Opal Plumstead

  ‘That’s right, ginger him up, Opal. And take that look off your face. I dare say you’d prefer a prime cut of steak, but beggars can’t be choosers.’

  ‘But why do we have to have sweetbreads, Ma?’ said Cassie, for once winking in sympathy with me. ‘They’re cow’s innards, all slimy and disgusting! You chew and chew, and you still can’t swallow them.’

  ‘You girls should be grateful I stand sweet-talking the butcher so he’ll save me the cheaper cuts,’ said Mother indignantly. ‘He’s promised me a sheep’s head for the weekend.’

  Cassie and I made simultaneous vomiting noises and I ran upstairs to Father.

  He was sitting on the side of his bed, his rejected manuscript on his knee. He had a dazed expression on his face.

  ‘Please don’t take on so, Father. All the publishers are fools. I think you’re a brilliant writer,’ I said earnestly.

  He wasn’t listening to me. He was reading a letter.

  ‘Is that from the publishers?’ I asked. Father didn’t usually even get a letter, just a rejection slip.

  He nodded. He started to speak, but his voice came out as a croak, and he had to begin again. ‘From Major and Smithfield,’ he whispered. He held the letter close, as if checking it. ‘They like it, Opal! They truly like it!’

  ‘But . . . but they’ve still returned it?’

  ‘Only for a few trifling corrections. They suggest a different twist to the plot, and a more dynamic opening chapter. Yes, I understand – I can do that easily.’

  ‘And then they say they’ll publish it?’

  ‘If I re-submit my manuscript, then they say they will reconsider it. It’s very cautiously put, but that’s what they mean! Oh, Opal, they truly like my novel.’

  ‘I’m so happy for you, Father!’ I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

  ‘If you only knew how much this means to me,’ he murmured into my hair.

  ‘I do know, Father. I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘Wait till your mother hears!’ said Father. He stood up, clasping my hand. ‘Let’s go and tell her.’

  We clattered down the stairs, both of us wanting to be first in the kitchen, jokily pushing and shoving each other as if we were little children.

  ‘Mother, Mother, guess what!’ I shouted from the hall.

  But Father gently elbowed me out of the way and reached the kitchen before me. ‘It’s astonishing news, Louisa!’ he said. He hardly ever called Mother by her full name – she was always ‘Lou’, or ‘my dear’.

  ‘What?’ said Mother, pausing in her serving of the sweetbreads.

  ‘What what what indeed!’ Father took the stewing saucepan out of her hand, placed it back on top of the range – and then picked her right up! He was a slight man and Mother was stout, but he seized her as if she were a sack of feathers and whirled her about the kitchen.

  ‘Put me down, you fool!’ Mother screamed. Her cheeks were bright pink, and half her hair came tumbling down so that she looked almost girlish again.

  Cassie screamed too and clapped her hands at the extraordinary sight. ‘What is it? What’s happened to Father?’ she cried.

  ‘His novel’s going to be published!’ I shouted.

  ‘Truly?’ Mother gasped.

  ‘I have to make a few minor alterations, but then, yes, truly! Your hopeless old Ernest has done it at last!’ said Father, and he kissed her on the tip of her nose.

  ‘How much are they going to pay you?’ Mother asked.

  ‘They don’t specify a sum. I’m not sure what the going rate is,’ said Father.

  ‘Charles Dickens got paid a fortune,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but I’m hardly Mr Dickens,’ said Father. ‘Perhaps I’ll get . . . twenty-five guineas . . . Maybe fifty if they’re really enthusiastic! And then there will be royalties if the book sells well.’

  ‘Of course it will sell well!’ said Mother, astonishing us all. ‘Oh, Ernest, I’m so proud of you.’

  Father set her down tenderly and gave her a proper kiss on the lips. He had tears in his eyes. Cassie and I exchanged glances, open-mouthed.

  ‘We need to celebrate in style,’ Father said, setting Mother aside at last. ‘I’ll go out and buy a bottle of wine. I’ll be back in two ticks.’

  ‘Get champagne!’ said Mother.

  Father really did buy a whole bottle of champagne – and a great parcel of cooked fish and fried potatoes.

