Opal Plumstead (17 page)

‘
Look
,’ I said, crouching beside the lamp.

Mother groaned, and Cassie screamed and came running.

‘Opal – your
hair
! What’s happened to it? Oh Lord, how will you bear it? It’s
grey
. You’ve turned into an old woman!’ she cried.

‘It’ll wash out,’ said Mother. ‘Oh dear, is it the starch? I hoped they wouldn’t put you in that room. Don’t they provide you with caps?’

‘Yes, but a hateful girl snatched it off and shook a whole boxful of starch all over me,’ I said.

‘What?’ said Cassie. ‘Well, I hope you tipped a box over her and banged it hard on her head for good measure.’

‘I couldn’t. She’s much bigger than me. All the other girls take her side,’ I said, trembling.

‘Didn’t you tell the supervisor?’ said Mother.

‘She can’t do that. They’ll all hate her if she does, and get at her more than ever,’ said Cassie. ‘You must learn to fight back, Opie! Don’t let them get away with it. They’ll always pick on a new girl unless you stand up for yourself.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like,’

I protested. ‘I do so! When I started at Madame Alouette’s, the other girls didn’t like me, especially Rosa, because she always used to be Madame’s pet. She hated it when I was praised. Once Madame told the other girls to watch me making satin rosettes, because I was so good at it, but when I got back from running an errand to the dressmaker’s, I found them all snipped into little pieces. I knew that Rosa had done it, so I bided my time, and then, when she had her back to me, engrossed in her sewing, I snipped off a lock of her hair!’

‘Cassie!’ said Mother wearily. ‘I thought Rosa was your friend.’

‘She is
now
– we’re thick as thieves – but she knows not to mess with me. It was only a little lock of hair anyway,’ said Cassie. She ran her fingers through
my
hair. ‘Poor Opie. I’ll wash it for you after supper. Oh lawks, the mince!’

We ate burned mince, lumpy potatoes and watery cabbage. Cassie might be wonderful at making satin rosettes, but she was a hopeless cook. Then we cleared the dishes, gathered as close as we could to the lamp, and set about sewing those wretched rabbits. I could see why Mother’s hands had got into such a state. Cassie was good at sewing, of course, but even she struggled to get the stitches small and tight enough for the four paws, and then it was the devil’s job to push the sawdust in. We worked till gone ten, and then had to give up, still a dozen rabbits short of the suggested daily quota.

Cassie washed my hair at the kitchen sink, using up a great deal of her Rainbow Silk shampoo, and giving it three rinses to get it squeaky clean.

Mother was so tired and her hands so sore she couldn’t even undress properly for bed. Cassie and I had to unbutton her and help her into her nightdress.

‘You’re like two wounded soldiers,’ said Cassie. ‘I feel so bad that I’m not suffering too. Perhaps I really should leave Madame Alouette’s and work at Fairy Glen like Opal. Then we’d have twenty-two shillings a week. We could live like three queens on that.’

I couldn’t help selfishly hoping that Mother would agree to this suggestion. If I had Cassie working alongside me, it wouldn’t be nearly as lonely and she’d help me get the better of Patty and her friends. It wouldn’t be so desperately boring moulding all day if I had Cassie to talk to. We could play pretend games again. It had been such fun playing Islands on our river trip.

But Mother wouldn’t hear of it. ‘You must finish your training, dear,’ she said, giving Cassie a hug.

‘What about
my
training?’ I said shakily. ‘What about my scholarship?’

‘Oh, Opal, don’t start!’ Mother sighed wearily. ‘I’m too tired for arguments. I’m sorry you don’t like it at Fairy Glen. We’ll keep looking for another job for you. There might be a suitable position in one of the shops, especially just before Christmas.’

‘I don’t want to work in a shop! I don’t want to work in a horrible factory. I don’t want to work at all.’

‘And what good’s that going to do you?’ said Mother. ‘It will just give you even more airs and graces and turn you into a frump of a bluestocking. And what would you
do
if you stayed on at that silly school till you’re a great girl of eighteen?’

‘I – I could manage to go on to university. Go to Oxford, like Father,’ I said.

‘And what good has a varsity education done him,’ said Mother bitterly. ‘Now get to bed and wrap that wet hair up in a towel or you’ll catch a terrible chill.’

