Opal Plumstead

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘We had lunch and then spent the entire afternoon together,’ I said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At Fairy Glen, Mrs Roberts’ house.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Don’t you think he was just being sweet because his mother’s taken such a shine to you?’

  ‘No I don’t. Why do you have to be so horrible? Don’t you believe that anyone could ever be interested in me? You’re just like Mother,’ I said, fighting back tears.

  ‘Oh, Opie, don’t be so upset. I just don’t want you to be hurt. You’re so intense. And even if this Morgan is a bit interested in you, it’s not going to go anywhere, is it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s a gentleman who will own a huge great factory and have pots of money, and you’re just a girl who works in the factory, and you’ve got a father who’s in prison and a mother who’s a babyminder and a sister who’s an artist’s model and living in sin,’ said Cassie. ‘I somehow think you’re not Mrs Roberts’ number-one choice for her son.’

  I went flouncing off home in a huff. Perhaps I felt so upset because Cassie was probably right. I wished I’d kept my mouth shut now. Maybe I’d made a fool of myself. I tried to go over every nuance of the afternoon I’d spent with Morgan. Was he simply treating me like a bright child?

  I spent Sunday night in turmoil, and had a splitting headache on Monday morning when I had to trudge to the factory. For the first time in weeks I had no inspiration whatsoever when it came to inventing new fairies for my deluxe specials. I sat sighing and stretching, stirring my paint water and fiddling with my brushes.

  ‘You’d better not let Mr Morgan see you like that,’ said Alice, the girl who had taken over from Miss Lily.

  ‘Mr Morgan?’ I said.

  ‘The boss’s son, dopey. He’s come to work with his mother today and I dare say he’ll be doing the rounds, peering here and there. Mrs R likes him to take an interest, seeing as it will all belong to him one day.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, that Morgan!’

  ‘Mister to you. He was Master Morgan until he was fifteen or so, but we have to call him Mister now, though he’s not much more than a lad.’

  It was a shock to think that Morgan might be only a few yards down the corridor. It gave a jolt to my inventive powers. I applied myself to the meadow design, inventing two magpie fairies joyously racing their birds through the air. I turned an ordinary bush into an azalea with its own flock of fairies flying above it, decked in the brightest pinks and purples. I was so absorbed that I jumped when Mrs Roberts suddenly came into the room, Morgan following.

  ‘Good morning, ladies. Good to see you all hard at work,’ said Mrs Roberts. She went across to Alice and started murmuring. Morgan looked around, saw me, and came straight over.

  ‘Hello! Do let me see,’ he said. He bent over my box lid. ‘Ah, magpies. Two for joy! And azalea fairies. I wonder where you got that idea?’

  I felt my face glow fiery red.

  Morgan smiled. ‘They’re wonderful. Do you realize how popular your fairy range is?’

  I shrugged, embarrassed.

  ‘I’ve just been going over the books with Mother. Your boxes have done astronomically well. They’re outselling the ordinary deluxe range by three to one, even though they’re a shilling dearer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Truly. And I can see why. Mother will have to get a full set of your box lids, frame them and put them up on the wall beside her own Anster Fitzgerald fairy paintings. I think you’re better than him.’

  Mrs Roberts came over to us. She smiled at me, but there was something a little chilly in her expression. ‘Come and see the other girls’ work, Morgan,’ she said. ‘They’re all doing splendidly.’

  Morgan raised his eyebrows at me, but said blandly enough, ‘Of course, Mother.’

  He wandered off obediently and murmured praise to everyone, but before he left he looked back at me and gave me a little wave.

  ‘Oh, look at you, sucking up to the boss,’ said Alice sourly.

  I took no notice. I went on painting, but in my heart I was flying through the air with my fairies.

  I hoped Morgan might come into the factory every day during his holidays, but he didn’t put in another appearance that week. However, on Friday I received a card in the post. It was a comical picture of the Venus de Milo, with one onlooker saying to another, ‘I suppose it was them suffragettes who hacked off her arms.’ On the back it said, Dear Opal, Don’t get too carried away at your meeting. I’m looking forward to seeing you at lunch afterwards. Your friend, Morgan.

