Ankle Deep

by Angela Thirkell

  “But you have Arthur there, whatever happens. That makes you feel safe. I imagine, Fanny, that you could carry on with twenty gentlemen at once, just because Arthur is safely there. If he weren’t such a safe kind of person, you wouldn’t be so brave about being hurt.”

  Fanny gaped, as though assimilating a new idea.

  “I believe you are perfectly right,” she announced. “And that’s why I enjoy life so much with Arthur. But you’ve got your Ned, so there’s no reason for you not to feel safe.”

  “Yes,” said Aurea. She paused for a moment and blew out the candles on the dressing table. “Yes,” she repeated, “I have Ned; that’s true.”

  “Are you happy?” asked Fanny shamelessly, but Aurea was winding up the traveling clock by her bed and didn’t hear her — or did she? Fanny would not have allowed any situation to remain in a half light, and was on the point of pressing her inquiries, when her mind took one of its snipe-flights.

  “Ah-h,” she shrieked savagely, “did I or did I not tell Arthur to bring your father up to bed at once and not to sit still in the drawing room saying nothing, which is his idea of a host’s behavior? Don’t put the lights out — I’ll be back again.” And leaving the door ajar she flew downstairs. In an incredibly short time she reappeared.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “They are coming straight up now. Darling, how lovely you look in bed with a pigtail. Arthur,” she called through the open door, “come and look at Aurea in bed like Saint Ursula.”

  Arthur appeared at the bedroom door with a candlestick.

  “Look at her!” cried Fanny. “Isn’t she divine?”

  “My wife has no manners,” explained Arthur. “I apologize for her. Good night, Aurea.”

  “Good night, Arthur.”

  Arthur disappeared.

  “No manners, have I?” said Fanny bitterly. “Let him wait.”

  With which remark she hugged Aurea and fled from the room, slamming the door.

  Aurea read for a little and then blew out the light. Everything was silent with that loud quietness so disconcerting to a town dweller. Noises and rustlings in the garden, in the windless night, were like guns and the trump of doom. The splashing of a little stream on the far side of the meadow was the roaring of a cataract. Aurea felt very unsleepy. There were a good many unsorted impressions in her mind for sleep to tidy up, and if sleep didn’t come her mind would go on thinking too much. Carnations. Why had Arthur asked her if she still ate carnations? Or why had she so completely forgotten it? Fanny. Fanny’s evident affection for her at first sight. Fanny sending her off to walk with Arthur so obtrusively, calling Arthur to admire her in bed. Was this very modern, or just Fanny? Probably just Fanny. Fanny asking her if she was happy. What a breath-taking conversational opening. Though, if she had known Fanny better, she would have realized that she rather affected that question to people. With her friends it meant real interest. With acquaintances it was at least likely to cause a temporary embarrassment highly diverting to the questioner. “Are you happy?” Had Fanny meant it as a corollary to the mention of Ned? If so, she had made a good shot in the dark. To be happy with Ned, one would have to be rather different. Not that one didn’t see his good points, his kindness, his good temper, his honesty, his affection for his children, even his adoration of herself. Yes; but how much of positive value was there in these qualities, thought Aurea bitterly. His kindness was so undiscriminating that it was almost self-indulgence, and was always letting Aurea in for meeting people and doing things which were distasteful. She would never be a good “mixer”. Good temper; yes. Hardly ever had she seen his temper even ruffled, and heaven knows she must have put a strain upon it often enough. But could one really respect a man who was never angry with one? If one had been silly, or stupid, one needed pulling up, one needed a master. That was it; a master. And that was what Ned had never been. Honestly; yes, though it didn’t seem much praise for a man to say he wasn’t dishonest. As for the children, so long as he was not troubled about them, and Aurea spent her own allowance on their clothing and education, he was quite fond of them, and would keep them up much too late for his own amusement. Luckily they were both getting to an age when they could go their own way.

