Opal Plumstead Read online

  ‘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