. I was in such a state I almost felt nostalgic for hawk-nosed Mounty.
‘Oh Lordy, don’t you cry too,’ said Cassie, coming back into the kitchen at last.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, knuckling my eyes. ‘I just feel so fed up.’
‘Here, let me take over while you make us both a cup of tea,’ said Cassie. She flapped an enormous pair of drawers. ‘Dear Lord, look at these! Imagine having a rear that huge.’ She held them up against herself, shaking her head. ‘Look, they go round me twice, and we could fit at least six of you ins
ide. You’re skinnier than ever, Opie.’
I put my arms round myself defensively. ‘I can’t help it,’ I said.
‘Oh, don’t look like that. I didn’t mean to be horrid. Come on, give me a smile.’ Cassie put down the iron and came over to me. She tickled me under my chin.
‘Stop it!’ I said, squirming, but I couldn’t help giggling.
‘There, that’s better. Let’s see, do you have dimples when you smile? Mr Evandale says all kinds of silly things to see my dimples.’
‘Oh, you and Mr Evandale! You do rattle on and on about him. He’s just a customer,’ I said irritably.
‘Well, he might be a bit more than that,’ said Cassie. She put her arm round me. ‘Swear not to tell Mother? He waited for me outside Madame Alouette’s tonight and walked down the road with me, and then he took me to the Royal Hotel!’
‘Cassie!’
‘Don’t look so shocked. It was all very proper. We had a late afternoon tea in their lounge. Oh, it was so grand. The tea was served in the most delicate white china with a gold rim, and there were little almond biscuits on a plate and white linen napkins in case we made crumbs. A waiter served us and he called Mr Evandale “sir”, and me “madam”.’
‘Does Mr Evandale want you to be his sweetheart?’
‘Oh, I do hope so!’ said Cassie.
‘But he’s an old man!’
‘No he’s not. He’s thirty-seven – he told me.’
‘Cassie, that’s old. More than twice your age.’
‘No it’s not!’ said Cassie. She’d never been any good at mental arithmetic.
‘It is so. He’s practically as old as Father.’
‘Well, so what?’ said Cassie. ‘I like older men. They’ve got so much more style than silly tongue-tied boys. Mr Evandale knows exactly what to say, what to do. It’s marvellous.’
I thought of Freddy and reluctantly understood.
‘But if he’s so marvellous, why do you think he’s never got married?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cassie airily, but she looked furtive. She could never fool me.
‘Cassie! Oh Lord, is he married?’ I hissed.
‘He might have been once. He assured me that he’s not any more. He’s not a liar, Opie, he’s a real gentleman.’
‘Are you completely demented? Look, Father is a gentleman, and yet even he tells lies. So what did he say? How did his wife die?’
‘She didn’t die. She’s still alive and he pays an allowance for her and the children.’
‘Children!’
‘Do stop shrieking, it’s getting on my nerves. And what’s that funny smell?’ Then Cassie screamed. ‘Oh my Lord, the iron!’ She dashed over and raised it high, leaving a large brown triangle on the fat lady bloomers. ‘Oh gracious, what will Mother say! Do you think it will wash out?’
‘No, scorch marks are permanent. Oh, Cassie!’
‘It’s just as much your fault as mine. You would have me tell you all my secrets. Oh dear, look at this mark. Well, this customer will never come back to Mother!’
‘Perhaps we could patch it? Cut it out altogether and then sew in another piece of material? Would the fat lady notice?’ I wondered.
‘Yes, she would, unless she’s an idiot – but I know, look, I could cut down the seam, snip off the entire length of material and then sew it up again. Then there won’t be anything to show. The bloomers will be tighter, but she’ll just think she’s got even fatter. Yes!’
So I took over the ironing while Cassie cut and stitched and sewed. She made a very neat job of it too. If the owner ever suspected any jiggery-pokery, she certainly didn’t complain to Mother.
Cassie confided more details about Mr Evandale as she stitched, though I had to question her hard.
‘So is Mr Evandale . . . divorced?’
‘Apparently so. Don’t look so shocked. Lots of rich folk get divorced nowadays. I for one think it’s sensible. Why should you have to stay with someone for ever if you discover you no longer love them.’
‘Oh, you’re so sentimental about love. You be careful, Cassie. Mother would have a fit if she knew you were taking tea with an old man with a wife and family.’
‘He’s not old. I’ll stick this needle in you if you say it one more time.’
‘And you think he’s rich?’
‘Quite rich, certainly. I think he has some sort of private family income.’
‘Goodness! He doesn’t work, then?’
‘Oh, he works ferociously hard. He says he sometimes stays up all night working.’
‘What on earth does he do?’ I asked, suspecting the worst.
‘He’s an artist,’ said Cassie proudly, taking the wind out of my sails.
‘An artist?’ I repeated dully.
I couldn’t believe our Cassie was on afternoon-tea terms with a real artist. I thought of all my heroes – Fra Angelico and Piero di Cosimo, Raphael and Titian, Rossetti and Burne-Jones. One of these godly beings was canoodling with my own sister?
