Opal Plumstead Read online

  ‘That’s right, ginger him up, Opal. And take that look off your face. I dare say you’d prefer a prime cut of steak, but beggars can’t be choosers.’

  ‘But why do we have to have sweetbreads, Ma?’ said Cassie, for once winking in sympathy with me. ‘They’re cow’s innards, all slimy and disgusting! You chew and chew, and you still can’t swallow them.’

  ‘You girls should be grateful I stand sweet-talking the butcher so he’ll save me the cheaper cuts,’ said Mother indignantly. ‘He’s promised me a sheep’s head for the weekend.’

  Cassie and I made simultaneous vomiting noises and I ran upstairs to Father.

  He was sitting on the side of his bed, his rejected manuscript on his knee. He had a dazed expression on his face.

  ‘Please don’t take on so, Father. All the publishers are fools. I think you’re a brilliant writer,’ I said earnestly.

  He wasn’t listening to me. He was reading a letter.

  ‘Is that from the publishers?’ I asked. Father didn’t usually even get a letter, just a rejection slip.

  He nodded. He started to speak, but his voice came out as a croak, and he had to begin again. ‘From Major and Smithfield,’ he whispered. He held the letter close, as if checking it. ‘They like it, Opal! They truly like it!’

  ‘But . . . but they’ve still returned it?’

  ‘Only for a few trifling corrections. They suggest a different twist to the plot, and a more dynamic opening chapter. Yes, I understand – I can do that easily.’

  ‘And then they say they’ll publish it?’

  ‘If I re-submit my manuscript, then they say they will reconsider it. It’s very cautiously put, but that’s what they mean! Oh, Opal, they truly like my novel.’

  ‘I’m so happy for you, Father!’ I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

  ‘If you only knew how much this means to me,’ he murmured into my hair.

  ‘I do know, Father. I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘Wait till your mother hears!’ said Father. He stood up, clasping my hand. ‘Let’s go and tell her.’

  We clattered down the stairs, both of us wanting to be first in the kitchen, jokily pushing and shoving each other as if we were little children.

  ‘Mother, Mother, guess what!’ I shouted from the hall.

  But Father gently elbowed me out of the way and reached the kitchen before me. ‘It’s astonishing news, Louisa!’ he said. He hardly ever called Mother by her full name – she was always ‘Lou’, or ‘my dear’.

  ‘What?’ said Mother, pausing in her serving of the sweetbreads.

  ‘What what what indeed!’ Father took the stewing saucepan out of her hand, placed it back on top of the range – and then picked her right up! He was a slight man and Mother was stout, but he seized her as if she were a sack of feathers and whirled her about the kitchen.

  ‘Put me down, you fool!’ Mother screamed. Her cheeks were bright pink, and half her hair came tumbling down so that she looked almost girlish again.

  Cassie screamed too and clapped her hands at the extraordinary sight. ‘What is it? What’s happened to Father?’ she cried.

  ‘His novel’s going to be published!’ I shouted.

  ‘Truly?’ Mother gasped.

  ‘I have to make a few minor alterations, but then, yes, truly! Your hopeless old Ernest has done it at last!’ said Father, and he kissed her on the tip of her nose.

  ‘How much are they going to pay you?’ Mother asked.

  ‘They don’t specify a sum. I’m not sure what the going rate is,’ said Father.

  ‘Charles Dickens got paid a fortune,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but I’m hardly Mr Dickens,’ said Father. ‘Perhaps I’ll get . . . twenty-five guineas . . . Maybe fifty if they’re really enthusiastic! And then there will be royalties if the book sells well.’

  ‘Of course it will sell well!’ said Mother, astonishing us all. ‘Oh, Ernest, I’m so proud of you.’

  Father set her down tenderly and gave her a proper kiss on the lips. He had tears in his eyes. Cassie and I exchanged glances, open-mouthed.

  ‘We need to celebrate in style,’ Father said, setting Mother aside at last. ‘I’ll go out and buy a bottle of wine. I’ll be back in two ticks.’

  ‘Get champagne!’ said Mother.

  Father really did buy a whole bottle of champagne – and a great parcel of cooked fish and fried potatoes.

  ‘But we have sweetbreads,’ Mother protested faintly.

  ‘We’re not celebrating with cows’ doo-dahs,’ said Father, setting out the golden food upon four plates.

  ‘Oh, Father, this is a meal fit for kings,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Fit for literary kings,’ I said.

  Father popped the cork of the champagne and poured the sparkly liquid into four crystal glasses. They were a wedding present, never yet used. It said they were sherry glasses on the presentation box – as if we cared.

  ‘Here’s to clever Father,’ I said, holding my glass high.

  We all drank to his success and devoured our splendid meal, while the sweetbreads stayed in their pan. None of us were used to drinking alcohol, so we started laughing uproariously at the silliest things, and planning in detail the life we would lead once Father became truly rich and famous.

  ‘Now hold on, it hasn’t happened yet,’ he said.

  ‘But it will, my dear, I know it will,’ said Mother, reaching out and squeezing his hand. ‘You’ll be able to give up your position at the shipping office and live like a gentleman. You’ll simply go to work each day in your study.’

  ‘But Father doesn’t have a study,’ I said.

  ‘He will, once we move. Oh, to think we’ve a chance to better ourselves at last! We’ll rent a much bigger house – maybe one of those grand new villas overlooking the park,’ said Mother dreamily.

  ‘Hey, hey, not on fifty guineas’ income,’ said Father.

  ‘But that’s just this first novel to be published. You’ve written many more, haven’t you? Maybe they’ll publish them too. I’ll say this for you, Ernest, you’ve persevered all these years with little encouragement. God bless you, my dear,’ said Mother, sounding choked.

  A tear slid down Father’s cheek.

  ‘God bless you too, dearest Lou. And Cass and Opal. I don’t think we’ll be moving out of Primrose Villa just yet, but we can certainly indulge in a few little luxuries at last. Once I get that cheque you shall all have a trip to the dressmaker’s to order yourselves fine new outfits.’

  ‘Oh yes, Father, and new boots too, and gloves – and maybe one of my own hats!’ said Cassie.

  ‘Blue silk,’ Mother breathed, plucking at her brown worsted skirt.

  ‘Can I have a new paintbox instead of a dress?’ I begged. ‘One with thirty-four paints in the palette, like the one I saw in Gamages last Christmas?’

  ‘You can have all these, my girls,’ said Father, spreading his arms wide.

  FATHER SET TO work that very night, correcting and amending his manuscript. Mother tiptoed up the staircase every so often to see how the work was progressing. She refreshed his genius with cups of tea. She even prepared a cold flannel in case his forehead was burning. They were still toiling in their different ways long after Cassie and I went to bed.

  I was too happy to go to sleep, and Cassie felt the same. After half an hour or so, she crept out of her room and into my cupboard.

  ‘Budge over, Opie,’ she said, clambering in beside me.

  ‘There isn’t enough room for me, let alone the two of us,’ I said, but I put my arms around her as she squeezed under the sheets.

  We hadn’t cuddled up like this since we were little girls and it felt very cosy, though Cassie’s abundant hair tickled my nose and her great curvy body was squashing me.

  ‘Fancy our pa getting a book published!’ Cassie murmured.

  ‘I always knew he would,’ I said, which was a total lie. I’d always hoped he would, but it had never seemed remotely likely.