  ‘But we have sweetbreads,’ Mother protested faintly.

  ‘We’re not celebrating with cows’ doo-dahs,’ said Father, setting out the golden food upon four plates.

  ‘Oh, Father, this is a meal fit for kings,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Fit for literary kings,’ I said.

  Father popped the cork of the champagne and poured the sparkly liquid into four crystal glasses. They were a wedding present, never yet used. It said they were sherry glasses on the presentation box – as if we cared.

  ‘Here’s to clever Father,’ I said, holding my glass high.

  We all drank to his success and devoured our splendid meal, while the sweetbreads stayed in their pan. None of us were used to drinking alcohol, so we started laughing uproariously at the silliest things, and planning in detail the life we would lead once Father became truly rich and famous.

  ‘Now hold on, it hasn’t happened yet,’ he said.

  ‘But it will, my dear, I know it will,’ said Mother, reaching out and squeezing his hand. ‘You’ll be able to give up your position at the shipping office and live like a gentleman. You’ll simply go to work each day in your study.’

  ‘But Father doesn’t have a study,’ I said.

  ‘He will, once we move. Oh, to think we’ve a chance to better ourselves at last! We’ll rent a much bigger house – maybe one of those grand new villas overlooking the park,’ said Mother dreamily.

  ‘Hey, hey, not on fifty guineas’ income,’ said Father.

  ‘But that’s just this first novel to be published. You’ve written many more, haven’t you? Maybe they’ll publish them too. I’ll say this for you, Ernest, you’ve persevered all these years with little encouragement. God bless you, my dear,’ said Mother, sounding choked.

  A tear slid down Father’s cheek.

  ‘God bless you too, dearest Lou. And Cass and Opal. I don’t think we’ll be moving out of Primrose Villa just yet, but we can certainly indulge in a few little luxuries at last. Once I get that cheque you shall all have a trip to the dressmaker’s to order yourselves fine new outfits.’

  ‘Oh yes, Father, and new boots too, and gloves – and maybe one of my own hats!’ said Cassie.

  ‘Blue silk,’ Mother breathed, plucking at her brown worsted skirt.

  ‘Can I have a new paintbox instead of a dress?’ I begged. ‘One with thirty-four paints in the palette, like the one I saw in Gamages last Christmas?’

  ‘You can have all these, my girls,’ said Father, spreading his arms wide.

  FATHER SET TO work that very night, correcting and amending his manuscript. Mother tiptoed up the staircase every so often to see how the work was progressing. She refreshed his genius with cups of tea. She even prepared a cold flannel in case his forehead was burning. They were still toiling in their different ways long after Cassie and I went to bed.

  I was too happy to go to sleep, and Cassie felt the same. After half an hour or so, she crept out of her room and into my cupboard.

  ‘Budge over, Opie,’ she said, clambering in beside me.

  ‘There isn’t enough room for me, let alone the two of us,’ I said, but I put my arms around her as she squeezed under the sheets.

  We hadn’t cuddled up like this since we were little girls and it felt very cosy, though Cassie’s abundant hair tickled my nose and her great curvy body was squashing me.

  ‘Fancy our pa getting a book published!’ Cassie murmured.

  ‘I always knew he would,’ I said, which was a total lie. I’d always hoped he would, but it had never seemed remotely likely.


  ‘You can’t seriously want a boring old paintbox instead of a new outfit,’ said Cassie. ‘Look, I’m sure Father will let you have both. So what colour and style of dress will you choose?’

  ‘I don’t want a new dress. I’m not interested in clothes,’ I said.

  This was a lie too. I was acutely aware of fashion. On rare train trips to London I stared at the young ladies trit-trotting elegantly about in their little heeled shoes, in their spotted silks, their lace-trimmed stripes. I marvelled at the colours of their costumes: subtle sage, soft violet, dusky blue. I was confined to my harsh schoolgirl navy. But it was the shape of modern costumes that unnerved me. They were soft and clinging, emphasizing the bust and clutching the small waists. I didn’t see how I was ever going to acquire the right shape, whereas Cassie in her plain white nightgown showed it off effortlessly.

