Opal Plumstead (22 page)

‘No, scorch marks are permanent. Oh, Cassie!’

‘It’s just as much your fault as mine. You would have me tell you all my secrets. Oh dear,
look
at this mark. Well, this customer will never come back to Mother!’

‘Perhaps we could patch it? Cut it out altogether and then sew in another piece of material? Would the fat lady notice?’ I wondered.

‘Yes, she would, unless she’s an idiot – but I know, look, I could cut down the seam, snip off the entire length of material and then sew it up again. Then there won’t be anything to show. The bloomers will be tighter, but she’ll just think she’s got even fatter. Yes!’

So I took over the ironing while Cassie cut and stitched and sewed. She made a very neat job of it too. If the owner ever suspected any jiggery-pokery, she certainly didn’t complain to Mother.

Cassie confided more details about Mr Evandale as she stitched, though I had to question her hard.

‘So is Mr Evandale . . . divorced?’

‘Apparently so. Don’t look so shocked. Lots of rich folk get divorced nowadays. I for one think it’s sensible. Why should you have to stay with someone for ever if you discover you no longer love them.’

‘Oh, you’re so sentimental about love. You be careful, Cassie. Mother would have a fit if she knew you were taking tea with an old man with a wife and family.’

‘He’s
not
old. I’ll stick this needle in you if you say it one more time.’

‘And you think he’s rich?’

‘Quite rich, certainly. I think he has some sort of private family income.’

‘Goodness! He doesn’t work, then?’

‘Oh, he works ferociously hard. He says he sometimes stays up all night working.’

‘What on earth does he do?’ I asked, suspecting the worst.

‘He’s an artist,’ said Cassie proudly, taking the wind out of my sails.

‘An artist?’ I repeated dully.

I couldn’t believe our Cassie was on afternoon-tea terms with a real artist. I thought of all my heroes – Fra Angelico and Piero di Cosimo, Raphael and Titian, Rossetti and Burne-Jones. One of these godly beings was canoodling with my own
sister
?

‘A
real
artist?’ I asked.

‘Yes, he’s exhibited at some Academy place, and various people buy his work,’ Cassie said proudly. ‘And you’ll never guess, Opie – you’ll never, ever guess!’

Of course I could guess. ‘He wants to paint you.’

‘Yes! Isn’t that amazing!’

‘He doesn’t want to paint you naked, does he?’

‘No! Well, I dare say he might
want
to, but I’m not that foolish. I shall wear my green dress, of course. Oh, Opie, imagine – an artist painting my portrait.’

‘Will you tell Mother?’

‘She wouldn’t understand. And she seems to have set herself against Mr Evandale without even meeting him. No, it would be kinder not to tell her as she’d only worry. I’m to go to his studio on Sunday, so I’ll make out I’ve been invited to Madame Alouette’s for the day. I’ll say it’s to do with the dreary nephew. That’ll keep her happy.’

‘Where is his studio, then?’

‘Oh, it’s somewhere near the park. He’s drawn me a little map. I shall find it easily enough.’

‘Cassie, are you
sure
he’s a gentleman?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes. His voice is wonderful and his clothes are beautifully made.’

‘I didn’t mean that! I meant, can you
trust
him? You’re going to be all alone with him in this studio. What if he attacks you?’

Cassie giggled. ‘You make him sound like a tiger! Don’t fuss so, Opie. You’re worse than Mother. He’s simply going to paint my portrait. If by any chance he starts to behave alarmingly, I can simply walk away, can’t I?’

‘I’m sure Father wouldn’t like you going to an artist’s studio to pose,’ I said.

‘Well, Father isn’t here to tell me what to do, is he?’ she replied.

‘No, but I wish he was.’ I bent my head over the shirt I was ironing. A tear splashed on the hot iron, making a little hiss.

‘I do too, silly – you know I do. But he’s not, and we have to make the best of things the way they are,’ said Cassie.

She lied very smoothly to Mother on Sunday when she appeared at breakfast in all her green finery.

‘Oh, Cassie, Madame Alouette must be very fond of you,’ said Mother. ‘I’m sure that nephew hopes to enjoy your company too. I’m so happy for you, dear. You run along, then.’

Cassie went upstairs to brush her teeth and rearrange her hair. I followed her up.

‘Oh, Opie, do I look all right?’ she asked, turning this way and that to see herself in the old spotted looking glass.

‘You look a picture – you always do,’ I said.

Cassie took my hand and put it on her chest. ‘Feel my heart! Oh Lord, it’s beating fit to burst! Do you think I should let a few curls loose to tumble around my ears? Would that be more artistic?’

