Read Online Opal Plumstead by Jacqueline Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacqueline Wilson
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going to have for a treat, my dear? Another even more splendid paintbox? How about a set of oil paints, with your own easel? Or a series of art lessons from a good teacher? And why should Cassie grab all the pretty dresses for herself? Wouldn’t you like your share of silks and satins, Opal?’
‘Father, stop it. I think
you
would look less ridiculous in fancy silks and satins than me. I am far too plain.’
‘My little Jane Eyre!’ said Father, tapping me gently on the nose.
‘
Don’t
, Father. I know there’s something you’re not telling us,’ I whispered while Mother and Cassie were serving the supper. ‘I’m scared – and I think you are too, deep down. There’s something awful you’re not telling. I can sense it.’
‘Now
you’re
playing at being Cassandra,’ said Father. ‘Little Opal foretelling the future. The voice of D-O-O-M.’
‘Don’t mock me, Father.’
‘Well, try to cheer up a little. These are happy days, remember.’ He began his ridiculous budgerigar imitation, capering around Billy’s cage, trying to get him to join in too. He grabbed my hand and made me dance along beside him. ‘
Happy days!
’ he said, as if it were a command.
‘
Happy days
,’ I echoed, giving up.
Saturday and Sunday
were
happy days. On Saturday we went on a delirious spending spree, buying all kinds of things we didn’t really need – a buffalo-horn walking stick with a silver crook for Father, though he could walk very well without one; a tortoise-shell hairbrush for Mother, though she kept her hair scragged back into a bun; a pair of three-button white French kid gloves for Cassie, though she’d already got them covered in smuts on the train by the time we got home again; a set of fine camel-hair paintbrushes for me, though the ones in my new paintbox were perfectly adequate. But it was a good day out all the same, and we had luncheon in a proper restaurant rather than an ABC teashop. There was a waiter who called Father ‘sir’ and Mother ‘madam’. He even ‘madamed’ Cassie and me, which made us giggle.
There was a set menu of four courses. We thought we were going to be royally stuffed, but the portions were actually on the small side. We had brown Windsor soup with a roll, a tiny portion of sole, then roast beef with horseradish sauce, roast potatoes and carrots and cabbage, with a trifle for pudding.
Father said the beef wasn’t a patch on Mother’s roasts, which was true enough, but we were all delighted by the trifle, which came in little silver goblets. Mother made us trifle for our birthdays, though it was a meagre affair – sponge and jelly, Bird’s custard from a packet, a smear of cream and a glacé cherry. This trifle was a very rich relation. There were exotic fruits studding the sponge, the jelly was blackcurrant, a flavour we didn’t even know existed, and the cream rose in high peaks, sprinkled with rainbow dust. We praised every mouthful.
I joined in enthusiastically. I’d been very aware of the other diners around us while we ate our way through the first three courses, worrying that they might be disapproving or mocking, but Father insisted I have a proper glass of the table wine, and now I felt relaxed and merry enough to enjoy myself properly. If Cassie had seized her trifle bowl and attempted to wear it like one of her hats, I think I would have simply laughed indulgently.
Cassie was certainly in the mood for foolishness as she’d had several glasses of wine, but she confined herself to eyeing up all the gentlemen in the room, including the waiters, who seemed very eager to flap about her. Mother was so jovial she seized Father’s hand and brought it to her lips.
‘You’re the best husband in the whole world and I’m quite the luckiest wife,’ she declared, making Father’s face crumple, as if he were going to cry.
I didn’t make any proclamations, but I raised my glass to Father. I drank it down to the dregs, consciously trying to drown all the
‘Father, stop it. I think
you
would look less ridiculous in fancy silks and satins than me. I am far too plain.’
‘My little Jane Eyre!’ said Father, tapping me gently on the nose.
‘
Don’t
, Father. I know there’s something you’re not telling us,’ I whispered while Mother and Cassie were serving the supper. ‘I’m scared – and I think you are too, deep down. There’s something awful you’re not telling. I can sense it.’
‘Now
you’re
playing at being Cassandra,’ said Father. ‘Little Opal foretelling the future. The voice of D-O-O-M.’
‘Don’t mock me, Father.’
‘Well, try to cheer up a little. These are happy days, remember.’ He began his ridiculous budgerigar imitation, capering around Billy’s cage, trying to get him to join in too. He grabbed my hand and made me dance along beside him. ‘
Happy days!
’ he said, as if it were a command.
‘
Happy days
,’ I echoed, giving up.
Saturday and Sunday
were
happy days. On Saturday we went on a delirious spending spree, buying all kinds of things we didn’t really need – a buffalo-horn walking stick with a silver crook for Father, though he could walk very well without one; a tortoise-shell hairbrush for Mother, though she kept her hair scragged back into a bun; a pair of three-button white French kid gloves for Cassie, though she’d already got them covered in smuts on the train by the time we got home again; a set of fine camel-hair paintbrushes for me, though the ones in my new paintbox were perfectly adequate. But it was a good day out all the same, and we had luncheon in a proper restaurant rather than an ABC teashop. There was a waiter who called Father ‘sir’ and Mother ‘madam’. He even ‘madamed’ Cassie and me, which made us giggle.
There was a set menu of four courses. We thought we were going to be royally stuffed, but the portions were actually on the small side. We had brown Windsor soup with a roll, a tiny portion of sole, then roast beef with horseradish sauce, roast potatoes and carrots and cabbage, with a trifle for pudding.
Father said the beef wasn’t a patch on Mother’s roasts, which was true enough, but we were all delighted by the trifle, which came in little silver goblets. Mother made us trifle for our birthdays, though it was a meagre affair – sponge and jelly, Bird’s custard from a packet, a smear of cream and a glacé cherry. This trifle was a very rich relation. There were exotic fruits studding the sponge, the jelly was blackcurrant, a flavour we didn’t even know existed, and the cream rose in high peaks, sprinkled with rainbow dust. We praised every mouthful.
I joined in enthusiastically. I’d been very aware of the other diners around us while we ate our way through the first three courses, worrying that they might be disapproving or mocking, but Father insisted I have a proper glass of the table wine, and now I felt relaxed and merry enough to enjoy myself properly. If Cassie had seized her trifle bowl and attempted to wear it like one of her hats, I think I would have simply laughed indulgently.
Cassie was certainly in the mood for foolishness as she’d had several glasses of wine, but she confined herself to eyeing up all the gentlemen in the room, including the waiters, who seemed very eager to flap about her. Mother was so jovial she seized Father’s hand and brought it to her lips.
‘You’re the best husband in the whole world and I’m quite the luckiest wife,’ she declared, making Father’s face crumple, as if he were going to cry.
I didn’t make any proclamations, but I raised my glass to Father. I drank it down to the dregs, consciously trying to drown all the
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