Free Opal Plumstead by Jacqueline Wilson Page A

us during geometry, and at break time I scrupulously split my Fairy Glen fondants with her – my share from the box Father had bought.
    It was lucky we filled up on fondants, because school lunch was particularly atrocious that day: fatty grey mince with lumpy mashed potato, and then frogspawn tapioca, which would make anyone heave. I was messing about with mine, stirring it with my spoon, imagining little tadpoles squirming in the milky depths, when Miss Mountbank came through the canteen door and called my name.
    ‘Oh no, not
more
lines,’ I muttered to Olivia.
    Miss Mountbank pointed at me and then beckoned. I had to climb off my bench and go right up to her while the whole school craned their necks to see my disgrace.
    I thought she would jab her beaky nose at me and maybe tap me about the head with a spoon. But she simply said, ‘Go to the headmistress immediately, Opal Plumstead.’
    I stared at her. You were only sent to Miss Laurel if you were in the most terrible trouble. I hadn’t been
that
bad, for goodness’ sake. I had been late for school and I had fooled about with my lunch. Surely these were relatively trivial crimes?
    ‘But, Miss Mountbank!’ I protested.
    Her eyes were very small and beady. ‘Go to Miss Laurel
now
.’
    I glanced back at Olivia, who was red in the face with shame and sympathy, and then walked out of the canteen with every single girl staring at me.
    I tried to tell myself that this was just silly old school and they couldn’t really punish me properly. I wasn’t going to be beaten or locked in a dark cupboard, but even so, I felt pretty scared. Miss Laurel could be a most formidable woman, with intricate coiled plaits pinned all over her head, like a coiffured Medusa. Last year she had awarded me a prize at Speech Day – a copy of
Little Women
, which I already owned and had read at least a hundred times, but I treasured it all the same, especially as it had my name in fancy italic writing and the words
Form Prize
embossed in gold ink.
    I knew from Miss Mountbank’s tone and the gleam in her tiny eyes that Miss Laurel didn’t want to see me to give me another prize. I knocked timidly at her door.
    ‘Come in, come in,’ she called in her very deep voice.
    I slipped into the room and stood before her, my fists clenched.
    I expected her to start berating me, but she stood up, came round her desk, and patted me on the shoulder.
    ‘There’s been a message from home, Opal. You’re needed there. You must go at once,’ she said.
    ‘Why?’ I said, totally unnerved.
    ‘Why, Miss Laurel?’ she corrected, but gently. ‘I don’t know the details, my dear. I just know that your mother is unwell and needs you now.’
    ‘My mother? Not my father . . . Miss Laurel?’
    ‘I’m simply passing on the message. I do hope this is just a temporary crisis. Now run along.’
    I ran. I ran nearly all the way home, the mince and tapioca slopping uneasily in my stomach, so that I wondered if I might have to stop and be sick in the street. Mother unwell? What on earth had happened? Mother was always in the rudest of health. She rarely had coughs or colds and I’d never known her take to her bed, ever. Father was the parent who got influenza every winter, had to inhale a steaming bowl of Friars’ Balsam, and endure goose grease rubbed into his chest.
    Why on earth would Mother call for
me
? Why me and not Cassie? She was the eldest and Mother’s favourite. I couldn’t help feeling a flicker of pride that Mother had asked for
me
.
    I was exhausted by the time I got home, my shirt sticking to my back, a hole worn in my stocking so my toe poked out uncomfortably. I let myself in the front door, calling, ‘Mother, Mother, it’s me, Opal, I’m home.’
    Mrs Liversedge from two doors along was lurking in our hallway. Mother couldn’t stand Mrs Liversedge, a large blousy woman known to be a terrible gossip. She was flushed with excitement now.
    ‘Thank goodness, Opal! I’ve taken the