‘Your hair’s lovely whichever way you wear it,’ I said.

‘And my dress – do you think it makes me look a little stout? Please be absolutely honest.’

‘You look stunning. You know you do, so stop flapping.’

‘I can’t help it. I’m so excited. Lord knows how I’ll manage to stay still to pose.’ Cassie gave me a squeeze. ‘You won’t tell on me to Mother, will you?’

‘Of course not. But do take care, Cass. Do be good.’

‘I’ll be very, very good, I promise,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back this afternoon – certainly by supper time. Now don’t worry.’

I couldn’t help worrying about her. It was hard talking to Mother, who burbled on and on about Madame Alouette and the wretched nephew. But at last she finished the rest of her ironing and packed all the laundry into separate piles to return (mercifully folding the giant lady’s drawers without noticing they were ever so slightly diminished). She set out to deliver them, and I helped her, carrying my share.

It was hot, heavy work and I found myself perspiring inside my old blouse and tunic, though it was a cool day. I’d worn my old school clothes for ease and comfort, but I soon regretted it bitterly. The last of Mother’s clients lived at the better, northern end of town. Her servant’s mother lived in our street and had told her about the new washerwoman. When we knocked at the back door of their large red villa, I saw the daughter of the house in the basement kitchen, chatting to the cook. She was about my age and looked horribly familiar. It was Lucy-Ellen Wharton! She’d been in my class at school. Lucy-Ellen, who couldn’t grasp mathematics; Lucy-Ellen, who cried if Mounty told her off; Lucy-Ellen, who once tore her bloomers over-exerting herself in gymnastics. Lucy-Ellen, the girl I’d rather despised.

She noticed me, though I was trying to hide behind Mother. If I hadn’t been wearing the distinctive St Margaret’s uniform, she would never have focused on me. But she did. I saw the shock of recognition in her eyes. She gave me such a look, a mixture of pity and contempt. So all the school must know now.

I forced myself to stand up straight and stared hard at Lucy-Ellen until she looked away in confusion. As Mother and I trudged back home, I had to fight back tears of sheer humiliation. I imagined Lucy-Ellen rushing into school on Monday morning – ‘Hey, girls, you’ll never guess who brought our washing back on Sunday. Opal Plumstead – you know, the one whose father is in prison. And now her mother’s our washerwoman, would you believe!’

We ate bread and cheese for lunch, Mother all the time wondering what Cassie would be eating.

‘I should imagine it’ll be French cuisine at Madame Alouette’s,’ she said excitedly.

‘Mother, she’s not really French – she just pretends to make her shop seem more impressive.’

‘I’m sure she has French relations. Doesn’t Philip usually live in Paris? I’m sure Cassie’s invitation is his doing. She’s always been Madame Alouette’s pet, I know that, but she’s never asked her for the day before. Oh, Opal, I wonder how she’s getting on.’

I was wondering too – and worrying. After lunch Mother went for a nap and I went to my room. I got out my precious paintbox, stroking its beautiful wood, admiring all its pristine paint pans, gently tickling my cheeks with the brushes. Then I started sketching. I drew Cassie posing in her green dress, her hair tumbled past her shoulders, her dress unbuttoned, showing her impressive bosom. I caught her expression, her stance. When I started colouring her, she became almost too real. It was as if I were actually spying on her.

I drew Mr Evandale. I knew he had warm brown eyes and longish hair and bohemian clothes, though obviously I couldn’t attempt a true likeness as I’d never seen him. I drew him smiling as he painted Cassie’s portrait, his teeth large and prominent. I gave him a very long nose like a snout. I didn’t just give him long hair, I made him hairy all over so that the skin emerging from his white silk shirt was like a fur pelt.

I expected Cassie to come back at supper time, but she didn’t. She stayed out half the evening, until I was in agony.

‘She said she’d be back for supper,’ I wailed, unable to eat my own fish pie for fretting.

‘Don’t take on so, Opal. Madame Alouette’s obviously invited her to dine with them. It’s a real compliment. They must be very taken with her,’ said Mother, unperturbed.

I couldn’t explain why I was so worried. I kept having terrible visions of a wolf-like Evandale attacking Cassie. I didn’t even know exactly where he lived, so I couldn’t go in search of her. I was reduced to pacing the parlour, watching the clock tick on and on relentlessly.

At ten, when Cassie still wasn’t home, Mother started to get a little anxious herself.