  ‘Don’t you want to look pretty, Opie?’ said Cassie. She said it softly, but there was a tinge of smugness in her tone. She knew that all the fine dresses in the world would never make me pretty. Part of me wanted to kick her right out of bed – but it was so comfortable, the two of us curled up together.

  ‘I don’t want to look pretty, I want to look artistic,’ I said. This gave me an idea. ‘Perhaps I shall go to Liberty in Regent Street. I’ve seen their advertisements in the newspaper. They have long flowing dresses in beautiful fabrics.’

  ‘No, you don’t want one of those – you’ll look weird,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Then I’ll stick to my tunic.’

  ‘Honestly! I don’t know how you can bear still being at school – and St Margaret’s is such a frightful school too, all lumpy girls and old-maid teachers. I wouldn’t have gone there for all the tea in China.’

  Cassie couldn’t have gone there because she’d never have passed the scholarship examination, and Father wasn’t rich enough to pay – well, until now.

  ‘You don’t want Father to pay for you to go back to school?’ I said. ‘Or you could go to a special girls’ college and learn to cook and arrange flowers and how to dress.’

  ‘What nonsense! I don’t want to cook, I can make flowers and I know very well how I want to dress.’

  ‘So you want to stay on at Madame Alouette’s?’

  ‘Not for ever.’ Cassie stretched out in bed, nearly tipping me out. ‘I’ll meet some fine gentleman—’

  ‘Rich, and foolish enough to be very indulgent, I suppose,’ I said.

  ‘Not foolish. I want someone who can master me,’ said Cassie.

  ‘You’ve been reading too many trashy romance novels,’ I told her. ‘Do you picture yourself lying on a tiger skin like Elinor Glyn?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ she said. ‘That would be thrilling.’

  ‘And your dark lover will thrust you upon his white stallion and ride off with you into the desert . . .’

  ‘Yes! Oh, go on, Opal, this is good! Tell it like a story.’

  I made up a whole load of nonsense, though it kept Cassie enthralled. I floundered a little when I came to describing actual embraces, but Cassie didn’t know much more than me about the mysteries of the bedroom, for all she pretended to be so worldly wise. We ended up giggling helplessly and went to sleep with our arms around each other.

  It was strange feeling close to Cassie when we usually fought like cat and dog. It was as if a spell had been cast over our whole family. Breakfast was usually a sullen, hasty affair, with Mother, still in her nightgown, nagging at us to get a move on. Poor Father would have trudged off to the railway station breakfast-less long before.

  Breakfast the next morning was very different. Mother was neatly dressed but with her hair still down, which made her look strangely young and girlish. There were eggshells and toast crumbs and a tea-stained cup at Father’s place, so she’d obviously got up early and made him a meal. She made Cassie and me breakfast too – just tea and bread and butter, but she sprinkled sugar on our slices too, which had always been a long-ago little-girl treat.

  I set off for school with a new spring in my step. I usually made up stories in my head to entertain myself on the long walk through the town, blush-making fantasies of living in an alternative family where I was the prettiest and most popular sister, but I didn’t feel the need to do that today. I was happy to daydream about my own family now.

  In the playground I seized hold of Olivia and said excitedly, ‘You’ll never guess what! My father’s going to be a published author! Yes, he really, really is. Imagine – in a matter of months we’ll be able to go into a bookshop or a library and see his name on a book jacket!’

  ‘How lovely,’ said Olivia, but she sounded more polite than genuinely thrilled.

  I suppose it was because she didn’t set much store by books. I read avidly, racing through the latest E. Nesbit one day and then happily tackling Hardy or H. G. Wells the next. Olivia was reluctant to try any adult novels, and even found the Chalet Girls books hard work. I loved her dearly and was very grateful to have a best friend at last, but inside my head I sometimes couldn’t help wishing I could find a true soul mate. I imagined discussing books and art and sharing ideas. I grew impatient with myself because I knew this was a silly dream, as ridiculous in its way as one of Cassie’s desert romances.

  The only people who knew more than me about books and art were the teachers who taught these subjects at school. The idea of discussing anything with Miss Reed was ludicrous. Perhaps she was knowledgeable, but I disagreed violently with her opinions. She particularly admired seventeenth-century landscape paintings, all muddy browns and dreary greens. She thought anything with colour and drama was vulgar.

