From Rover to Regal. (I get my driving licence)

Monday 15 December 2008

The day dawned cloudy and grey but I would not be dismayed. After an early and thorough shower I dressed in well-worn jeans, my navy-blue sweater, and my dark-brown maryjanes with the heels that are like 1-1/2" and the plain wide belt that matches them (sort of). And I wore my new (for my birthday) patchwork leather jacket with its hood and white (faux) fur trim. Roger arrived to drive us to school. This was arranged, for if I were to drive myself we would have the problem of Daddy getting to school to meet me. I was adamant about going directly from school.

At school I was very anxious all day. I say 'anxious'-- I do not say 'nervous'. It was the excited flutter of a child looking forward to seeing Father Christmas-- um, Santa Claus again, sorry. (I have not seen him as 'Santa Claus' in two years, but it is definitely something I will have to do later this week... of course.) After English I deposited everything in my locker (what care I for homework when there is driving to be done?) got my jacket, and skipped out to the kerb. There was buses, but no Daddy. Rita and Jessy (those two a pretty steady pair by now) came out, waved to Roger as he pulled in, and then said good-bye to me. I stamped my foot, frustrated. Jessy stopped halfway to the open door. 'What's wrong?' she asked me.

I made a pout. 'Daddy's not here yet,' I said.

'Yes he is.'

I whirled round, seeing the now-familiar blue-and-white Buick coming in from the road. 'Yay,' I said, honestly still doing the little-kid thing.

Daddy pulled up behind the dark-green Cadillac and got out. 'Sorry,' he said over the bonnet. 'I had to get gas.'

I nodded, smiling happily. Jessy and Daddy said good-bye and stepped off the kerb and went round to the offside-- um, driver's side. Then Daddy opened the other door and got in. 'All set?' he asked.

I nodded. 'Ready when you are.'

He nodded too and then laid a hand on my leg, like he often does, like to give comfort. At once he bent his fingers and pinched me-- or, actually, could not. 'What's this, paint?' he teased. 'I thought it was pants.'

I blushed. 'It's just jeans, Daddy!'

'Hmmm.'

I have mentioned before somewhere that my daddy collects cars. His collection is by no means ostentatious nor even very extensive, consisting merely of half a dozen older Buicks, the Jensen-Healey, and an unfinished restoration project of a Camaro convertible. Being sentimental he acquired copies of the first two cars he ever drove, a powder-blue 1968 Riviera and a navy-blue 1965 Wildcat convertible. Both the Wildcat and the 1961 Invicta are fitted with manual gearchange. One came from the factory specially-ordered like that and one Daddy had installed (I forget which). When Mother was our nanny he provided her with a silver-blue 1962 Skylark for commuting to and from university. That is the car I secretly suspected he would endow me with-- but that was not to be.

The car I have been learning on is a 1985 Regal T-Type coupe, all beautifully restored in a soft medium blue with a white hood (okay, roof) and white seats on a black carpet. It has alloy wheels and the 4.3-litre v-6 engine which Daddy says is one of his favourites (like the one in Mother's Skylark till he changed it back to the original v-8) and-- yes-- a 5-speed manual gearbox also was custom-fitted and the car is probably one-of-a-kind.

I have to apologise since all my terminology about the car is so British. It's only been since we've had Mother (meaning our stepmother, who's from Australia) and since we went to England that I began to get even remotely interested in cars and driving. At HOH we had a part-time class in driving and it was all 'propshaft' and 'dampers' and 'silencer' and 'bonnet' and 'windscreen' and I just learned it the way it was taught. Daddy gave me a few lessons in the car park when we were in Norwich, with the grey-green Rover we had there. Now I know some people find switching over from right to left to be a problem, especially when the shift patterns are different. The Rover in England had first gear up by your passenger's knee, Daddy's Jensen-Healey has it next to your own knee, since it's on your right hand, and the T-Type has it back by your hip. But I just look at the top of the gear lever, which usually has a diagram of the pattern, and I do not find it a problem at all to find the co-ordination, whichever hand I have to use.

I will say here that Jessy, who is over a year younger than me, has never driven on either the right or the left-- all she has ever driven has been the garden tractor, motor-scooters, and the junior Formula cars and karts she raced in England, and none of them are specific to any particular side.

Daddy has been the ideal driving teacher, more of a coach than a police officer about it. I cannot say I have not made mistakes and some of them have been almost dangerous and definitely illegal. That is in the nature of learning to drive. What I cherish so much about Daddy is that he is by nature very sweet-hearted and forgiving. He does not expect me to be perfect, at anything, really, and so treats me not with exacting standards but as a pretty decent person doing a pretty decent job. To please him I have done my level best, and I have to say I have learned it all pretty well.

We drove up to the DMV agency in Onancock and Daddy came in with me when I presented my paperwork. They assigned me an examiner and told me where to wait with the car. Daddy came with me (I would have insisted even if they had let me, as a student, drive the car round the building alone, because I was not feeling pretty nervous) till the DMV examiner came. The examiner was about 35, tall, exceedingly slender, with jet-black hair and steel-grey eyes, wearing silver metal-framed glasses and an official-looking black wool overcoat. He seemed like the coldest, severest examiner in the world and my heart rose to my throat. He got in to the car beside me and looked at the clipboard. 'You are... Janine?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Nice car,' he said, looking round inside it. 'What year?'

