‘I love your door-knocker! Can I give it a big rap?’ I asked.
‘Feel free,’ said Mrs Roberts.
I thumped hard. After a little while the door opened and a servant stood there, looking surprised. She was a middle-aged woman, not a little girl like Jane – a stout grey-haired person in a black dress and an old-fashioned crisp white hat and apron. She looked very smart, apart from the strange greyish carpet slippers on her feet. I learned later that she had trouble with her bunions, and Mrs Roberts was happy to let her walk around in comfort.
‘Hello, Mrs Evans. You were urgently summoned because I have an eager young guest,’ said Mrs Roberts.
Mrs Evans shook her head at me, but still managed to look welcoming. ‘In you come, miss,’ she said, opening the door wide.
‘Welcome to another Fairy Glen,’ said Mrs Roberts, leading me inside.
The hallway was extraordinarily light because of a high atrium, with sunlight streaming downwards. There were palms in great brass pots and paintings beautifully displayed on both walls, just like an art gallery: pale maidens drifting in drapery, lounging beside pools or wanly embracing lovers.
‘Very Pre-Raphaelite,’ I said, showing off.
‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Roberts, amused. ‘In fact, the one over there, the moonlit girl, is a Burne-Jones.’
‘Oh my goodness, a real one!’ I said, gazing at it in awe. I knew that Mrs Roberts was wealthy, but hadn’t realized she was rich enough to own proper art.
I wanted to linger in the hall, poring over every painting, but Mrs Evans took my hat and coat and then ushered me into another lovely light room with a crackling log fire in the peacock-tiled fireplace.
‘Let’s get warm,’ said Mrs Roberts, sitting in a velvet chair and holding her hands in front of the fire. ‘Mrs Evans, perhaps you could be an angel and fix us a kind of picnic lunch so we could have it here in comfort rather than in the chilly dining room?’
‘Certainly, madam,’ she said. ‘I’ll rustle up a few savouries – and would the young lady fancy cake, or a fruit pie?’
‘I think perhaps both,’ said Mrs Roberts.
I sat down on the chair beside her, but I couldn’t stop my head swivelling round to take in the rest of the room. It was all so light and airy and elegant. It made me realize how cramped and poky our own parlour was. Even the chairs and chaise longue had style, sleek and simple in subtle shades of soft blue and dove grey, compared with our over-stuffed crimson sofas. There was a large black Japanese screen in one corner, with gold cranes flying across it. On one wall I saw Japanese embroidered silks showing strange mountains and streams, with more cranes standing on one leg as if taking part in a dance.
In pride of place in an alcove lit with a beautiful purple, green and white lamp was an illuminated scroll with three angels at the top.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘I was presented with the scroll when I came out of prison. I’d been on hunger strike and had to endure the horrors of force-feeding.’
‘Oh goodness,’ I said.
I had seen illustrations in the papers of women being held down while terrible tubes were forced down their throats. The depiction of the process had always made me shudder. I’d no idea that Mrs Roberts had been quite so militant and so extremely brave.
‘You may go and look at it properly if you like,’ she said.
I went to examine it, awed. But then I became distracted by a quartet of smaller paintings in gold frames. I couldn’t work out the subject matter, but they were very brightly coloured and intriguing.
I peered closer and saw that they were the most enchanting fairy paintings. The first was of a fairy wedding, with a diminutive bride and groom, and robin, blue-tit and butterfly guests. The second was a fairy school, with small elfin creatures sitting at toadstool desks. The third was a fairy nursery, with babes hanging in walnut-shell cradles from lavender spikes. The fourth was a fairy race, with little jockeys on saddled grasshoppers.
‘They’re wonderful!’ I said, gazing at each one.
‘They were my wedding present when I came to live at Fairy Glen,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘I’ve always thought them a little whimsical, but Morgan adores them. He used to play the most elaborate fairy games when he was little. He fashioned his own fairies out of pipe cleaners and scraps of silk and made fairy houses out of boxes. He took such pains. He lined them with moss and picked fresh flowers for them every day.’
‘Morgan?’
‘My son.’ Mrs Roberts pointed to a portrait above the fireplace.
