Opal Plumstead Read Online Free Page B

dazed expression on his face.
    ‘Please don’t take on so, Father. All the publishers are fools. I think you’re a brilliant writer,’ I said earnestly.
    He wasn’t listening to me. He was reading a letter.
    ‘Is that from the publishers?’ I asked. Father didn’t usually even get a letter, just a rejection slip.
    He nodded. He started to speak, but his voice came out as a croak, and he had to begin again. ‘From Major and Smithfield,’ he whispered. He held the letter close, as if checking it. ‘They
like
it, Opal! They truly like it!’
    ‘But . . . but they’ve still returned it?’
    ‘Only for a few trifling corrections. They suggest a different twist to the plot, and a more dynamic opening chapter. Yes, I understand – I can do that easily.’
    ‘And then they say they’ll
publish
it?’
    ‘If I re-submit my manuscript, then they say they will reconsider it. It’s very cautiously put, but that’s what they mean! Oh, Opal, they truly like my novel.’
    ‘I’m so happy for you, Father!’ I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.
    ‘If you only knew how much this means to me,’ he murmured into my hair.
    ‘I
do
know, Father. I’m so proud of you.’
    ‘Wait till your mother hears!’ said Father. He stood up, clasping my hand. ‘Let’s go and tell her.’
    We clattered down the stairs, both of us wanting to be first in the kitchen, jokily pushing and shoving each other as if we were little children.
    ‘Mother, Mother, guess what!’ I shouted from the hall.
    But Father gently elbowed me out of the way and reached the kitchen before me. ‘It’s astonishing news, Louisa!’ he said. He hardly ever called Mother by her full name – she was always ‘Lou’, or ‘my dear’.
    ‘What?’ said Mother, pausing in her serving of the sweetbreads.
    ‘What what what indeed!’ Father took the stewing saucepan out of her hand, placed it back on top of the range – and then picked her right up! He was a slight man and Mother was stout, but he seized her as if she were a sack of feathers and whirled her about the kitchen.
    ‘Put me down, you fool!’ Mother screamed. Her cheeks were bright pink, and half her hair came tumbling down so that she looked almost girlish again.
    Cassie screamed too and clapped her hands at the extraordinary sight. ‘What is it? What’s happened to Father?’ she cried.
    ‘His novel’s going to be published!’ I shouted.
    ‘Truly?’ Mother gasped.
    ‘I have to make a few minor alterations, but then, yes, truly! Your hopeless old Ernest has done it at last!’ said Father, and he kissed her on the tip of her nose.
    ‘How much are they going to pay you?’ Mother asked.
    ‘They don’t specify a sum. I’m not sure what the going rate is,’ said Father.
    ‘Charles Dickens got paid a fortune,’ I said.
    ‘Yes, but I’m hardly Mr Dickens,’ said Father. ‘Perhaps I’ll get . . . twenty-five guineas . . . Maybe fifty if they’re really enthusiastic! And then there will be royalties if the book sells well.’
    ‘Of course it will sell well!’ said Mother, astonishing us all. ‘Oh, Ernest, I’m so proud of you.’
    Father set her down tenderly and gave her a proper kiss on the lips. He had tears in his eyes. Cassie and I exchanged glances, open-mouthed.
    ‘We need to celebrate in style,’ Father said, setting Mother aside at last. ‘I’ll go out and buy a bottle of wine. I’ll be back in two ticks.’
    ‘Get champagne!’ said Mother.
    Father really did buy a whole bottle of champagne – and a great parcel of cooked fish and fried potatoes.
    ‘But we have sweetbreads,’ Mother protested faintly.
    ‘We’re not celebrating with cows’ doo-dahs,’ said Father, setting out the golden food upon four plates.
    ‘Oh, Father, this is a meal fit for kings,’ said Cassie.
    ‘Fit for
literary
kings,’ I said.
    Father popped the cork of the champagne and poured the sparkly liquid into four crystal glasses. They were a wedding