I looked at him, trying not to appear terrified, although I really think I could not have looked too flirtatious either. Some girls try that, you know. ' 'Eighty-five,' I said.

He nodded. 'Very good.' Then he noticed. 'It's a stick.'

I nodded. 'Yes, Sir.'

'Why the Delaware plates?' he asked.

'Oh,' I said, not having expected that. 'My daddy collects cars, and that's where they're kept. He just let me learn on this one.'

The guy nodded. 'Very good.' Then he looked at me and smiled. 'Well, shall we go, then? Buckled up?'

I was. He wasn't, and got his belt on. He directed me to pull out and I signalled for it, and we proceeded with the driving course. I was not nervous. I was very smooth with all the changes and especially with the brakes. Daddy had taught me what his father had once taught him and called 'the chauffeur stop'. No matter how hard you have to brake, just before the car comes to a full stop, you lift the pedal and then bring it to a stop from that very low speed. Your passengers will not snap backwards from the sharp stop. I have practised it and can do it almost without notice. Exactly once the examiner indicated one of the turns too late-- it's said they do this on purpose-- and I had to brake hard and come to a full stop which I did to, well, perfection-- if I have to be the one to say it.

'Very good,' the examiner said, and then he was all too willing to overlook my slight awkwardness with the clutch during my k-turn. (No, I did NOT stall it. Not once.) In parallel parking I just remembered what I had been taught, to line myself up with the driver's seat in the other car, turn when my shoulder passes the other car's corner, and then turn back when my front corner will pass clear. I got it to within a foot or so of the kerb on the first try.

'Where did you get your lessons?' the examiner said. 'Nandua--?'

I shrugged. 'No, not at school, Sir. Just... my dad.'

'This is your first try?'

I nodded, looking at him as he looked at me again.

'Very good,' he said. 'Now, out here, and up to the corner.'

I nodded. 'Yes, Sir.'

Fifteen minutes later I had a plastic card in my hand with my photo on it and the words 'Commonwealth of Virginia' across the top. The examiner saw me as we stepped out of the building. 'Good luck,' he said, smiling at me. He didn't look so severe now. 'Be careful, now.'

'Yes, Sir. Thank you.'

'Thank you,' he said, and Daddy and I got into the T-Type then.

On the ride back Daddy asked me all about how my exam had gone, what I had to do, how I did, what the guy said. Finally I got up my nerve and said, 'So, Daddy....'

'Yes?' he asked warily-- as well he might have.

'I was wondering.... Well, Jessy and I, and some of the girls, want to finish our Christmas shopping, and I was going to ask....'

'Here if comes,' he said.

'... if would be all right if we could... go down to the mall. In VB. You know....'

'Wait-- tonight?'

'No,' I said quickly. 'Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow... after school.'

He made a wry smile at me. 'I am assuming you'll want to drive this car to school tomorrow.'

I blushed. 'Well....'

'Drive to school tomorrow, but let Roger drive you down to VB. I would worry about you coming home over that bridge in the dark. And this road can be dangerous. The people here drive like they're asleep half the time.' Then he thought a moment. 'I'd feel better about it if you were able to come home in daylight, you know.'

I nodded, hiding a smile. 'Yes, Daddy. It's all right.' That's my daddy.

...

I am not a twat. (I get insulted)

Friday 11 December 2008

(I usually do not type naughty words. For any word I would normally find impolite or inappropriate I will substitute an asterisk (*) for some vowel so it is recognisable but I can't be accused of using the word myself. This may sound silly-- for I really am, in some way, using the word. But I assure you that this is only in typing, and only when I am repeating what someone else has written or said-- for I NEVER speak such words myself.)

(Unfortunately the word in question has to be written out here because people will too easily confuse 'tw*t' for something I all-too-willingly call myself, as a lighthearted way of remaining humble-- hence my screen name. There's a sad and humiliating kind of irony here. Forgive me, dear Reader, for what I would otherwise NEVER type out.)

At lunch today I sat with the usual crowd-- Rita, Anna, Josie, my sister Jessy, Chris (Christine) and Paulette who changed her schedule halfway through the semester and ended up in fifth-period lunch with us. At least I'm not the only one in 11th year. We sat and talked and as we got up to go three boys were crossing the room with their lunch garbage like a juggernaut and one of them (possibly two) bumped into me. I stopped short, afraid I would knock someone over, you know, and one of them turned round and kind of glared at me. These were certainly not any boys I would ordinarily know, all three of them somewhat grungy with moused hair and oversized South Pole hoodies and dragging-on-the-floor jeans with wallet chains. For too long a moment they just stared at me and I stared back. I wasn't embarrassed but just did not expect to be so coldly received by anyone, least of all anyone male.

