Opal Plumstead Read Online Free

Opal Plumstead
Book: Opal Plumstead Read Online Free
Author: Jacqueline Wilson
Pages:
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Cassie peel the potatoes for once?’
    ‘Poor Cassie’s fingers are sore from stitching.
She’s
done an honest day’s work at Madame Alouette’s.’
    Cassie was an ‘improver’ at an expensive hat shop in town. It said it specialized in
the Finest Parisian Millinery
in curly writing on the shop sign – but none of the staff had ever set foot in Paris. Mother always pronounced Madame Alouette’s name with proud emphasis, her tongue waggling, but Cassie told me that Madame only bothered to speak with a French accent in front of clients. Behind the scenes she was plain Alice Higgins from Walthamstow, though she was still as sharp as her own scissors if any of the staff gave her any cheek.
    She was rarely sharp with Cassie, who was her favourite apprentice. She sometimes let her model new hats to show them off to clients.
    When I stamped reluctantly downstairs to the kitchen, Cassie was wearing silk flowers in her hair. They were deep purple with embroidered crimson centres and dark green leaves. They looked quite wonderful twined through her long red-gold hair.
    ‘What do you think you are – a bridesmaid?’ I said, pushing past her to the sink.
    ‘Our Cassie will be a bride, not a bridesmaid,’ said Mother. ‘You look a picture, dear. Did Madame Alouette give you them?’
    ‘They were left-over trimmings from some old dame’s titfer,’ said Cassie carelessly. ‘Do you think they suit me, Opal?’
    I rolled my eyes at her.
    ‘I’ll give you a couple if you like,’ she said, smiling.
    We both knew perfectly well that the flowers would look ridiculous stuck in my limp mousy locks.
    ‘Oh yes, I’ll twine them all round my specs. Then I’ll look a picture too,’ I said grimly, starting to peel the potatoes.
    ‘Now now, no need to take that tone. Your sister’s only trying to be kind,’ said Mother. ‘And watch those potatoes – you’re peeling half the goodness away. Don’t they teach you anything useful at that fancy school of yours? They fill your head with all sorts of silly ideas – they’d be far better training you up to be a decent little housewife.’
    ‘I’m not going to
be
a housewife,’ I said through gritted teeth.
    ‘Well, you’re certainly going to find it hard to catch a man with that sour look on your face,’ said Mother. ‘Don’t you go filling your mind with daft daydreams, Opal. You don’t want to end up like your father, do you?’
    As if on cue, we heard Father’s key in the lock of the front door. We listened to him shuffle into the hall, pause to hang his hat and coat on the hook, and then trail his way into the kitchen.
    ‘Hello, my girls,’ he said softly.
    He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, his face sickly pale. His economy paper collar had somehow come unbuttoned at the back and stuck out at a rakish angle. His old business suit was a size too big for him now, and drooped unbecomingly. He stood unfastening his boots, blinking in the gaslight.
    ‘Hello, Father,’ I said.
    ‘Hey, Pa,’ said Cassie.
    Mother didn’t greet him at all. She just tapped the large fat envelope on the corner of the kitchen dresser.
    ‘Your post, Ernest,’ she said, sniffing. ‘Your chick’s come home to roost again.’
    I hated the way she said it. And I hated the way Father picked up the heavy envelope, held it to his chest for a moment, and then walked slowly out of the kitchen. We heard him trudge upstairs to the bedroom.
    ‘Don’t stay up there half the night brooding,’ Mother called. ‘Your supper will be on the table in half an hour.’
    Mother and Cassie shook their heads at each other.
    I glared at them. ‘Why do you have to be so hateful to him?’ I said fiercely.
    ‘Now then, don’t take that tone with me,’ said Mother. ‘Can’t you show a little respect?’
    ‘That’s precisely my point. You’re failing to show Father any respect whatsoever,’ I said.
    ‘I’ll thank you to mind your own business,’ said Mother. ‘You
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