  ‘So who’s this Morgan, then?’ said Mother, frowning.

  ‘Don’t read my personal post, Mother! I told you all about Morgan. You simply chose not to believe me.’

  ‘Is he really the factory owner’s son?’

  I didn’t want to discuss him now. I wanted to keep the knowledge to myself. I read my postcard’s little message twenty times. I even tried copying the fine italic handwriting, so much more stylish than my clerk’s copperplate.

  On Saturday morning I took immense trouble with my appearance, trying on and then discarding all my clothes. I couldn’t wear my usual elephant, it was just too gross, yet my tartan was garish and made me look sallow. I wished Cassie were home to help me.

  I went to her room and inspected the clothes still in her wardrobe. It looked as if she’d abandoned them for ever. I tried on a cream dress with a matching jacket. It had violets embroidered on the lapels to match a purple material belt. It had been Cassie’s best summer outfit until she bought the green dress.

  It was a cool spring day, not sunny at all, but I decided to wear the cream outfit because it was the prettiest. It would spoil the whole effect if I covered it up with my old coat. I decided I didn’t mind if I shivered.

  ‘Oh my Lord, you look as if you’re going to a wedding and trying to outdo the bride,’ said Mother.

  I chose to ignore her, though all the way to the meeting I peered in shop windows, wondering if this were true. Certainly, most of the WSPU ladies were in business-like suits or plain white blouses worn with a purple and green striped tie. I told myself I didn’t care.

  Mrs Roberts was right at the front with the two guest speakers. She hadn’t reserved a chair for me, but it didn’t matter. I was happy enough sitting at the back. I would join her when the meeting was over.

  It went on for a very long time. Both speakers praised Mary Richardson and her attack on the Rokeby Venus, glorying in the coverage it had received. I was alarmed to hear them suggesting further damage to art treasures. When one of the ladies suggested attacking every Venus painting in galleries all over England, there was a rousing cheer.

  The meeting ended with a panel discussion with the two speakers, the president of our local WSPU, two ladies in very grand hats and Mrs Roberts – the latter three were clearly generous benefactors to the cause. Many women in the audience put up their hands to ask questions. Not all were one hundred per cent supportive of WSPU action. One lady seemed worried about the escalating violence, anxious that someone might get badly hurt or even killed during future demonstrations.

  ‘How about our poor sister Emily Davison, who was trampled to death under the King’s horse last year at Epsom? And think of all the desperately abused suffragettes in prison as we speak, tortured by force-feeding,’ said the president. She went on to outline in grisly detail what this entailed. I felt great pity and sympathy, but surely this wasn’t quite the point.

  I listened and listened. None of the other ladies stood up to ask anything further, so I found my own hand waving in the air.

  ‘Yes, right at the back? Oh, it’s Opal, our youngest member,’ said the president. ‘Speak up, dear.’

  ‘Of course I agree that the suffering of the suffragettes is terrible – but they are in a way self-imposed,’ I said. ‘And though I feel that all these women are incredibly courageous, their actions are surely ineffective.’

  There was a huge surge of shock and ho
rror at my words. All the ladies craned their heads round to stare at me.

  ‘I don’t think you can say they’re not effective when these actions make newspaper headlines,’ said the president, shaking her head at me.

  ‘Yes, but they haven’t achieved the goal of women’s suffrage. A woman has given her life, but that’s still not given us the vote. Our members are being tortured in prison, but that hasn’t given us the vote, either. Miss Richardson has damaged one of the most beautiful masterpieces in the world, and that still hasn’t given us the vote. The general public have been against women having the vote from the start of our campaign. That’s terribly depressing and shows ignorance and indifference – but we haven’t been able to change public opinion with our escalating campaign. Surely if we continue to destroy masterpieces, then history will look on us as we do the vandals in the past who destroyed all our medieval religious statues. Don’t you see the inherent danger of our motto, Deeds, not words? Can’t we achieve the vote by the persuasiveness of our tongues rather than the violence of our axes?’