I can't consider myself a raving beauty, but I am not wholly unappealing. Today I had on my little navy-blue wool skirt and pale grey winterweight tights and my off-white Irish oiled-wool sweater, and in my good black maryjanes I was about 5'7", certainly not short enough to be overlooked, you know. The other girls, all still behind me for the moment, were dressed nicely too-- that's kind of our thing. If we're a clique, we're certainly not closed to new members, and we're at least a presentable-looking clique! I was not about to be intimidated by these boys and I wasn't going to be impolite, so since they were not saying anything I spoke first. 'Pardon me,' I said carefully.

The boys in the hoodies all sort of smirked at me at the same time. 'Oo,' one of the said, '"pardon me"!' They all laughed-- not respectfully.

'Superior-*ss b*tch,' one of them said then. 'Think your c*nny don't stink?'

My mouth fell open. I had no idea of what to expect. The other girls all gasped behind me.

One of the other ones made that annoyingly stupid hand gesture, three fingers down, two up, yanking the hand downwards as though to brush this all aside. 'That's right, twat. Sh*t,' he said, as though he would shuffle closer to me, 'I could get that good!'

And they all laughed. 'Pardon me!' they taunted me as they all left.

I stood there with my mouth dropt open, even as people passed me on their way out of the room. By the time Jessy and the others got round to look me in the face I had tears in my eyes. Jessy said nothing, the angel-- she just slipped an arm round me and escorted me out. 'My God!' Chris said then. 'What's THEIR problem?'

'Shhh,' Jessy said, soothing me before the words came. 'Come on, sweetheart....'

I moved, stiffly, till my face cooled and my tears dried. All I could think was, what on earth had I ever done to deserve that? But I knew the answer. I had done nothing.

It is sad that here in America, people like this exist so frequently that the rest of us are sort of forced to accept them. They impose on us with their foul language and rude manners and apathy about other people's needs and feelings, and in the interests of 'political correctness' we are expected to 'respect' them as though they are just another equally-valid 'lifestyle choice'. Well (and this may be a terrible thing to say round Christmastime), pardon me, but I don't have to accept that. Those rude boys are not a 'lifestyle choice', they are only ignorant and arrogant, and I don't respect them. And this may sound terribly conceited of me, but I don't CARE if they feel so inferior to me that they have a need to put me down to make themselves feel better. As far as I'm concerned I AM better than they are. I am smarter, better behaved, more respectful of others, loving towards everyone, even people I scarcely even know, and-- hear me well, rude boys --A LOT BETTER DRESSED! If that makes them feel they have to put me down, that's entirely their problem. I've had no hand in any of what they think or feel or do, or anything so wholly unconnected with them.

I am sure I am just blithely naive about all of this. Coming from an all-girls' school in England I would never have had any reason at all to expect this kind of treatment. Any guy we ran into at HOH was simply thrilled, even honoured, to be among us nice girls, and he would treat all of us, even the lowliest or poorest, like the ladies we were taught to believe we were. And maybe it is annoying to other people that I have brought my English ways here to rural eastern Virginia, where the average boy's idea of a 'big city' is Virginia Beach and half the local girls get pregnant by the time they're 21. In my skirts and tights and with my practised poise and good grammar those boys probably assume I am trying to make myself above them-- but it's simply the only way I know by now, and anyway I've been raised to believe it was a good way to be. Call me naive-- but I really do not see why I should be any ruder and uglier than I appear on the average day. I've always thought it's a form of respect for other people to dress myself well and carry myself well and express myself well. My God! --I very nearly called that kid 'Sir' when I said 'Pardon me'!

And is it so wrong for me to expect that, whilst I am 'respecting' their 'lifestyle choices', they respect mine? What is it about American culture that only the ignorant and rude have a right to be respected and accepted? Had I said something to them, like 'You inferior-*ass trash!' how would it have turned out? This is just hypocrisy-- oh, I can't go there now!

The other thing that's got me completely stewed-up about the whole thing is what he referred to be as. He did not address me as any kind of person, but as a body part-- THAT body part, as though my whole identity and value to him is summed up in THAT one, the only reason he has to pay attention to any girl. To him I am no lady-- there is no such thing. I am only another 'twat' for him to 'get' (and I assume he means 'well' and not 'good' for to him I could never be 'good' at anything except maybe giving it to him-- oh, I won't go here!).

I shudder to think any more than that about it. What would have followed if this had not been at school, or if I had been alone without my friends? Would have kept myself, or would he have 'got' me (excuse me, THAT body part)? What could any other girl have expected? And the really scary thing to me is, what would any other girl have accepted? Do these girls here-- not our 'clique', of course, but the rest-- actually tolerate being addressed like that?

I was also stunned to hear Paulette mention their names-- as it turns out she's known them most of her school life. And no, they were not always like that. (And no, before I go on, it was not a racial issue. One of them is called Pedro and they all appeared White to me.) Most importantly, no, not all the girls like them, and most try hard to avoid them. According to Paulette they are mostly in remedial classes, obviously because of their apathy, and none of us are so we never have anything to do with them. Except at lunch. And in the corridors. And after school....

I have prayed it once and will pray it again, that I never have to have anything to do with them again. Please, God, let it be so. Protect and save me. Forgive those who do wrong, even me. And help me to not judge. Amen.

Love, Janine. The twat.

...

