Opal Plumstead by Jacqueline Wilson Page A

selected the smallest dress, sage green with a little beige lace trimming at the neck, and a tight skirt. It still hung loosely on me, though my knees were uncomfortably hobbled. The dress gaped at the bust line and drooped at the waist, but I covered it with a large scarf that I tried to arrange in an artful manner. It wouldn’t tie neatly, and I looked like a clumsily wrapped parcel. Still, I wasn’t trying to look stylish, only several years older.
    I wound up my hair into a perilous knot on top of my head, and then stuck one of Cassie’s fancy hats over it, securing it with six or seven long pins. I didn’t dare move my head too much, fearful that the pins would scrape my head. Even though I looked a fearful scarecrow, I didn’t seem like a schoolgirl any more, and that was all that mattered.
    I crept out of the house and set off for the court. I was there before the big wooden doors were opened. I sat on the wall outside, and gradually more people joined me. I had no idea whether they were family too, come to support their loved ones, or the idly curious. One sly-faced man in a trilby hat clutched a notebook, which made me suspect that he was a reporter. I glared at him ferociously.
    Then, just before ten, a series of grim covered carriages drew up, and pairs of policemen emerged, each dragging a prisoner between them. I gazed in horror at all these pale bound men. I couldn’t see Father at first – and then I realized that he was the last man, looking so old and frail I scarcely recognized him.
    ‘Good luck, Father! Take heart!’ I called.
    I’m not sure if he heard me. He didn’t look round, though the rest of the crowd stared dreadfully. I felt myself flushing, but I stood as tall as I could, as if I couldn’t be prouder of my dear father.
    The prisoners were all escorted to a door at the side of the court, which presumably led to the prison cells. Then the main doors were opened by a solemn lackey dressed all in black, and we all marched forward.
    I tried to keep close to two other women, so that we might enter in a bunch, not individually observed. But my plans were all in vain. As soon as I started up the steps, the man in black frowned at me, and when I tried to go through the doors he took hold of my arm.
    ‘You can’t go through,’ he said gruffly.
    ‘Let me go, if you please,’ I said. ‘I need to attend the court proceedings. It is a matter of great importance.’
    ‘No children allowed in the courts,’ he said.
    ‘I am not a child,’ I said, pretending outrage.
    ‘No silly young ladies playing games, either. Run along home now.’
    ‘You are very impertinent,’ I said, trying to keep my dignity. ‘I may be petite, but I am eighteen years old.’
    ‘Yes, and I’m the cat’s grandmother,’ he said. ‘Off these steps or I’ll fetch a policeman.’
    I had to do as I was told. I couldn’t go home, though. I stayed perched on the wall, keeping a lonely vigil. I was cold without a proper coat, and very hungry. I hadn’t stopped for breakfast, which was a big mistake. After an hour or so a gentleman came back through the wooden doors, a document case under his arm.
    I jumped up. ‘Please, sir, can you tell me if the case of Ernest Plumstead has already been heard?’ I begged.
    ‘Ernest who? I don’t know. I’m not the clerk of the court.’
    ‘Could you possibly go and ask for me, sir? They won’t let me in and I so badly need to know,’ I said. I tried to make my voice soft and I opened my eyes wide to gaze at him imploringly. If I’d been Cassie, I’m sure he’d have gone to enquire like a shot, but I was only me, dressed up like a scarecrow. He backed away from me, shaking his head.
    I pleaded, but he walked off, almost running in his haste to get away from me. I sat on and on. When I was cramped with sitting, I walked the length of the wall and back, pacing like a caged tiger. I thought of Father and wondered how he would cope with being locked in a cell, perhaps