‘Of course, they may have invited her to stay the night,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But she hasn’t any night things with her – and she’d surely send word to us?’

‘Oh, Mother, I do hope she’s all right,’ I said.

‘Of course she is, silly girl,’ said Mother, but she’d started to watch the clock too.

When we heard the sound of the key in the door at ten to eleven, we both ran into the hall. There was Cassie, rosy cheeked in the gaslight, beautiful in her green dress.

‘Cassie darling! At last! Did you have a good time?’ Mother asked eagerly.

‘Oh yes, I had a splendid time,’ said Cassie, picking up her skirts and twirling up and down the black and white tiles.

‘I can see that! I assume Philip was there. I doubt whether Madame Alouette herself could put such a sparkle in your eyes,’ said Mother.

‘Philip?’

‘Don’t try to bluff, dear. You can’t fool your mother.’

‘Oh, Philip!’ said Cassie. ‘Yes, of course, he was there.’

‘I’ll make us some cocoa and you must tell us all about it,’ said Mother.

She hurried into the kitchen while Cassie unpinned her hat and hung her little cape on the hatstand.

‘Are you all right?’ I whispered urgently.

‘Oh yes!’ breathed Cassie. ‘Wait till we’re in bed. I have so much to tell you!’

‘You haven’t been good, have you?’ I said.

‘Shush! No, I’ve been a little bit bad – and it’s been marvellous,’ Cassie said, giggling.

Mother called us into the kitchen. ‘Don’t start telling Opal. I want to hear too,’ she said.

Cassie sat at the table sipping cocoa, and told Mother a long elaborate tale of a day with Madame Alouette. She said the house was very elegant – French style, of course, with striped wallpaper and a lot of gilt and china cherubs. The garden was large, with a beautifully manicured lawn where they all played croquet after luncheon. Cassie said yes, Philip was there, with a sister and several of his old school chums. It had all been delightfully jolly. Cassie said she’d tried to go home at five but they wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Philip positively insisted I stay for supper. I didn’t want to worry you, Mother, but it would have seemed so rude to refuse,’ she said.

‘I wasn’t worried at all, dearie. I knew you’d be having a good time.’

‘Madame Alouette made me feel so welcome. She’s always kind to me at the shop, but she’s a different person when she’s at home. She was treating me almost like a daughter. She even hinted that one day she saw me taking over. Think of it – Madame Cassandra!’

I stared at Cassie, astonished. She was so incredibly convincing that I started to wonder if it were really true. Perhaps she’d run away from Mr Evandale and sought refuge at Madame Alouette’s. And the nephew really
had
been there and taken an interest in her, because now she was telling us all about his schooldays and his boxing tournaments and studying in Paris, and his determination to take Cassie there one day to show her all the sights.

Mother kept giving little oohs and ahhs, drinking in every word as if it were champagne. At last she grew tired, yawning and rubbing her feet, which were troubling her after our long tramp around the town.

‘Come on, Mother, let us put you to bed,’ said Cassie.

‘I shall never sleep, darling. I’m so excited! All my dreams have come true. I
knew
you’d meet a wonderful young man one day, but I never thought it would be Madame Alouette’s nephew. It couldn’t be more perfect.’

‘Now don’t go making plans, Mother. It’s early days yet,’ said Cassie. ‘Perhaps Philip has his eye on any number of Madame’s protégées.’

‘I know none of them could hold a candle to my girl,’ said Mother, kissing Cassie’s flushed cheek.

We all went up to bed, and for all her protestations Mother was snoring hard five minutes after we’d tucked her up.

‘Right, Cassie,’ I whispered, pulling her into my cupboard. ‘Tell all.’

‘Oh Lordy, I don’t know where to start. And I’m tired out, spouting all that rubbish for Mother’s sake. Did it sound too ridiculous?’

‘It sounded amazing. I was starting to believe you.’

‘It
is
amazing if you could only see the nephew. I very much doubt he’s interested in girls at all, and he certainly looked down his nose at me,’ said Cassie. ‘Luckily Daniel is totally enchanted.’

‘Daniel?’

‘Daniel Evandale. Do you know what he said? He said I was a young English rose just coming into bloom.’ Cassie giggled affectedly. ‘He said I even smelled like a rose, and my skin was as soft and velvety as a rose petal.’

‘You’re making it up. You’ve read too many silly romantic novels.’

‘No, this time I swear I’m speaking God’s honest truth. If you think that’s romantic, you should hear some of the other things he said. He loves my hair and said I was like that girl in the fairy tale who let down her hair. What’s she called again?’