Terncote for Advent

Friday 11 December 2008

As of the first week of Advent (following the fourth Sunday before Christmas, for those who don't follow such things), we put up the candles in our windows. At the Landing, our old house in Lewes, there is an electric outlet under each window, the top receptacle of which is operated by a separate switch down stairs (actually two, one for in front and one for in back, since the house is visible from the Ferry). The 'candles' are actually slender white tubes fitted with small bulbs, gently clamped on the windowsill so the bulb is in the middle of the lower pane of glass. The bulbs are fluorescent and flicker slightly which adds to the effect. Down stairs in the basement the switches are on a timer to turn them on just before dusk and off sometime around 1.30 or 2.00 am.

At Poplar Landing there are 14 lights in front and 15 in back, including the third-floor dormers, the glass porch centre windows and the two casements of the window over the kitchen sink. That's a lot of twinkling candlelight! I remember when I was littler I disliked having that bulb in my room lit all night and insisted that we turn it off. Naturally Jessy, taking my example, wanted hers turned off then too. Daddy rigged up a pretty good shield out of bent metal to hold the light close to the glass and it made each room dark enough to sleep in. But I have to smile at how my parents never even considered turning off the lights or just omitting them from the bedroom windows. It was a tradition, and if I have to say so that house was (and still is) such a showplace in the neighbourhood that there is a definitely element of pride that my parents took had at decorating the house in this modest, solemn and elegant way.

At Terncote here in Virginia we have the same system. Daddy actually had other lights made exactly like the ones he made himself for the Landing and the window sills and electrical outlets are set up the same way. (In fact the period-authentic sash windows are identical-- one thing in common that this 1720s-style towered manor house and that 1740s plantation house share.) But though we have many more windows in each facade here, we do not have them in the ends (the towers), because Lisa's room is in front up stairs, and it would look odd with the first-floor windows lit and the ones above them not. So the candle lights are in only each inside wing, that's three windows each side, each floor, and in the two above the front door. We do not have them in back here (though the specially-switched outlets are there) because there isn't really anyone out there to see them in this season. All of the windows with candle lights in front are in galleries, not rooms, except the three in the big parlour (which is under my room). So those can be left on whilst people are trying to sleep.

When we were saying good-bye to the friends who came for my birthday, I got to look at the house from in front after dark. I must say it looks very well. From the road you can see straight up the lane at the two wall sconces outside the front doors and all 14 lights. This is because the masonry wall is cut down for the width of the front entrance wing and the inside wings and our sapling trees along the drive are not yet big enough to block the view. The yellowish colour of the stucco glows warm in the low light and makes the place look welcoming even on a raw, cold night. Above the end towers are dark (except for Lisa's window as she got ready for bed the night I looked) and the centre one is almost invisible if the sky is dark enough. It's definitely not the way it looked for our Hallowe'en party!

I will say here that Daddy and Mother are no believers in illuminating the facade with floodlights like so many people are. As Daddy says that's only foolish as a security measure. The correct thing is to have the view from the house unobstructed-- that means shining light AWAY from the house, not ON it. Our emergency and motion-sensing lights shine down at the ground along the foundation, not at the windows, so we are able to see what's going on out there.

The other Advent tradition that we have always observed is that we NEVER decorate for Christmas, nor even buy, nor even shop for, a tree, till after church on the fourth Sunday. In some years this has been on Christmas Eve itself-- yet Daddy will not relent. Christmas is Christmas and Advent is Advent. Then we have a pleasant, relaxing evening of setting up and trimming our tree. I asked Mother where we would put it this year. At the Landing it always went in the big parlour-- because we had only that and the keeping room (family room), and we were more likely to have a fire in the keeping room which would have only dried out a live tree. She thinks it will be easiest to set it up in our little square parlour on the first floor of the centre tower, straight back from the entrance foyer. We will rearrange the small sofa there and maybe put away one chair, and we will hang the stockings over that fireplace which doesn't get used often (only once that I know of, so far) anyway. So we will have the big parlour for entertaining.

We don't know how much entertaining we will do this season. We are four and a half hours away from our next nearest relations (my uncle and his family in southern New Jersey) but everyone has been issued a standing invitation and Gran has promised to come visit us over Christmas. Gran has her own room here, as she did at the Landing, though so far she has only stayed over here a few nights. I look forward to inviting my friends here as well-- they too, by my parents' permission, have standing invitations to visit during the school break. The season promises (or threatens) to be colder and harsher than the last few years, but we still have plenty of cut trees, driftwood, and lumber left over from the construction and so we'll be cosy and warm.

...

The rumour mill gets another one right. (I get a reputation)

Since it is my birthday this week I am putting in this blog in which I come out feeling really good about myself and looking really good to others as well. The reader will know I am not as conceited as this blog by itself might make me seem. ***

From October 2008....

There was a conversation, before the Hallowe'en party, that I was told about. I was not in on it-- but it was about me, and especially about my sister, and part of it got back to me. I am sure I will never hear about all of it. But I heard what I did hear through very reliable sources and since it says something about me, and about my sister, I will relate what I know of it.