‘A real artist?’ I asked.
‘Yes, he’s exhibited at some Academy place, and various people buy his work,’ Cassie said proudly. ‘And you’ll never guess, Opie – you’ll never, ever guess!’
Of course I could guess. ‘He wants to paint you.’
‘Yes! Isn’t that amazing!’
‘He doesn’t want to paint you naked, does he?’
‘No! Well, I dare say he might want to, but I’m not that foolish. I shall wear my green dress, of course. Oh, Opie, imagine – an artist painting my portrait.’
‘Will you tell Mother?’
‘She wouldn’t understand. And she seems to have set herself against Mr Evandale without even meeting him. No, it would be kinder not to tell her as she’d only worry. I’m to go to his studio on Sunday, so I’ll make out I’ve been invited to Madame Alouette’s for the day. I’ll say it’s to do with the dreary nephew. That’ll keep her happy.’
‘Where is his studio, then?’
‘Oh, it’s somewhere near the park. He’s drawn me a little map. I shall find it easily enough.’
‘Cassie, are you sure he’s a gentleman?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes. His voice is wonderful and his clothes are beautifully made.’
‘I didn’t mean that! I meant, can you trust him? You’re going to be all alone with him in this studio. What if he attacks you?’
Cassie giggled. ‘You make him sound like a tiger! Don’t fuss so, Opie. You’re worse than Mother. He’s simply going to paint my portrait. If by any chance he starts to behave alarmingly, I can simply walk away, can’t I?’
‘I’m sure Father wouldn’t like you going to an artist’s studio to pose,’ I said.
‘Well, Father isn’t here to tell me what to do, is he?’ she replied.
‘No, but I wish he was.’ I bent my head over the shirt I was ironing. A tear splashed on the hot iron, making a little hiss.
‘I do too, silly – you know I do. But he’s not, and we have to make the best of things the way they are,’ said Cassie.
She lied very smoothly to Mother on Sunday when she appeared at breakfast in all her green finery.
‘Oh, Cassie, Madame Alouette must be very fond of you,’ said Mother. ‘I’m sure that nephew hopes to enjoy your company too. I’m so happy for you, dear. You run along, then.’
Cassie went upstairs to brush her teeth and rearrange her hair. I followed her up.
‘Oh, Opie, do I look all right?’ she asked, turning this way and that to see herself in the old spotted looking glass.
‘You look a picture – you always do,’ I said.
Cassie took my hand and put it on her chest. ‘Feel my heart! Oh Lord, it’s beating fit to burst! Do you think I should let a few curls loose to tumble around my ears? Would that be more artistic?’
‘Your hair’s lovely whichever way you wear it,’ I said.
‘And my dress – do you think it makes me look a little stout? Please be absolutely honest.’
‘You look stunning. You know you do, so stop flapping.’
‘I can’t help it. I’m so excited. Lord knows how I’ll manage to stay still to pose.’ Cassie gave me a squeeze. ‘You won’t tell on me to Mother, will you?’
‘Of course not. But do take care, Cass. Do be good.’
‘I’ll be very, very good, I promise,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back this afternoon – certainly by supper time. Now don’t worry.’
I couldn’t help worrying about her. It was hard talking to Mother, who burbled on and on about Madame Alouette and the wretched nephew. But at last she finished the rest of her ironing and packed all the laundry into separate piles to return (mercifully folding the giant lady’s drawers without noticing they were ever so slightly diminished). She set out to deliver them, and I helped her, carrying my share.
It was hot, heavy work and I found myself perspiring inside my old blouse and tunic, though it was a cool day. I’d worn my old school clothes for ease and comfort, but I soon regretted it bitterly. The last of Mother’s clients lived at the better, northern end of town. Her servant’s mother lived in our street and had told her about the new washerwoman. When we knocked at the back door of their large red villa, I saw the daughter of the house in the basement kitchen, chatting to the cook. She was about my age and looked horribly familiar. It was Lucy-Ellen Wharton! She’d been in my class at school. Lucy-Ellen, who couldn’t grasp mathematics; Lucy-Ellen, who cried if Mounty told her off; Lucy-Ellen, who once tore her bloomers over-exerting herself in gymnastics. Lucy-Ellen, the girl I’d rather despised.
She noticed me, though I was trying to hide behind Mother. If I hadn’t been wearing the distinctive St Margaret’s uniform, she would never have focused on me. But she did. I saw the shock of recognition in her eyes. She gave me such a look, a mixture of pity and contempt. So all the school must know now.
I forced myself to stand up straight and stared hard at Lucy-Ellen until she looked away in confusion. As Mother and I trudged back home, I had to fight back tears of sheer humiliation. I imagined Lucy-Ellen rushing into school on Monday morning – ‘Hey, girls, you’ll never guess who brought our washing back on Sunday. Opal Plumstead – you know, the one whose father is in prison. And now her mother’s our washerwoman, would you believe!’