I decided I
wanted
to get a chill. I hoped I’d wake up so ill and feverish I couldn’t go to work. I lay on my bed feeling wretched, crying into my damp pillow.

‘Opie?’ It was Cassie, creeping up to my bed. ‘Don’t cry! I’m so sorry you have to go to that factory. Look, I’ll start making eyes at every passable rich man I come across. If I make a good marriage, I’ll be able to keep us all in style.’

Cassie’s kindness only made me feel worse. She was doing her best to help out. And although I was angry with Mother, I had to concede that
she
was trying her hardest to help out too. I knew I should be brave and suffer silently like a martyr, but all I could do was grind my teeth and mutter, ‘It’s not fair, it’s not
fair
.’

Father was the only one who would understand, but he wasn’t here. I ached to talk to him. I woke up in the middle of the night, missing him dreadfully, terrified of going back to the factory in the morning. I had so lost my senses I had a desperate urge to call for Father. I even found myself moaning his name aloud, as if by sheer need alone I could summon him through his prison bars all the long way back home.

I sat up in bed, lit a stump of candle and found my sketching pad. I tried to draw a portrait of Father but couldn’t get the likeness right, though I made four or five attempts. It was as if I’d already forgotten what he looked like, though I’d seen him only last week.

I tore the crude sketches into shreds and started writing a letter to him instead. I wrote a blow-by-blow account of yesterday’s events, recalling every slur and insult from Patty and the girls. I told Father about the desperate tedium of moulding all day long, the stifling smells of warm sugar and dense starch, the heat, the harsh conditions. My legs were cramped and aching, my shoulders and neck so stiff I could barely move, from standing up hour after hour. I exaggerated my physical woes and wrote paragraph after paragraph about my psychological misery.

Father was the only member of my family who had taken pride in my scholarship. I knew he’d hoped for a great future for me. Maybe I
could
have gone to Oxford or Cambridge. I couldn’t take a degree like the gentleman undergraduates, but women were now allowed to study alongside them. I thought of learning Latin and Greek, such strange, magical languages. I hungered after all those wondrous volumes in vast college libraries. I yearned for inspirational lectures. I saw myself walking across grass lawns in medieval colleges, talking to my fellow students.

But now I had no chance of learning a single phrase of Latin, opening just one of those books, hearing even a sentence of a lecture. I would never tread on one blade of that grass. My only future was the Fairy Glen factory – day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year.
My
prison sentence was even worse than Father’s because I was now trapped for life. I ranted on for several closely written pages, long after my candle flickered and went out. Even after my pad and my pencil fell to the floor I still wrote on in my head.

I went to sleep and dreamed of the factory. It was staffed by a thousand terrifying Pattys. They prodded and pushed me until I tumbled right into a huge vat of simmering sugar, then they stirred me with great wooden paddles and I felt myself dissolving into sticky syrup.

‘I’m me, I have to stay
me
!’ I screamed, and woke myself up.

In the dawn light I looked at the long letter I’d written to Father. The last two pages were completely incoherent, the lines swerving up and down and crisscrossing at random. I read it through as far as I could, blushing at my rambling self-pitying rant. What was I thinking of? How could I seriously send such a letter to Father? He would only blame himself for my misery.

I tore up all the pages in shame and wrote a short, loving note instead:

Dearest Father

I’m missing you so much already. I wish I could see you! It must be so sad and lonely and worrying for you. You must be fretting terribly, especially with the thought of your trial before you. Perhaps the judge will be kind and compassionate and understand that you’re not a wicked man at all and let you off lightly. You only wanted to make us all happy. If only the publishers hadn’t let you down over your book! Perhaps you can write another while you are away from us?

We all love you very much – especially

Yur loving daughter
,

Opal

P.S. You mustn’t worry about us. We’re all coping splendidly. I go out to work now and it makes me feel very grown up.

I didn’t feel very grown up going to work. I felt incredibly little, like a tiny mouse scuttling along the gutter on the way to Fairy Glen. I had been nervous enough yesterday, but today was five times worse because I knew what it would be like.

Mr Beeston was in his office, and when he saw me through the window, he gave me a cheery wave. I managed to wave back, though my arm felt like lead. He beckoned me in.