It was of a solemn little boy in a sailor suit, with big brown eyes and a mop of fair curls like the boy in the ‘Bubbles’ advertisement.
‘He’s lovely too,’ I said.
‘Yes, he is,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘I miss him terribly when he’s away. When he finishes university, he will take over the running of the factory.’
I considered the luxury of being born Morgan Roberts, able to go to Oxford and then run his own factory!
Then I was diverted by Mrs Evans’ picnic. When Cassie and I had picnics, we ate bread and dripping, then bread and jam, and a slice of seed cake if we were lucky. Mrs Evans brought us truly fairy food: little mushroom tartlets, oyster patties, miniature veal-and-ham pies, a sliced tomato and carrot salad, a purple plum pie with a large jug of cream, and a marmalade sponge cake with crystallized oranges on top. We had home-made sweetened lemonade to drink in glorious glass goblets.
I ate and drank with immense gusto while Mrs Roberts nibbled and sipped. When I was finished at last, she told me to put my coat on again because she wanted to take me on a tour of her garden before I went home.
I was rather disappointed. I wanted to stay much longer. In fact, I never ever wanted to leave this amazing house. I’d seen the garden, hadn’t I? – two very formal flowerbeds with ornate ankle-high hedges forming a crisscross design.
But she led me further down the hallway, through the dining room and out through the French windows into what suddenly seemed like fairyland itself. Mrs Roberts’ back garden was bigger than a whole park, but it wasn’t laid out formally. It meandered up and down as far as the eye could see, with more rhododendron bushes and azaleas and magnolias, and many other trees and shrubs I didn’t recognize. A stream trickled through all the greenery, crossed in several places by little bridges like the ones on willow-pattern plates. When we’d walked the entire length of the garden, I saw a small Japanese summerhouse decorated with orange lanterns.
‘Oh, it’s so beautiful!’
‘It is, especially in spring and summer.’
‘How wonderful to have inherited such a garden.’
‘I didn’t. Well, I inherited the land, but it wasn’t a garden at all. There were flowerbeds and a lawn at the back of the house, but this was mostly meadow land when I came here as a young bride. I cultivated it all myself. It’s taken many years to get to this stage.’
‘You made it all? You planted all the trees and bushes?’ I said, gazing at slender Mrs Roberts and her smooth white hands.
‘I did plant a lot of the bushes, but I had a little troop of gardeners to do the really heavy digging. Three are still with me now. We’ve all matured together, along with the garden. I have to leave its care to them now, because I must run the factory too, but I try to have a stroll in my garden every day, winter as well as summer.’
‘You are a truly inspirational lady, Mrs Roberts,’ I said fervently.
I PROUDLY TOLD Mother all about my splendid day. I thought she’d be incredibly impressed. She always seemed delighted when Cassie was invited to Madame Alouette’s (though of course this was pure invention). But although Mrs Roberts was a far grander lady, Mother seemed determined to be unenthusiastic.
‘You met her at a women’s suffrage meeting?’ she said. ‘How could you go to such a thing, associating with all those dreadful women? As if we’re not in enough trouble with your father! If you get arrested too, then we’ll really be in queer street.’
‘I’m not goi
ng to get arrested, Mother – don’t be so silly. They’re not dreadful women at all, they’re quite splendid. Mrs Pankhurst herself gave a speech, and she was wonderful. I was actually introduced to her by Mrs Roberts.’
‘Terrible man-hating harridans, the lot of them!’ Mother declared. ‘That Mrs Roberts had no business luring you there and getting you involved. Just because you work at her wretched factory it doesn’t mean you have to do what she says at the weekend.’
‘She didn’t lure me. She didn’t even know I was coming. You’re being ridiculous, Mother.’
‘Don’t you use that tone with me, young lady. I think this Mrs Roberts is a very bad influence – you say she’s even been to prison herself!’
‘They tortured her there, forcing tubes up her nose and down her throat. She’s just the most incredibly brave woman in the world.’
‘She sounds a right hussy. Why does her husband let her get up to such mischief?’
‘She hasn’t got a husband any more.’
‘I’m not surprised!’
‘She’s a widow. She lives in this most amazing house. Oh, you should see the furnishings. It’s all so elegant and beautiful, with so many paintings – a real Burne-Jones, imagine!’
