‘It couldn’t have. I sent it by express delivery,’ said Mother.
‘You did put your address on it, Father?’ I asked.
‘Of course he did! Don’t treat your father like a fool,’ Mother snapped. ‘Perhaps they’re very busy at the publishers, dealing with hundreds of manuscripts. We simply have to be patient.’
‘Unless . . .’ said Father. He looked very pale. ‘Unless they’ve decided they don’t want to publish it after all.’
‘Don’t!’ said Mother, putting her hands over his lips, as if she wanted to push the words back into his head. ‘Don’t you dare say that, Ernest. Of course that’s not true. Oh Lordy, I couldn’t bear the disappointment. We must be totally positive. Why, I’m sure the publishers’ letter will arrive first thing tomorrow, with a wonderful cheque attached.’
But we still heard nothing. Father sat down the next night to write a letter of enquiry to the publishers. He laboured over it for hours, sipping the whisky and water that had become a habit.
‘I have to get the tone right. I don’t want to appear querulous and demanding,’ he said. ‘But on the other hand, I don’t want to seem too meek and humble.’
He made half a dozen attempts but tore them all up. He drank another whisky and then thumped his fist on his knee. ‘I’m not going to write. I’ll go to their offices first thing tomorrow and ask, man to man.’
‘Oh, Ernest!’ said Mother. ‘Do you really think that’s wise? And how can you go to their offices during work hours? You don’t want to get another warning.’
‘I shall find a way,’ said Father grandly. ‘You told me to be positive, Lou.’
‘Oh, Ernest!’ Mother repeated, but there was more admiration than exasperation in her tone.
I didn’t think Father would go through with it in the clear light of day when he was stone cold sober. He was late coming home from work. Very late.
Mother and Cassie and I sat and gawped at each other in the kitchen, glancing at the clock every now and then.
‘Father’s late,’ Cassie said eventually, stating the obvious.
‘Perhaps if he was late into the office this morning, he had to stay later this evening?’ I suggested.
‘He’s not a naughty child doing detention at school,’ said Mother. She didn’t add like you, but it was clear that’s what she meant. She went to turn down the oven as far as she could. The roast beef spat inside, filling the room with its rich smell.
‘That beef’s going to be dry as a bone if I leave it in much longer,’ Mother moaned. ‘And it cost a small fortune at the butcher’s. I’ve run up such a bill lately. I don’t see how we’re going to pay it off if we don’t get that cheque soon.’
‘I’ve been offered another salon-soiled dress, the softest, subtlest shade of strawberry pink,’ said Cassie. ‘I know red-heads aren’t supposed to wear pink, but Madame Eva says it looks pretty on me even so – and I do think she’s right. She’s a friend of Madame Alouette so she’s offering me the dress at half price. It’s a wonderful bargain, but I’m still paying off the green gown and—’
‘Oh, Cassie, for goodness’ sake, don’t you ever think of anything but your wretched dresses?’ I said sharply.
‘Don’t start an argy-bargy, girls – my nerves can’t stand it,’ said Mother. She poked at the cabbage and carrots boiling on top of the stove. ‘These are being done to death too. Oh, I did want it to be a lovely meal. Your poor father has worked so hard. And he’s looking so very pale. He needs some good beef to give him a little boost.’ She looked at the clock again. ‘He’s never been this late before. Opal, run down the road and see if you can see any sign of him. Ask some of the gentlemen coming back from the City if there’s been any trouble with the buses.’
I ran out into the street, right down to the bus stop. I waited ten minutes for the next bus, and then glared at the gentlemen alighting, willing each and every one to change into my dear pa.
‘Please, sir, I’m waiting for my father and he’s very late. Has there been an accident anywhere? Have any of the buses been diverted?’
They all shook their heads in unison, giving me no comfort. I waited for the next bus, and the next. Still no Father. I knew I should go home, but I couldn’t bear the idea of being cooped up in the kitchen with Mother and Cassie again. I started marching up and down the streets just to give my legs something to do, walking all round the block in between each bus.
I walked past Victoria Park, where Father used to take Cassie and me to feed the ducks when we were little. I saw a man hunched on a bench beside the pond who looked a little like Father. I stopped, blinking hard. It was Father, sitting there all by himself, staring into space.
I felt my heart beating hard beneath my tunic. I hurried towards him. He must have heard my footsteps on the stony path, but he didn’t look up. I sat down beside him on the bench. He still stared straight ahead.
‘Father?’ I whispered.
He started and then turned towards me. ‘Hello, Opal! What are you doing here?’ he said. He looked paler than ever and his eyes were bloodshot.
‘Oh, Father, we’ve been worried about you. It’s so late!’ I cried.
‘Late?’ Father pulled his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘Oh my goodness, so it is! I expect your mother will be wondering where we are.’
‘Yes, she has supper all ready.’ I swallowed hard. ‘So why are you sitting here? Why didn’t you come straight home?’
‘I just took a fancy to have a little stroll first. I’ve always loved this park. Remember when you and Cassie were children?’
‘Yes, you always took us to feed the ducks with stale bread.’
‘Very stale – but you would always have a little nibble on a crust too,’ said Father. ‘I used to call you my Jemima Puddleduck, remember?’
‘And I’d go quack, quack, quack,’ I said.
We both chuckled, but the laughter didn’t sound right at all. I reached out and put my hand over Father’s. It was a warm evening, but his hand was icy.
‘You’re so cold, Father! Have you been sitting here for ages?’ I said.
‘I suppose I have,’ he said. He tried to squeeze my hand reassuringly. ‘Don’t look so worried, Opal. I’m perfectly fine.’
‘Oh, Father, don’t! Has something dreadful happened?’ I couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘Did the publishers tell you they don’t want your novel after all?’ I felt the tears running down my cheeks because I was so sad for him.
‘Hey, hey, you mustn’t cry, little Opal,’ said Father, gently dabbing at my tears with his cold fingertips. ‘No, you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. The publishers love my book. They think it’s vastly improved now I’ve done all the corrections. They all clapped me on the back and called me an excellent chap.’
I stared at Father. He had tears in his own eyes but he was smiling determinedly.
‘Is that really true, Father?’ I whispered.
‘Yes! Yes indeed.’
‘Then why didn’t you come rushing straight home to tell us?’
‘Oh dear, you sound like a little Sherlock Holmes now! I suppose I just needed a bit of peace and quiet to let it all sink in. I couldn’t concentrate properly at work. Oh Lord, what a day! The happiest day of my life. Our little Billy bird is so right. Happy days, happy days.’
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. Th
ere, 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.
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