Anna, Josie, and Chris were all having lunch or tea somewhere and Chris happened to mention she had been over to see me that time I was sunning and showed up on the back step of my house in time to see me coming up from the yard. And I was wearing panties. And that was all. And Chris said she thought it was incredibly cute, both because it was kind of brave and also kind of innocent, like it didn't mean anything except that I was comfortable and happy. Basically she had got out of it what I hoped she would.

Someone else, probably Anna, who's just ladylike enough to be modest, said, 'But if you could hang around in your underwear all day long, wouldn't you?'

And then Josie, who's outspoken enough, said, 'Oh, I already do.' And everyone laughed, you know.

Anna would have admitted that she knew Josie does. We've all heard about that too.

Not a long stretch of logic after this they got into the subject of being naked also, which none of them were against in itself, though they admitted they never really had the chance to do it as much as we do here. And then Josie mentioned that my sister Jessy had admitted masturbating. Now I know Jessy is naive and I'm sure she trusted her friends, but this is why a lady doesn't mention things like this, even if they are true and she intends to be honest, as Jessy does. The whole purpose of this conversation was to evaluate Jessy's claim that there's nothing wrong with it. Josie admitted that she does it. Anna blushed-- meaning she does or has at least thought about it. Chris said she was embarrassed to admit it, but that is an admission in itself. And finally pretty Paulette, who was there too, spoke up and wondered why it had to be such an embarrassing subject. She said, 'After all, it's natural. It's a way to learn about yourself. And it solves the problem in a safe way.'

They all agreed with that, calling it 'safe sex' and admitting 'it could be worse.' I really think they admired Jessy for it. Well, who wouldn't?

I heard that some time in this conversation Paulette also said something like, 'Lounging round in your underwear or even less, indulging yourself as much as you want? --I'd do that all the time if I could.' And people laughed, you know, hiding their embarrassment by laughing at someone else.

That was what I was told about this. I won't say by whom. But later in the month Becky and I were strolling out of the building together and she mentioned she had heard 'an awful rumour' about me. Naturally I asked and she said, 'Well, someone said you're always naked in your house.'

I laughed out loud. 'Well hardly always!' I said.

Becky blushed. 'I don't think I could ever do that,' she said.

She's not the slenderest thing in the world but she's hardly odious. And being comfortable naked is hardly about what you look like anyway. I definitely don't think I'm that pretty to be showing off myself, you know. I said, 'If you're alone in your room, who cares?'

She nodded and then thought more about it and nodded again. 'I guess that's true. Though I heard you do it in front of people.'

I shrugged. 'My family. They don't mind. Besides, it doesn't hurt anyone.'

'No, I guess not.' She thought a little more. We were at the end of the drive and buses were meeting people. She turned to me and then said, 'I feel like I can tell you anything.'

'But of course you can,' I said.

Of course 'Becky' is not her real name and I have recently heard that she doesn't know she's kind of a star of some of these blogs. I repeat this only because from what I say here no one will ever know whom I was really talking with about it. She said, 'Well, the way I heard it, your sister does it too.'

I laughed. 'Oh, Jessy started it. She loves being naked. So does little Lisa. It's harmless. Daddy even says so.'

Becky blushed again. 'Your DAD knows?'

'Of course. He lives in the house!'

'He's SEEN you?'

I laughed again. 'Becky! He's our daddy!'

'Oh Lord,' she said, 'I don't think I could EVER do that.'

I smiled and put an arm round her. 'Don't be afraid of yourself,' I said softly to her.

She nodded. 'Do you ever get... urges?'

'Of course.'

She looked at me. 'You know, like... real urges?'

I smiled at her. 'Of course.'

She nodded too, blushing. 'I heard that....'

I rolled my eyes. 'Oh, Lord!' I laughed. 'Is this the thing going round about Jessy?'

Fearfully Becky nodded.

I put my arm round her again and we walked a little down towards the kerb. 'Jessy,' I said, 'is just a healthy girl who's too honest and too innocent to keep her mouth shut.' I stopped and looked at her. 'I'm sure they said she indulges herself, right?'

Becky nodded.

'Well,' I said, 'all I can say is, how do we condemn her for it when pretty much all of us have already done it ourselves?'

She looked at me-- a brave thing to do when you're uncomfortable admitting something. 'We don't condemn her,' she said.

'No. We don't. So why is it a big issue? Besides,' I said, 'it could be much worse.'

Becky nodded. 'She could be doing it with someone else.'

I nodded. 'And she isn't.'

'Are you sure?'

I made a face. 'If there's anyone I know, it's my sister. I mean, look at her-- this whole thing came out because she tells the truth. Do you think she would lie about being with boys if she would admit this?'

Becky laughed. 'No.' She smiled at me. 'I'm glad she's not. I like your sister.'

'Well everyone likes her,' I said.

'Well, I mean... I kind of admire her. And you.'

'Me?' I laughed. 'Don't waste your--'

'Janine,' she said, 'stop it. You know what I mean. And we both know I'm not the only one.'

I blushed. 'Okay....'

'You have fans here, Janine. My God, you come from England and live in a faery-tale castle and dress so pretty and you're still sweet....' She blushed then, because we both knew what she meant by that and it was a cute way to have put it. 'You're a princess, Janine. Everyone thinks so.'