‘I don’t know who Burne-Jones is, and I don’t care. You shouldn’t accept invitations from that kind of woman. She’ll lead you into all sorts of trouble,’ Mother said obstinately. ‘You’re not to go again, do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Mother,’ I said, just to stop her ranting, though I knew I would jump at the chance of returning to Fairy Glen.
Cassie was a more receptive audience that night, but I sensed she wasn’t really concentrating on me.
‘Cassie! Don’t go to sleep!’ I said sharply as I crouched on the end of her bed. She’d given a little snore when I’d been in the middle of a detailed description of the Fairy Glen garden.
‘I am listening. Yes, it all sounds lovely,’ she murmured.
‘Aren’t you just a little bit impressed that such a wonderful woman has taken me under her wing? She actually told Mrs Pankhurst that I was her little protégée,’ I declared.
‘Oh, Opie, you’re such a scream,’ Cassie said, turning over and snuggling into her pillow.
‘I am not a scream,’ I said stiffly.
‘Yes you are. You’re getting so het up about this Mrs Roberts of yours. I could never imagine having a pash on an old woman,’ said Cassie.
‘She’s not old and I haven’t got a “pash”,’ I said furiously, blushing. ‘I just happen to think she’s marvellous because she’s so brave and intelligent and unusual and elegant.’
Cassie snorted. ‘You’re besotted!’
I gave her a thump. ‘I’d sooner be besotted with a fantastically inspirational woman who runs an entire factory single-handed and fights for political causes and creates a beautiful garden out of a wilderness than with some lecherous old artist, so-called,’ I said.
‘He’s not “so-called”. Daniel’s a really wonderful artist. His paintings are shown at the Royal Academy,’ said Cassie, waking up properly.
‘Well, I’ve never heard of him and I know much more about art than you do. I bet the only reason he paints your portrait is to see as much of you without clothes on as he possibly can,’ I said. ‘You watch out, Cassie Plumstead. You’re spoiling your chances of ever getting a decent man.’
‘You sound worse than Mother, you silly little prude. And he is decent. He’s fantastically intelligent and he comes from a very well-to-do family,’ Cassie protested.
‘Have you met any of them?’ I asked.
Cassie was silent.
‘There!’ I said triumphantly.
‘Oh, shut your mouth.’ She pushed me right off her bed so that I landed on my bottom with a bump. I struggled up, took hold of a handful of her long hair and tugged hard. We ended up scrapping on the floor until Mother heard and came running.
‘For heaven’s sake, what are you two great girls doing, brawling like hooligans!’ she said, slapping at both of us.
I flounced off to my room, still furious with Cassie. I had so wanted her to be impressed by my new friendship with Mrs Roberts. I hadn’t expected her to mock me.
I tried to stop feeling so hurt and ruffled. I lay in bed going through my whole day, remembering Mrs Pankhurst’s stirring speech, savouring the car ride with Mrs Roberts, conjuring up as much detail as I could of Fairy Glen and its magical garden.
When I fell asleep at last, I dreamed of fairies – little creatures who flew through the garden in dresses made of flower petals. They perched decoratively on the branches, they skimmed the water in the stream, they gathered in a fluttering flock on the roof of the Japanese summerhouse. When I woke the next morning, they still seemed trapped behind my eyelids, flitting back and forth in a rainbow sparkle. I spent most of Sunday painting my own fairy scenes, suddenly inspired.
Cassie came to my room to make up with me that evening. She seemed taken aback by the ten watercolours tacked up on all four walls.
‘My goodness, did you copy them, Opie?’
‘No, I made them all up. They’re totally original. Well, I suppose I got the idea from the fairy paintings in Mrs Roberts’ sitting room.’
‘You and your Mrs Roberts,’ said Cassie, but then she checked herself. ‘Sorry, I won’t tease you any more. I can see you really think she’s splendid. I’m sure she is.’ She paused, looking at me.
‘I suppose your Mr Evandale is splendid too,’ I said reluctantly. I didn’t think it at all, but I wanted to be friends with Cassie again. She could be an infuriating sister, though it was horrid when we weren’t speaking.