  And he was very fond of her. He wrote by every mail, he who was such a bad correspondent, to say how he missed her, and how he adored her. Yes, thought Aurea, but I know exactly why he misses me, and why he wants me back. The adoring has only one meaning to him, and I would give it quite a different name. Aurea shut her eyes quickly and tightly, trying to escape remembrances of the many times when adoration had taken the one hated shape, of her own efforts to stave off the adoration, of the humiliating scene that always followed, of Ned whimpering, actually whimpering because she was not what he called “kind”, of the utter contempt with which she finally gave in. A spasm of pain contracted her face alone in the dark. I suppose, she thought, I am a pretty bad wife. A person who, not to mince words, dislikes and despises her husband, can’t be much of a success. And seeing his good side only makes it worse. It isn’t much of an excuse now to say that I was very young when I married him. No one forced me to. I was just in love. I wonder if it is really a good plan to marry a person one is terribly in love with? Well, it’s all over now, long ago, only one has to go on just the same. If I hadn’t married Ned I might have married someone much worse, who beat me and took drugs.

  Then she reflected sardonically that no one else had ever asked her to marry them, and laughed at herself, and felt better, and thought of Fanny again. Fanny showing her off to Arthur. Was Fanny right when she said that Arthur had cared for her so much? Probably not, for if Arthur had cared for her, surely he would have said something about it. She certainly had not cared for him except as a playfellow. She didn’t even know then what being in love meant. She was young for her age and had had a very sheltered life as a girl. Ned was a good deal older than she was and carried her off her feet. She had been very happy at first, and that was always something to be thankful for. And then the children were such darlings, and so well and cheerful. No, it couldn’t have been all wrong, whatever misery it might be now. If she and Arthur had been older, if she hadn’t married so soon, would it have made any difference? No, none at all, she thought. She had been very fond of Arthur, and was still very fond of him, but there never had been any sentiment, and certainly there was none now. Certainly there was none; especially with Fanny being so kind, and taking one on trust as it were. One’s husband’s old friends were always a doubtful pleasure — she had vastly disliked one or two of Ned’s old flames — but Fanny opened her arms to her.

  And on this thought, warm with Fanny’s quilt, and no longer conscious of the noisy stillness of the country, she slid into sleep.

  Next morning she was woken by Fanny coming into her room with a tray.

  “Tea, darling,” said Fanny. “And then get up at once. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “What kind?” asked Aurea, sitting up.

  “Orange juice,” said Fanny.

  “How orange juice?”

  “Oh, we always start the day with it, and I want you to squeeze the oranges. My village woman is a bit half witted about breakfast, and I have to help her. Hurry up, darling, it’s fiendishly cold.” She tore out of the room.

  Aurea got up obediently and looked out of the window. It was a gray boisterous day with a cold wind dashing spatters of rain against the panes. Dressing as quickly as possible she went downstairs and, guided by Fanny’s voice, found her way to the kitchen.

  “That’s right, love,” said Fanny, looking up from the stove. “I’m just taking breakfast in, and your blessed parents will be down in a minute. Strain all those oranges into a jug, and then pour it into the glasses and bring it into the dining room. Don’t let any pips get in.”

  As she spoke she put coffee and milk on a tray and left the kitchen. In the dining room Mrs. Howard was standing near the large fire where the breakfast was keeping hot inside the fender.
/>   “Good morning, Fanny,” she said.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Howard,” said Fanny, putting her tray down. “Come and sit down. We never wait. Will you have kidneys, or eggs and bacon? The kidneys are very good because I did them myself and I don’t waste any of the juice. It all goes onto delicious squashy, buttery toast.”

  “Kidneys, please then, dear.”

  “I let the woman do the eggs and bacon,” continued Fanny, warming to her subject and putting a plate in front of Mrs. Howard. “I believe it’s the only thing she can cook, but she does it well. She enjoys letting herself go over the bacon fat and fries scrunchy bits of bread in it. Coffee half and half?”

  “Please,” said Mrs. Howard.

  “Would Mr. Howard like his breakfast in bed? I’ll take it up if he would.”

  “No, he’s just coming down. He doesn’t want to miss anything of Aurea.”

  “When does she go back to Canada?” asked Fanny.

  “At the end of next month.”

  “Yes, Fanny, we shall. But I hope she’ll be over again the year after next.”