'Becky, I am not--'

'And you're even modest about it.' She smiled and then leaned in and hugged me. 'You're my heroine,' she said.

I had tears in my eyes. 'Well, I love you, Becky.'

She nodded and looked at me. 'And I love you. You're like the best friend I've ever had.'

Her mother's car drew up at the kerb but I leaned in and kissed her cheek. Now there would be a rumour to get started tomorrow! But I felt strangely emptied of the whole thing, like I had nothing left to hide and no pressure to hold it in. One casual visit from a nice friend had led to the whole rumour mill passing things round about my little sister when they weren't even bad things. Of course the girl masturbates! Of course all the girls giggling about it have done it too. And it all served to illustrate the point that, of all the girls we know, it's probably all any of us have ever done. When the boys hear of the rumour they can snigger all they want. They know they're not getting anything else from us, at least not yet. Maybe that's why I'm not blushing at all whilst writing this.

...

Something in the atmosphere

Tuesday 9 December 2008

After about four days of absolute frigidity it has abruptly gone unseasonably warm. Riding home in the back of the car we felt the air-conditioning on! 'Roger,' Jessy called forward, 'are you feeling okay?' Then we both giggled. Roger only replied that the climate-control system operates on a thermostat-- it's above sixty-five inside the car and it provided cooler air.

At home we went up stairs to our rooms as usual and got out our homework. Mother was out with J.J. getting Lisa as usual. I actually started a fire, just a little, to take the lingering chill off the room, but by the time they got back Jessy and I were both less than dressed and I'd had to open a window. We heard our little sister come in the front door from up here and a few moments later she was trotting up the gallery to her room. I waited for her to call 'I'm home!' as she often does but instead was greeted by a shy voice from the side door. 'Janine?'

'Yes, sweetie,' I called.

'Is that--?' From my dressing area she peered round into my room. 'It is!' she sighed.

'Yes,' I said, realising she had smelt my fire. 'Nice and cosy in here now.'

She stepped in, in just her socks, flowery panties and white camisole top. Observing that I was sitting at my table only in my pale green panties she giggled. 'You have a window open!' she observed.

'Of course.' I smiled at her from my table. She padded over and stood beside me and we both looked out at the eerie mist that hung over the ocean. 'You can hardly see anything out there,' I said. 'It's like the end of the world.'

She shuddered, only a little. 'That's scary.'

I put my arm round her and pulled her close. 'It's not,' I told her. 'We know the ocean is out there. We just can't see it right now. It's only our same old ocean waiting for us to go see it again.'

She nodded then. 'Mother says there's tea,' she said.

'Yes. Well let me finish this stupid worksheet first.'

'Stupid worksheet,' she giggled. 'What is it for?'

'English. On some stupid story.'

She giggled again. 'You hate homework, don't you?'

I nodded and turned to the worksheet, with her still in my arm. 'When it's on something I already understand, I do.'

A light knock came on my front gallery door. Without a thought I called, 'Come in.'

The door opened and Daddy stuck his head in. 'Oh. Hello. Your mother says there's tea.'

I nodded, smiling at him. 'Thank you, Daddy.'

He looked round, just his head beside the door turning this way and that. 'It's nice in here,' he said. Then he looked right at me and smiled. 'There's a fire down stairs too.'

'Excellent,' I smiled. 'Well, we'll be down.'

'Excellent.' He went out.

I looked at Lisa then. 'Should I put something on or not?'

She giggled, looking me over. 'Do you want to?'

'I'm on the fence about it.'

Jessy appeared in the other doorway then. She was-- as we might have expected-- totally bare. 'Hey,' she said, seeing Lisa standing close beside me whilst I was trying to work. 'Are you two going down for tea?'

I shrugged. 'I will... in a minute.'

'I will!' little Lisa said, and went round behind me and skipped-- really-- across my room to collide with Jessy for a hug. 'I missed you,' she said.

Jessy and I laughed. Then Jessy looked up at me, with this little girl hanging on her, and asked, 'Are you--?'

I nodded. 'I will. Daddy says there's a fire though.'

She nodded too, understanding, and went out with Lisa.

I got done the stupid worksheet on Stephen Crane (whom I hate reading), pulled on some white socks and a red t-shirt, and went down the front stairs to the kitchen room, which is in back beyond the dining room. Sure enough the fire was very cheery and Mother had tea on. Jessy came down in a long blue t-shirt which she uses to sleep in and God knows what on underneath it-- we couldn't tell. Lisa was still in her underwear too. And this is how we had our tea with Daddy and little J.J. and Mother.

Sometimes I meet people, like online, and they think there is something inappropriate about this. I can't think of one reason why it could be. My father and stepmother adore us and accept us no matter what we look like or wear or do. We are good girls and comfortable with ourselves, we are not judged, we are not scolded for exploring or enquiring or exercising ourselves as people. A pleasant afternoon tea like this is just what we deserve.