  Mrs Roberts stood up, her face flushed. ‘I think it would be more sensible to hold your tongue, Opal, than expose your own ignorance of the cause,’ she said. ‘Now, do we have any more questions?’

  I was left publicly snubbed, with no one taking up my points and debating them with me. The ladies on either side of me edged as far away as possible, as if scared I might contaminate them. I sat there trembling, going over my speech in my head, trying to understand why it had upset everyone so dreadfully. I had been rather forthright, perhaps too outspoken as a young newcomer to meetings. There were lots of points I didn’t understand properly. I hadn’t had to endure the horrors of force-feeding myself, but surely I could still offer a valid point of view . . .

  At the end of the meeting the ladies gathered for their tea and biscuits, still giving me disapproving glances. Miss Mountbank came sweeping up, her hawk nose quivering.

  ‘I see you haven’t changed at all, Opal Plumstead,’ she said witheringly. ‘As full of yourself as ever, saying the most outrageous things simply to draw attention to yourself.’

  I didn’t want to waste my time arguing with Mounty. I pushed my way through the women until I reached Mrs Roberts, who was still at the front.

  ‘Mrs Roberts,’ I said, putting my hand on her sleeve. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t deliberately try to be controversial. You know what I’m like. I often say things out loud without thinking them through. I thought any opinion was valid during a discussion. I didn’t mean to embarrass or upset you. I promise I won’t open my mouth at meetings again.’ I said it as humbly and sincerely as I could, but she still looked at me coldly.

  ‘I think you’d better run along now, Opal. I am busy talking,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Shall I wait outside with Mitchell and the car?’

  She stared at me. ‘Why on earth would you do that?’

  ‘Why, because . . . because we’ll be taking the car to Fairy Glen for lunch,’ I stammered.

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘But Mrs Roberts . . .’ I didn’t know how to continue. ‘Surely this isn’t because I asked that question? I didn’t mean to offend you – you must know that.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with your behaviour this morning. I simply have other plans for today. Remember, my son is home for the holidays.’

  ‘But Morgan said he was looking forward to seeing me today,’ I said.

  She flinched. ‘I’m sure Mr Morgan was simply being polite,’ she said. ‘Now run along.’

  I trailed home, so burning with humiliation that I wasn’t even chilly in my light cream dress. Had Mrs Roberts suddenly turned on me because I’d embarrassed her at the meeting? Or had she never planned to include me today? I’d got into the habit of going home with her after meetings – I’d taken it for granted. Perhaps it had been terribly forward of me to assume an automatic invitation. But Morgan himself had invited me by implication, surely. I couldn’t have mistaken the message on his postcard. Was he simply being polite, sending a kind but meaningless message to an eager child? I was so wretched I nearly started sobbing in the street. It was worse when I got home because Mother wondered what I was doing there and asked all kinds of intrusive questions.

  ‘Why aren’t you off for lunch with your high and mighty friends? I thought Mrs Roberts always asked you home nowadays. And what’s happening with this son of hers? I thought he was meant to be your special pal. Have they got tired of you already?’ She went on and on until I wanted to scream.

  I went up to my room, took off the cream dress and threw myself down on my bed in my petticoat. I wanted to cry, but I was burning too much. I couldn’t let go and allow tears. I lay banging my head on the pillow. I tried to go over all my conversations with Morgan, starting to wish I had never met him. If this was love, I had been wise to be wary of it.

  I lay there for a long time, and then I was dimly aware of a knocking at the front door. I thought it must be some young woman with yet another baby for Mother to mind, so I stayed on my bed. Then Mother herself came rushing into my room.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Opal, what are you doing lying there? And in your petticoat! Get yourself dressed at once.’

  ‘Why should I?’ I said wearily.

  ‘Because your Mr Morgan Roberts is downstairs, wanting to see you!’

  ‘What?’ I struggled up, wondering if Mother might be playing a cruel trick on me, but one glance at her flustered face told me she was telling the truth.

  ‘Oh my Lord!’

  ‘Do hurry! I can’t leave him down there on his own. Well, there’s Maudie’s child rioting around, but he’s hardly company. Be as quick as you can. I don’t know what to say to him. Why didn’t you tell me he might come?’

