Opal Plumstead Read online

  ‘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