‘Good morning, Miss Opal Plumstead.’

‘Good morning, Mr Beeston,’ I replied.

‘Lovely manners! What a girl you are. So, how was your first day?’

I hesitated. If I told him everything, perhaps he’d move me downstairs. Maybe I could even try rolling out the sugar jellies? I would sooner work anywhere than in the fondant room. I’d even prefer to scrub the water closets all day.

‘Speak up, little Opal. You don’t seem like a girl who’s usually lost for words,’ said Mr Beeston.

My words were sticking in my mouth. If I told him that Patty and her friends had tormented me all day long and then tipped an entire box of starch over my head, he would surely be sympathetic. But what would he say to Patty? I didn’t care if she got into trouble. I wanted that to happen. But what would she do to me afterwards? What would all the others do? I had enough experience of school to know that everyone hates a telltale.

I cleared my throat. ‘My first day was rather as I’d expected,’ I said carefully.

Mr Beeston raised his eyebrows. ‘Mmm! Excellent answer! Off you go, then. See if the second day is the same.’

I collected a clean overall and cap and went into the ladies’ room warily, fearful of Patty. She wasn’t there – but several of the girls from the fondant room were larking about, discussing the men on the factory floor.

‘What do you reckon to that Paul – you know, the one with the curly hair? I think he’s a real looker.’

‘Listen to her! Sounds like she’ll be down the alley with him at dinner time.’

‘He’s a bit too girlish for my taste. I like’em strong and beefy, like Bill. Oooh, what I’d like to do with him!’

‘He’s courting Lizzie Seymour. You know – does the candy twists.’

‘Her! He’s wasted on her, she’s so niminy-piminy. I reckon if I could just cosy up to Bill, he’d realize he’d be much better off with me.’

‘Watch out you don’t cosy too close. Some say it was that Bill got Jenny Moore in the family way.’

‘Think I don’t know how to look after myself? Catch me being landed with a baby.’

‘Well, teach us, then, because my Sandy’s getting very overheated on a Saturday night and I’m scared I’m going to land in trouble. But I just can’t help myself when he starts. The things he does!’ She squirmed and they all giggled.

She saw me staring at her. ‘Watch out, the new girl’s all ears,’ she said. ‘Look, her specs are steaming up!’

‘Clear off, small fry. You’re not old enough for this sort of talk.’

‘I don’t want to be!’ I declared. ‘I think you should all wash your mouths out with soap.’

I marched out while they all screamed with laughter. I stalked across the factory floor, scarcely able to look at all the men, especially when they started calling and whistling at some of the other girls. I blushed at the comments, feeling as prim as Miss Mountbank. If Mother knew the way folk talked, she’d surely sooner we all starved than leave me working here.

‘Hey, little’un! Got your mother’s overall on? Watch out you don’t trip!’

I scuttled up the iron staircase to the fondant room. Geoff and George were already at work heating up the copper vats.

Geoff gave me a nod. ‘All right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I said.

I glanced around fearfully for Patty. She didn’t seem to be there yet, but some of her friends were frowning at me. A large girl with strands of red hair escaping from her cap came over to me.

‘Saw you having a chat with old Beeswax this morning,’ she muttered.

‘That’s right,’ I said.

‘Telling on us, were you?’

‘No, I was simply exchanging pleasantries,’ I said.

‘What? Talk proper! You sound like a blooming schoolmarm,’ she said.

‘I was just passing the time of day with Mr Beeston,’ I said, spacing out my words and pronouncing them with emphasis.

‘No need for that tone, you stuck up little ninny,’ said the red-haired girl.

‘Did she grass on us, Nora?’ asked another.

‘I’ll bet she did,’ said Nora. ‘I hate telltales. Wait till I let Patty know!’

‘I thought you hated telltales,’ I said, and dodged round her to the cupboard where the moulds were kept. ‘Excuse me, I want to get on with my work.’

‘You little whatsit!’ said Nora.

The girls muttered together while I started working. I tried not to take any notice, but my hand was trembling so badly I couldn’t make precise moulds.

Patty sauntered in five minutes later. She seemed to be trying to assert her authority by arriving as late as she dared. She walked past me, deliberately barging into my back, so that my whole box shook and the starch scattered everywhere.