Opal Plumstead Read online

  ‘I have devastating news, Opal,’ she said, her voice husky.

  ‘Morgan is . . . dead?’ I whispered, wondering if he might simply be missing in action so there could be a shred of hope.

  There was none. She told me about the sniper, the injured man, Morgan’s courage.

  ‘They say he will be awarded a posthumous medal,’ she said proudly. ‘He was very brave.’

  I had to hold onto the corner of her desk to stop myself falling down altogether. Mrs Roberts didn’t try to put her arms around me. She didn’t even touch me. But she did say, very quietly, ‘I know what this means to you.’

  She didn’t, of course. She still thought I was an upstart chit of a girl who had an inappropriate association with her son. She didn’t see that I loved him, body and soul, and always would.

  I didn’t cry at work. I painted my fairies, day after day, trying hard to escape into their bright fantasy world. I had time to elaborate and concentrate on exquisite detail because the deluxe fondant range wasn’t in such demand now. Sugar was in short supply, so Fairy Glen confectionery grew more and more expensive.

  My fairies elongated, grew large pearl-white wings, and frequently wore white gowns too. They no longer harnessed birds or played games with little creatures. They flew solemnly through the air, their faces grave and composed.

  I cried at home, every single night. Father would sometimes hear me and come and sit on my bed and put his arms round me helplessly. His release from prison had been so painful. We had been in a fever for weeks, longing to have him home with us again. On the day he returned I hung a banner across the front of the house saying WELCOME HOME, DEAREST FATHER! Mother was appalled, worried what the neighbours would say, but I didn’t care. I wanted Father to see just how much I loved him and wanted him home.

  But the man who came stumbling to our front door didn’t seem like my real father any more, more like an aged grandfather. He had shrunk in size and become very stooped. He couldn’t seem to pick up his feet as he walked. He had a new way of looking, his head turning constantly from left to right, his eyes never seeming to focus. His suit didn’t fit him because he’d lost so much weight. He didn’t have a collar to his shirt, he wasn’t wearing socks, and his shoes flopped off his feet.

  ‘Oh my Lord, Ernest, what have they done to you?’ said Mother, starting to cry.

  Father’s own face crumpled and he made a little wailing sound.

  ‘Don’t worry, Father!’ I said, hugging him tightly. ‘We’ll have you better in no time. All that matters is that you’re home at last.’

  But even when we’d kitted Father out in his old Sunday best and given him a decent shave and haircut, he stayed the same poor bewildered old man. He was still kindly and he tried to comfort me as best he could, but it was clear he didn’t know what to say.

  Even his voice had changed. He used to speak like a gentleman in low, measured tones. Now he spoke in a rush, often getting his words mixed up. The only job he could find was as a newspaper seller on the street. He’d call, ‘Star, News and Standard!’ over and over until he was hoarse, the words distorted so they sounded like a cry of pain. Sometimes he muttered the words under his breath at home, until Mother spoke to him sharply. She treated him like one of her babies, and he responded in kind, hanging his head if he felt he’d displeased her.

  I’d sometimes look at his poor shabby head and wonder if all his wits had addled inside. I tried to interest him in his precious books. He’d stroke the covers and tell me how much he liked them. Sometimes he would even flick through the pages, but he never actually read them now.

  He still wrote a little, using his old manuscript pages, scribbling at random in the margins or crisscrossing uneven lines over his old copperplate.

  ‘What are you writing, Father?’ I asked, fearing it was gibberish.

  ‘I’m writing my memoirs, my dear,’ he said.

  ‘Your memoirs?’

  ‘An account of my year in prison.’

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ said Mother. ‘Isn’t it enough that the whole street knows where you’ve been? Why do you want to advertise the fact?’

  ‘I feel the world needs to know what it’s like to be a gentleman in such a dreadful institution,’ said Father, with simple dignity.

  I wondered if he might have a point. I even wondered if his memoir might be published at some stage. I saw it as a Dickensian exposé of our prison system and hoped it might be his salvation. But when I crept into his room and deciphered his latest scribbling, I lost heart.

  Prison is very bad.

  It is full of bad men.

  The gaolers are bad too.

  The work is very hard.

  It was like a bizarre reading primer for five-year-olds. I lost all hope that it would be the saving of my poor dear father, but I think it kept him happy enough.

  I tried to get him to talk about his accountancy at the shipping firm, eager to bring the real culprit to justice, but Father couldn’t bear to remember. He put his hands over his face and shook his head again and again. It seemed cruel to pursue it further. What would be the point? Father could never get his year back now. It had broken him for ever, though his nature was still sweet.

  He didn’t really know why I cried so every night. He clearly still thought of me as a little girl.

  ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry, there there,’ he’d croon, patting my back. ‘Just a bad dream, poor girly, just a bad dream.’

  He was particularly good with Mother’s babies, tickling them and fussing them and giving them rides on his knee. Mother stayed devoted to all of them, taking on another whenever one got old enough for school, but the baby she adored the most was little Danny, Cassie’s child.

  Oh, Mother had been so horrified to hear that Cassie was going to have a baby.

  ‘Well, you’ve disgraced yourself for ever now,’ she’d said. ‘He’s still not marrying you? He’ll up and leave you when the baby’s born, you mark my words, Cassie Plumstead.’

  Cassie had simply laughed at her. ‘Oh, Mother, the voice of doom as always! Daniel’s tickled pink about the baby, and so am I. He’s painting the most incredible portrait of me. It’s called Motherhood, and although I’m so enormous he’s made me look superb. He’s got a whole series of paintings in mind. He can’t wait to do one of me with the baby at my breast.’

  Mother gasped in horror – but when the baby was born she couldn’t wait to see it. She came with me to Hurst Road for the first visit. She was dumbfounded by the house. I had told her many times that it was splendid, if a little shabby, but she had obstinately pictured Cassie living in squalor. She was taken aback by Daniel too.

  ‘Mrs Plumstead! How delightful. Cassie will be so thrilled to see you. Wait till you see our little baby boy. He’s such a stunner, an absolute cherub. He takes after his mother, of course – and indeed his grandmother,’ he said, escorting her inside.

  Mother was overcome by his gallant attention, and starting dimpling and smiling, though she’d told me on our journey over there that she’d take him to task and call him a cad and a rotter.

  Daniel turned back to me as he was showing Mother upstairs and pulled such a funny face that I nearly burst out laughing.

  Cassie and the baby were in the large bedroom at the front of the house. It was clear that she shared the double bed with Daniel, but she had managed to Cassie-fy the entire room. It was papered with a blue rose wallpaper. Matching blue silk roses adorned the dressing-table mirror and dangled decoratively from the white wardrobes. The silk coverlet on the bed was a deeper blue that set off the pale pink of Cassie’s skin to perfection. She was wearing a soft white nightgown embroidered with tiny daisies and had threaded delicate artificial daisies in her long fair hair.

  She held the baby in her arms. When we stooped to look, we saw that he really was a little cherub. I was usually indifferent to the charms of any baby, but this small nephew of mine was enchanting. He was pale pink with a rosebud mouth. He had large blue eyes with long