  Miss Peterson taught us English, mostly Shakespeare. I liked Shakespeare, though it was sometimes hard work unknotting his elaborate sentences to discover their full meaning. I felt a little thrill each time I deciphered a passage, and I loved the sound of the words, even when I had only a hazy understanding. Miss Peterson didn’t just like Shakespeare, she loved him with an embarrassing passion. She read poetic passages aloud in a throbbing, ardent manner, letting her voice swoop up and down as if she were singing scales, and threw her arms about in wild gestures as if conducting herself simultaneously. We always had to bite the insides of our cheeks and press our lips together to stop ourselves bursting out laughing. I couldn’t possibly discuss Juliet or Miranda or Rosalind with her.

  I found myself telling the least likely teacher about Father’s success – Miss Mountbank. In housecraft, I hadn’t been concentrating while preparing my dish of baked apple. I let the custard burn for lack of stirring and I forgot to cut round the skin of my apple before baking it. It exploded with extraordinary force, spattering the inside of the oven.

  ‘You hopeless fool, Opal Plumstead! I told you to prepare the apple properly. Now look at the mess. What were you thinking of?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Mountbank. I – I was thinking about my father, who has just received such exciting news. He’s going to have a novel published!’ I declared.

  Miss Mountbank seemed even less impressed than Olivia. ‘Is that so?’ she said, handing me a cloth and scouring powder. ‘Or are you telling stories again?’

  ‘I don’t tell lies, Miss Mountbank,’ I said sharply.

  ‘I dare say that’s a lie in itself,’ she said. ‘I’ve never known such an insubordinate girl. Come along – you can start scrubbing as soon as the oven cools down. Meanwhile you can clean all the work surfaces as a punishment. You can also write me two hundred lines after school: I must not daydream.’

  I daydreamed intensely while writing out my two hundred lines, devising hideous tortures for Mounty. I beat her about the head with her ladle, I buttered her vigorously, I baked her in her own oven. I must have had a smile on my face thinking this, because Mounty suddenly rose from her desk and approached me.

  ‘This isn’t a laughing matter, Opal Plumstead,’ she hissed. ‘You will do another hundred lines.’

  ‘Then it’s a crying matter,’ I muttered.

  ‘What did you sa
y?’ she demanded.

  ‘I was just talking to myself, Miss Mountbank.’

  ‘You think you’re so superior, you silly little girl. You’ll get your come-uppance one day, just you wait and see.’ She spoke with real venom, her little eyes black beads of hatred, her great nose as sharp as any beak. It was if she were some ancient crone of the dark arts, cursing me. I couldn’t help shivering, even though I knew she was just awful old-maid Mounty, the worst teacher in the school.

  I had a roaring feeling in my head and my eyes were stinging, almost as if I were about to burst into tears. I blinked hard, willing myself not to break down in front of her. She had no real power over me. I might be singularly untalented when it came to housecraft, but what did that matter? I wasn’t intending to become a cook when I grew up. It seemed doubtful that I’d ever be able to afford a cook myself, but I didn’t care. I certainly wasn’t going to spend my time stirring sweetbreads. I’d buy my hot food, fish and fried potatoes, with Fairy Glen sweets for dessert. I might grow so fat I’d burst right out of my corsets, but who cared? I didn’t want to wear them anyway. I’d lumber around happily in a capacious artistic robe and all my large bits could lollop around within, totally untethered.

  I cheered myself up enough to complete the extra set of lines and handed them to Miss Mountbank. She kept me a further five minutes, going through each and every line. Her eyes darted from side to side, desperate to find a ‘t’ uncrossed or a ‘y’ without a proper tail so she could set me the task all over again, but my penmanship was perfect.

  ‘Very well. Run away now. I dare say you have interesting duties at home now, putting new nibs in your father’s pen and keeping him supplied with blotting paper, seeing as you say he’s going to be a published author.’ She spoke in tones of withering sarcasm.

  ‘That’s quite right, Miss Mountbank,’ I said blithely, and then marched out of the room before she found an excuse to detain me further.

  I was terribly touched to find Olivia playing a listless game of bouncy-ball-on-a-string in the playground.