  “Oh, can’t she come sooner? Or why shouldn’t you and Mr. Howard go and see her? I’m sure he could give lectures in Canada and earn heaps of money and you could let the house.”

  “Thank you, Fanny, for arranging our lives, but he did lecture last year, you know, and he doesn’t much want to go again.”

  “I didn’t mean to interfere,” said Fanny meekly. “But I was thinking of something nice for you and Aurea. Couldn’t she come over next year instead of the year after?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Howard in an uncertain way which wasn’t at all like her. “It might be difficult. Ned naturally doesn’t like being without her, and he finds it difficult to get away from his newspaper. And then there are her boy and girl.”

  “Is — Aurea — happy, Mrs. Howard?” said Fanny, pausing in her breakfast, and thumping on the table with knife and fork in her fists.

  Mrs. Howard looked at her in desperation.

  “We don’t talk about it,” she said. “And now, Fanny, I beg you to be quiet and control yourself, because Will is coming down and mustn’t be bothered. Help us to pretend, child — that’s all you can do.”

  Upon which Mr. Howard appeared at the door. Fanny got up to greet him, and was rewarded by a hand on each shoulder and a kiss on the forehead. Winking violently at Mrs. Howard, she went over to the hearth, while Mr. Howard sat down.

  “Kidneys, or eggs and bacon, Mr. Howard?” said Fanny; “and did you sleep all right?”

  “To your first question, kidneys, please,” said Mr. Howard. “To your second, ah, yes, I may say that I slept excellently.”

  “Coffee half and half?” asked Fanny, sitting down.

  “Yes, please. At least, to be perfectly truthful, I slept excellently when once I had got to sleep again. What was the uproar in the middle of the night?”

  “Uproar?” said Fanny. “Oh, that wasn’t an uproar. That was Val arriving in the village Ford. I told you he was coming, didn’t I?”

  “Val?” said Mr. Howard, with the cold voice of an unsatisfied examiner.

  “Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Howard. “You know Fanny told us that Arthur’s friend, Mr. Ensor, was coming down for the weekend.”

  “Ah, Ensor,” repeated Mr. Howard. “Yes, Ensor. At the bar, I think you said?”

  “No — bank,” corrected Fanny. “He often comes here. He and Arthur were at school together, so they sit and don’t talk, and that brightens our evenings wonderfully.”

  At that moment something bumped against the door and Arthur came in with a scuttle of coal.

  “Good morning,” he said to the company generally. “Here’s your coal, Fanny, and I’ve routed Val out and sent him to bring in some logs. It’s frightfully cold outside.”

  “Your friend Val kept Mr. Howard awake all night,” said Fanny accusingly.

  “No, Fanny, not all night,” corrected Mr. Howard. “I only said that I heard a noise. But after I had recovered from having my rest broken, I slept excellently.”

  “Here’s Val; you can scold him yourself,” remarked Arthur as Valentine Ensor came into the room.

  “Good morning, Val,” said Fanny. “Get some breakfast out of the fireplace. It appears that you kept everyone awake last night coming roistering up in the Ford as you did. Oh, I forgot. This is Mr. Ensor. This is Mrs. Howard and Mr. Howard. Mr. Howard never slept a wink last night because of your rowdy arrival.”

  Valentine looked down apologetically from his considerable height.

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said. “I didn’t think I was disturbing anyone.”

  The Howards, feeling as uncomfortable as one always does when anyone is publicly scolded, hurried into the breach made by Fanny’s bad manners.

  “Please, Mr. Ensor, don’t listen to Fanny,” said Mrs. Howard. “It was only the noise of your car turning in the drive, and my husband went to sleep again almost at once.”

  “I am very sorry I ever mentioned the subject,” said Mr. Howard. “It was nothing at all.”

  Valentine smiled. “Thank you very much,” he said gratefully. “And for your ill-judged effort to make mischief, Fanny, no thanks at all. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, that your drive wants widening. No Christian car can turn in it, let alone a Ford.”

  “Well, put the logs down for the Lord’s sake,” said Fanny, “and don’t stand there grinning through a horse collar.”

  “Only a soft collar, Fanny,” said Valentine. He put the logs in the hearth, filled a plate, and sat down with his back to the door.