Afterwards I wandered through the unlit house, watching the night come on. Only five rooms in this whole house face west and sometimes you can miss the sunset. Out on the ocean the mist was thinning as the air cooled. I wrapped my arms round myself and shuffled through the big parlour to the side stairs and went up. In my room the fire was dying. I put in another little birch log and warmed my bare legs in front of it. Jessy came up, obviously with Lisa in tow for I heard both footfalls on the stairs and then Lisa's giggling. That girl will giggle about anything. It's a high-pitched almost sickeningly-sweet chirp that wrings a smile out of you no matter how else you can feel. It's the giggle of a happy, well-loved child who is unafraid to be herself in any situation. In Jessy's room they giggled again. I heard the bed bounce and Lisa shrieked-- Jessy likes to throw her on the bed and then press the bed with both hands, making her bounce-- 'bounce the baby on the bed' as Daddy used to play with us. Lisa still likes to think of herself as a baby sometimes!

I sat at my table and typed a little in this. Outside, the sky went dark and the air grew colder. The mist was turning to a raw rain. I leaned back in the chair and closed the window. With a sigh I turned myself to the stupid Stephen Crane story in the book.

...

What's under that skirt? (I set an example)

Friday 5 December 2008

Today I wore my little pleated grey wool skirt from HOH, and whilst dressing I kind of got thinking about something that will probably seem really silly to most people-- that is, most people who have never had to wear school-uniform skirts before. I have been corresponding with a nice girl from New Jersey, not far from where we used to live, who goes to a Catholic school and who told me she 'has to' wear boxer shorts under her skirt because of the boys. I didn't get that at first. She explained that when she was younger she used to wear a second set of panties outside the pantihose to help hold them up (we skinny girls will do that) and now that she is bigger and better shaped she still wears boxers, even with winter-warm tights when you don't need them for anything else. Well, I can understand that, for one thing, no one wears slips any more and it is the next best thing-- the skirt will not cling to your bottom. But then as my friend says the boys don't have anything to look up at.

This second point is the one I take exception to. For one thing, if anyone can see up your skirt when you're going up stairs or sitting in a chair, your skirt is too short. That should be the guiding principle. Maybe an attractively short skirt is a good thing, but if it is so short that you have to worry about modesty, then you are being sort of an idiot. Attractiveness should never compromise modesty. In fact I think it could be argued that when a lady compromises her own modesty, she kind of ceases to be a lady, or that the definition of a lady is one who upholds her own dignity whilst still being pretty and appealing to others.

There is another side of it, however. To me, being a woman, even a lady, includes a certain amount of vulnerability. A lady is always physically vulnerable. She is not as strong and is not always as securely dressed as a man, for example. She may not be able to run as fast, or as far. She may not have the arm strength to throw a good punch. The rest of her body may actually get in the way of her ability to really fight back. These things are in the nature of being female. But in all these things is the reason why she is attractive to men. A true gentleman does not seek to compete with a woman-- he seeks to complement her. He is her other side. If she is weak, he is strong. If she is vulnerable, he is her protection. It is not the role of a gentleman to take advantage of a lady's vulnerability. Instead he is supposed to value it. So long as she is protected and respected, she is a lady to him. If he were to reduce her to a common skank, she would be less attractive to him and to any other man. No man really wants a skank. So it is in any man's interests to treat a lady with respect, even with love.

All real gentlemen, of any age, know this. All ladies know it too-- we know what makes a guy a gentleman, and we all know we have to have a certain amount of trust in men in general, all men, for any one man can compromise us. I should say any man can try. A lady's modesty and dignity and reputation is never compromised by anyone but herself. Accidents happen-- a lady's skirt may blow up too high beside the bus, for example. But is that her fault? And should a gentleman take advantage of the rude manners of nature and catch a peek at what's under her skirt? Of course all men might look. But do they consider it an opportunity to learn more about what she would rather not let them know, or do they see it as an accident and think nothing more special about it?

I don't wear the boxer shorts under my skirt. I never did, not even at HOH, or should I say not especially at HOH, since it was a girls'-only school, so who was to care? Now at this big regional public school I still don't. My skirts are fashionably short but not immodestly so. As for cling I use static-guard and all is well. I know how to keep my legs together when seated and how to keep my back straight when ascending stairs. Without sounding conceited let me say that I also know how to have fun, make jokes, laugh out loud, get up and sit down and even move more than that, and I don't compromise my dignity-- and that means that my skirts don't end up being too short. Maybe it is just how I was raised. My mother was a perfect angel with Jessy and me when we were little. In her sweet way she was always teaching us how to sit and stand and say hello-- she used to have us curtsey at the altar and not genuflect, something our stepmother, when she was our nanny, learned from her too. Mommy was always telling us how to be ladies, giving us examples, praising us when we did well, and we were always thrilled when we pleased her. Being so close in age Jessy and I were inseparable-- in some ways we still are-- and we looked out for each other, like at dinners and dances and any events where we had to be at our best. Our parents were never ashamed or hesitant to take us anywhere. As we got older and especially after Mommy died we kept it up just to maintain our family's reputation. So, however crass this may sound, it is part of our obligation to our father, and the memory of our mother, and now to our stepmother too, to turn up on time, look pretty, act properly, and have a good sense of humour about it. I simply would not dream of doing anything else.