I dreamed of fairies that night too. I went into work the next morning feeling tremendously excited about a new idea. I wondered whether to discuss it with Miss Lily, but I was sure she would be very doubtful initially. I thought of approaching Mrs Roberts directly. After all, we were true friends now. But somehow things seemed a little different in the work environment. I saw her going into her room as I walked along the passageway to the design room. I gave her a great beaming smile, but she just gave me an abstracted nod and didn’t say anything. Perhaps we could only conduct our friendship away from the factory . . .
I decided to proceed without further ado. After all, I had to remember the suffrage slogan: Deeds, not words.
It was my turn to paint a rose scene on a box lid. I painted each rose with immense care, making sure I used the exact shades of blush cream and candy pink and deep crimson. Then I selected my finest brush and fashioned a tiny fairy peeping out between the petals, rubbing her eyes as if she’d only just woken up. I gave her a companion swinging on a stalk and a third flying high in the sky. They weren’t noticeable at first glance. Miss Lily looked and nodded and started praising me for the bloom on a petal. Then she stopped abruptly. She took her spectacles off, rubbed them on her overall, and replaced them. She looked again, holding the lid up to the light.
The other girls were all peering now, sensing that something was wrong.
‘Whatever are you playing at, Opal?’ asked Miss Lily. ‘You’ve painted little creatures – here and here and here!’
‘They’re fairies,’ I said.
The girls heard me and giggled nervously.
‘Fairies?’ said Miss Lily. ‘Opal, you know very well there are no fairies in our rose-in-bloom design.’
‘Yes, but I thought it would be such a good idea if we included a few. After all, this is the Fairy Glen factory.’
‘Don’t be facetious,’ said Miss Lily, ‘I won’t have this nonsense. You have wasted an entire morning with this foolery. The box lid will have to be scrapped. You’re a very stupid, tiresome girl. You’re employed to do serious designs, not fool around like a fanciful schoolgirl.’
‘I’m not fooling. I seriously think the fairies improve the design,’ I said.
‘I created that design more than twenty years ago.’ Miss Lily was trembling, clutching her lace handkerchief in one of her
small fists. ‘It’s been one of our most popular designs. How dare you rework it in such a ludicrous manner! Who do you think you are, Opal Plumstead?’ She was nearly in tears.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Miss Lily,’ I said.
I was starting to feel as if I’d done something terrible now. I had hoped Miss Lily would like my fairies once she saw them for herself. I had tried so hard, experimenting all day Sunday until I perfected each one. I thought she’d praise me, show the other girls, insist that my improved design be the future template for everyone.
Maybe I would have given up then and there, apologized profusely, taken some kind of punishment and never tried anything innovative ever again. Maybe, maybe not. But fate was on my side. At that very moment Mrs Roberts came through the door. She was taking one of her customary tours of the factory to make sure that everything was running smoothly. She could see straight away that something was seriously wrong with Miss Lily.
‘Miss Lily?’ She looked at her closely. Miss Lily was still shaking, little beads of sweat standing out on her lined forehead. ‘Miss Lily, sit down. You don’t look very well,’ Mrs Roberts said, clearly concerned. ‘Opal, run and fetch Miss Lily a glass of water.’
I did as I was told, terrified. Miss Lily was clutching her flat old-lady chest. Oh God, had the shock of dealing with me given her a heart attack? Had I literally killed Miss Lily? I started to cry. The other girls gawped at me as if I were truly a murderess.
‘Opal, bring that glass!’ Mrs Roberts said sharply.
I brought it, spilling some on the way. Mrs Roberts sat Miss Lily down, held the glass to her lips and made her drink.
‘There now,’ she said. ‘Calm yourself, Miss Lily. When you’re a little recovered we’ll go into my office and you can tell me why you’re upset.’
Miss Lily nodded, trying to drink. She waved one small hand in the air, her forefinger pointing in my direction.
‘I thought as much,’ said Mrs Roberts.
‘Should I come too, Mrs Roberts?’ I quavered.
She flashed me a terrifying look, a mixture of disappointment and contempt. ‘You stay where you are, Miss Plumstead,’ she said. Then she added, ‘For the moment.’
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