  “Kidneys and eggs and bacon, I observe,” said Fanny kindly, pushing a cup of coffee towards him.

  “I couldn’t help it, Fanny. Your food is always so good, one has to take a bit of everything.”

  “Don’t waste charm on me,” said Fanny acidly. “Look at him, Mrs. Howard. Large and hideous as that man is, he can twist me around his little finger. And why? All because he has charm.”

  “Admit, Fanny,” put in Arthur, “that you ask him to hold out his finger, so that you can twist around it.”

  “Thank you, Arthur,” said Valentine. “The remark of a true friend.”

  “All right,” said Fanny. “Wait and see. He will twist you, Mrs. Howard, and probably Aurea.”

  “Where is Aurea?” asked Mr. Howard, who had now finished his breakfast.

  “Oh, Gosh,” cried Fanny. “I left her squeezing oranges, and she is probably dead with devotion like Casablanca. Wouldn’t it be a good idea, Mr. Howard, to write a book about the idiot boys of history who stay on burning ships and put their fingers into holes in dykes and don’t tell Roundheads when they last saw their father.”

  “An excellent field for research, Fanny,” said Mr. Howard. “But is Aurea coming?”

  “Who is Aurea?” asked Valentine.

  “Mr. Howard’s daughter, of course,” said Fanny, “and she is married to a man who runs a newspaper and lives in Canada and has some children older than mine, but not so nice, and is on a holiday with her papa and mamma, so now you know all.”

  “She is a long time,” said Mr. Howard.

  “Perhaps,” said Arthur, “she has pricked her finger on an orange pip, and gone to sleep for a hundred years. Shall I go and see?”

  Fanny was so obviously going to make a low-minded suggestion about the methods of waking princesses, that it was as well that Aurea’s voice was heard at the moment calling:

  “Please open the door for me, or I’ll slop all the orange juice over.”

  Arthur began to move, but Valentine, who was nearer the door, got up first. The door opened inwards so that he was behind it as Aurea came into the room, with the tray in her hands.

  “I am so sorry, Fanny,” she said. “The pips were most intrusive, and then I had to wait while your charlady told me about her new teeth.”

  “Well, put the tray down here by me,” said Fanny. “It’s a bit late for the orang
e juice, but better late than never.”

  Aurea kissed her father and mother on the top of their heads, and got some food out of the hearth. As she stood up she saw Valentine for the first time, and looked questioningly at Fanny.

  “Oh, of course you hadn’t met,” said Fanny. “This is Mr. Ensor. And how he expects to get on in society if he goes skulking about behind doors I don’t know. Sit down and let the lady look at you.”

  “But I think I do know you,” said Aurea. “Weren’t you at that party that Arthur’s people had, hundreds of years ago?”

  “‘Among those present’,” remarked Valentine “‘was the fascinating and accomplished Mr. Ensor.’ I thought I knew your face.”

  “And now you know Aurea’s face, for God’s sake put something into your own and get on with breakfast,” said Fanny rudely. “Anyone who has finished can get up and last up clear the table. Oh, and everyone listen to me. Plans. Tomorrow Arthur has to go up by the early train, so he will have the village car to the station. I can drive anyone else up later. What about the Howard family?”

  “I shall go up with Arthur,” said Mr. Howard. “I have a meeting at eleven.”

  “And I think I’ll go too, Fanny dear,” said Mrs. Howard. “There are always things to be seen to on Monday.”

  “Then that’s three for the station and three for the car,” said Fanny.

  “Sorry, Fanny,” put in Valentine, “but I’ll have to go by the early train too.”

  “Drat you, child,” said Fanny. “I thought you would look after the women and children. Well, well, then that’s only you and I, Aurea. Do you mind?”

  “No, indeed,” said Aurea, “I’d love to come with you, if mother and papa don’t mind.”

  “Yes, you go with Fanny,” said Mrs. Howard.

  “Sure, darling?” asked Aurea.

  “Yes, quite.”

  “Then, that’s that,” said Fanny. “And now, Mrs. Howard, would you like to help me with the incubator?”

  “Not in the least,” replied Mrs. Howard. “I’ll look on if you like, but as for helping, no.”