The best thing is that teachers, both men and women, most of the girls, and especially all the boys seem to have more respect for a girl who wears a skirt. Daddy likes to say, 'God is in His place and all is right with the world, when young ladies choose to wear skirts and dresses.' It is a position of power and strength, and also of great responsibility. Such is the art of being a young lady.

All right... so today I wore winter-weight tights, navy blue, and my heeled black shoes (not the maryjanes) with the skirt and a plain off-white/cream Shetland sweater. It is not earth-stopping, I know, but it's what I feel comfortable in, both physically and for my reputation. Nothing clung and nothing showed that should not have. Everyone said I looked nice today, all the usual girls and even Sean, Ryan, Jeremy, Paul... and Brett... so I suppose I was doing something right.

...

Becky visits Terncote

*** This was from late September or early October 2008 but remained in my journal till past its date and is now included here.***

My friend Becky rode home in the car with us after school today. Roger arrived as ever about five minutes after all the buses, including Becky's, had left and opened the door for us. Becky has never seen us leave and didn't expect that we had a personal driver. She sat in the middle with Jessy and me, commenting as you might expect on the car which is not showy or complex in any way, rather like my parents (as I have said before).

At the house-- which she raved over-- we went up to my room and actually did some homework. Becky likes my room-- I'm sure it's unlike the bedroom of any other girl my age in the country, you know, but I like when people say they like it. I love the whole 18th-century thing myself-- my mother got us all interested in historical reenactments of that period, the clothing, the culture, the architecture, the history, and all. And when we moved from the cosy Colonial-reproduction house on the edge of Delaware Bay, the one that fooled people who thought it was really built in the 1740s and not 250 years later (they even asked us to included it on the Colonial house tour!), where I had a lovely, authentic little bedroom furnished by my parents, to this place somewhat larger and more expansive where I got to choose my own bedroom set, I asked for the same Quakerish milk-painted stuff like what's in the house at Lewes. The main differences are in the colours (darker), the size of the room (a little bigger), and that I have a fireplace and my own bathroom. I have no TV, no stereo, nothing modern, only a couple of electric lamps and whatever would have been completely appropriate for a 1720s English manor house occupied by less than Peerage. So I am kind of flattered to think other people my age would actually like such old-fashioned stuff like I like. So I'm not the only one who likes it after all.

It's been getting chilly recently and I lit a fire, just a few of the birch logs that came from a place up the road and the paper and kindling needed to get it going. The sun was almost out and I'd wanted to show her round the place a little, the lawn and the jetty where Jessy and I sun ourselves, but there was a stiff breeze and it wasn't exactly pleasant out there. Becky got up and went into my bathroom and then Lisa came in-- fortunately still in her romper dress from school as these days Lisa can be in anything, or even nothing. She called 'hello' rather politely as she knew I had a guest and then realised my guest was in the bathroom. Then Becky came out with her eyes wide open. I looked up ready to laugh.

'Janine,' she said in an almost-hushed voice, 'your bathroom is... beautiful.'

Lisa giggled. 'It's a bathroom!'

'Yes, but....' Becky looked over Lisa for a moment and then said to me, 'You can sit there and look right out that window and see the ocean. It's... like the bathroom in a fairy-tale castle.' Then she got red. 'Is this your little sister?'

Lisa looked up, sitting on the end of my bed facing us. 'Yes,' I said, 'that's the good little sweetie.' At that she hopped down and came over for a cuddle at my chair. 'And this is Becky from school.'

'Hi Becky,' she said, just as adorably as you can imagine.

'Hi, Lisa!' They both smiled at each other. I think Lisa was impressed that Becky knew who she is... but then all my friends do even if they haven't met her yet. She's kind of a celebrity in our high school for that reason.

For tea we sat in the little parlour in back, where Mother had the doors open till just before we got down there, in spite of the fire there too. Becky sat closest to the French windows and seemed to stare off at the sky above the garden wall while people talked to her. At least once she got caught not even listening. Then she apologised, 'I'm sorry. I've lived on the Eastern Shore all my life, and I've never been able to sit in a house and see the ocean sky like that. It's all around us here, I know that; but to have it so close, and right out your windows....' She looked from Mother to me and at Jessy and Lisa and back to Mother and then me. 'It's just so beautiful here.'

We all smiled at her. 'You can come over any time,' Jessy said, 'till you get sick of the place.'

We all laughed. 'I wouldn't have thought you're sick of this place,' Mother said to her.

Jessy shrugged. Even when she's dressed it's a cute gesture. 'Well, used to it maybe.'

'God,' Becky sighed. 'I could never be used to it!'

We all smiled at her. 'Well,' Mother said to Becky then, 'you'll just have to come over and visit the girls more often.'

Becky looked from her to me with her eyes wide. I nodded happily. 'You might as well,' I said, 'so long as you're willing to get used to us.'

Jessy giggled at that. So did Lisa. Becky only blushed, considering herself highly favoured, although she has no reason to feel that way because she's a perfectly nice friend in her own right... and I am very happy to know her.

Needless to say she stayed for dinner.

...