  ‘I didn’t think he would for one minute. Oh glory, all my hair’s tumbling down, and where did I kick my boots to?’

  ‘Hurry!’ Mother hissed, and went back downstairs again.

  ‘I am hurrying,’ I said, pulling on my dress and trying to do it up. My hands were trembling, which made it difficult. Morgan here! But, oh my Lord, was he simply wanting to tell me off roundly for upsetting his beloved mother? At this thought I was all set to rip my dress off again and cast myself back on my bed, but I couldn’t leave Mother in charge.

  I tidied myself as best I could, tied my hair back in a childish plait with a cream ribbon because it kept sliding out of its topknot, and then pressed a cold flannel over my hot face.

  I walked downstairs in a flurry of anxiety and went into the parlour. There was Morgan sitting on the sofa, giving the baby a ride on his knee. The child was in a paroxysm of delight, gurgling so much that a stream of saliva drooled onto Morgan’s fine trousers – but he was still smiling. Smiling at me.

  ‘Hello, Opal. My, that’s a lovely dress. Are you ready for some lunch?’

  ‘You’re very welcome to have lunch here, sir,’ said Mother, practically bobbing him a curtsy.

  I prayed Morgan wouldn’t accept out of politeness – all we had was a pot of vegetable barley soup, yesterday’s bread and a morsel of mousetrap cheese.

  ‘That’s so kind of you, Mrs Plumstead, but I’ve made plans to take Opal to The Royal for lunch. If that’s all right with you, of course?’

  ‘Oh my, yes, certainly, sir,’ said Mother. ‘You lucky girl, Opal.’

  I wished she would keep quiet and stop calling Morgan ‘sir’, but I couldn’t possibly frown at her. I even found myself smiling at the dribbling baby.

  ‘I’m ready, Morgan,’ I said.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, gently dislodging the child. ‘Excuse me, my little man. Your horsey has to trot away to be fed.’

  We said goodbye to Mother.

  ‘Aren’t you wearing a coat? It’s a bit chilly today,’ said Morgan.

  ‘I’m very warm,’ I said, truthfully enough. I was positively glowing.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to walk into town. I didn’t feel I could use Mitchell under the circ
umstances,’ said Morgan as we went out of the front door.

  ‘The circumstances . . .?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Mother and I had a little dispute,’ he said casually.

  ‘Over . . .?’

  ‘Over you, of course. There I was, waiting eagerly at home, with all kinds of plans, but Mother comes back alone. I look around for you and she tells me that she didn’t invite you, she thinks we will have a much cosier time just the two of us.’

  ‘Oh dear. I think she’s very angry with me because I said something untoward at the meeting and upset everyone.’

  ‘So I hear. But I think Mother made up her mind not to invite you long before the meeting. Our dining table was only set for two people, Mother and me. She suggested we spend the afternoon going through a whole load of old photographs to stick in some tedious book. I thought, What do I really want to do? So I’m afraid Mother will be lunching alone and sticking her photographs in by herself.’

  ‘Goodness. Oh, Morgan, I don’t want to make trouble for you. Your mother will be very upset,’ I said anxiously.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ he told me. ‘I have to make a stand every now and then. She forgets that I’m not still a little boy. She wants to take me over and organize my life. I can’t let her do that.’

  ‘It’s probably because you mean so much to her. I expect you became very close after your father died.’

  ‘Mother has always felt particularly close to me – stiflingly so, if I’m honest,’ said Morgan. ‘As far as I remember, it was always Mother and me, with Father scarcely getting a look in.’

  ‘You should be grateful that your mother is so very fond of you,’ I said. ‘And she’s been exceptionally kind to me.’

  ‘I dare say,’ said Morgan, ‘but I’m not sure she’s feeling exceptionally kind towards you at the moment. She feels you might be trying to lure me away.’

  ‘Oh, that’s ridiculous,’ I said, blushing.

  ‘I hope you don’t think it’s too ridiculous,’ said Morgan. ‘I’m doing my level best to lure you. I say, you’re shivering.’