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Originally posted here.
"Well," her father said, hands on his knees. They were in his home office, its dark green curtains drawn over the mellow setting autumn sun. Eleanor was not used to being in this room, as it held no use for her. All it had was a wooden desk with an old typewriter and her father's letters in neat stacks. She doubted even papa visited this room often. It was small and crammed, yet there was hardly a night when Dr Barnaby Forqand didn't spend a couple of hours here, going through letters.
Her friends called him the professor. He glanced at her and cleared his throat. "Has Edgar already talked to you about this?"
"About what?" She looked at him, warily.
"The birds and the bees?" He bit his lip and looked at her from beneath his brow, his hair falling slightly over his eyes.
"No, papa hasn't said anything about nature." She sensed his nervousness.
She was twelve and had gotten her period two years ago and knew all sorts of things about all sorts of matters. She didn't need to be told much at all, she thought. She read a lot and the things she couldn't read about probably didn't need to be known about, she figured.
"Oh thank God," her father said, leaning forward on his hands, still looking remarkably uncomfortable even while sitting in his favourite chair. "Well, Eleanor. I suppose the main thing you need to know is that when two people love one another very dearly, they at times want to express it in different ways."
His coyness amused her. "Oh, you mean sex, dad? I know all about that from Uncle Antoine's books."
He blushed. "Eleanor, those books are– they aren't true to life. And you shouldn't be reading such things at your age. I gave you access to the library but perhaps you ought to show me what you are picking up from there." His brow came together in a frown. "You have to understand those books are written with a certain audience in mind."
"Oh, no worries at all, dad," she replied cheerily. "It has been very educational reading."
"But those books are rather crude," he attempted. "Love is very– delicate. Beautiful, even. The way it, er, blossoms–"
She smiled, teasing him. "Blossoms? What does that mean? Is that when the penis–"
"Eleanor!" he gasped. Her father's hands tightened into fists on his lap. "You shouldn't, I mean – it's not really–" He took a deep breath in. "What I mean to say is that you should know how to protect yourself as well as enjoy yourself. Young girls can be rather vulnerable to pressures from the outside."
"You mean pregnancy?" She was really having fun with this. It was not often that the professor was this flustered. Usually he was the one reprimanding her about this, that or the other. He was very particular about cleanliness and homework. She preferred her papa's attitude, which was more relaxed about such things.
"No!" The professor was faltering now. "I mean, yes, of course, that is a concern. I will give you some, er, accoutrement to prevent that. But you shouldn't do anything if you don't feel comfortable."
"Sex is very normal, though, isn't it? But as it stands I don't like any boys at the moment." She looked at him, and he wouldn't meet her eye. "Or girls. I know such things are normal, too."
"Yes," he agreed. "Quite. But things are a bit more complicated, er– And the ways that one might – well, I suppose, in a sense, it’s quite different between the two genders – insofar as there are only two. What I mean to say is, I cannot give you any exact guidance, I just hope – that is –"
"I don't want to do it yet, dad." Eleanor looked at him, folding her arms. She was getting a bit annoyed. "I don't see why we need to discuss this now."
"To prepare, um." Her father visibly paused to gather himself. "Never mind, dear. I think it might be better if Edgar discusses this with you. I'll ask that he have a chat with you at some later time."
"Thank you, dad." She smiled at him, encouragingly. "You tried your best."
He looked at her, utterly defeated.
Two days later, papa was back from his speaking engagement and came to her room, where she was writing a letter to her friend Affila. They didn't have a fax machine at home, because her parents were boring and old fashioned, unlike Affila's parents. Eleanor was sometimes surprised her fathers allowed her to even watch television.
"Nora," papa said gently. "You've read uncle Antoine's books and didn't tell me? Dear, we could have had a book club."
She laughed. "Papa, they were disgusting. I put them back on the shelf immediately."
"Indeed, they are. That is their beauty, you must understand." He sat down on the edge of her bed. "God rest his soul, old Lertre."
She said nothing. She didn't actually remember the uncle in question, but papa had a picture of him on the mantle. An older man, with brown skin and a wide smile, wearing a bowler hat. In the sleeves of the books he looked younger but more stiff, formal. They were strange images for a man who wrote such salacious books, though of course the professor had spent the past two days reminding her that uncle Antoine also wrote books without any sex in them. Yet he was quite flushed when he said this, making her doubt his words.
"Regardless," her papa said easily, "these are quite simple matters. You used to play as a little girl. It was your instinct to do so, and you learned a lot doing it. Now you no longer care for dolls or train sets. But in time you may get interested in play of a different type. Your instinct may even demand it."
She frowned. Now he was being as coy as the professor. "That sounds very strange."
"In a sense," he said, shrugging. "But also, fun with the right person. Even the wrong person, at times. But it doesn't matter until you are ready for it. And you know best when that time comes."
"I see," she replied. "What about pregnancy?"
"What about it?" Her papa rubbed his scalp with fingers, thinking. "Don't get pregnant. Sleep with girls, perhaps?"
"What!" She frowned, then broke into a smile when she understood he was only teasing. "I don't like girls. Or boys. I don't like anyone enough to, er, play with them."
"Of course, take your time." He smiled. "Nora dearest, I was hoping you might be enlightened. Men are so–" He made a vague gesture with his hands. "And women just so much better, as you well know, being one."
"Is that why Gloria Nachdro is the High Chancellor and not you?" she asked, teasing him in return.
"Ha!" He pointed a finger from his nose toward her. "I gave her that grace, Nora, as you well know."
"You lost an election, dad says," she argued. She knew that was indeed what had happened.
"Barnaby knows very little about politics, Nora dearest," her papa said, leaning back on his hands and raising both eyebrows. She could tell he was annoyed, but then the mood faded. "It was time for me."
"Now you may enjoy retirement," she said. "Write a book."
"Perhaps," he said. "But back to you. When you want to play with a boy or a girl, come to me and I'll tell you how to talk to them. I've had some success with that."
"Dad says that's just what the papers write and I shouldn't believe what they say," Eleanor corrected him.
"Why of course. There are only two types of people who you should never trust, Nora, and one of them is journalists."
He stood up to leave. She frowned at him.
"What's the other type?"
"Politicians," he said with a look that told her he probably wasn't being serious. He then took a book he had left on her bed. "Almost forgot. I was told this is a better book on the topic for the female audience than Lertre's blessed filth. I haven't read it myself, not really being interested, but I leafed through and the lady seemed to be enjoying herself greatly."
Eleanor took the book from him. The title was written in silver engraved lettering: About Sir Henry and His Lady, by Federica Plew. The woman on the cover had her head thrown back, her brown curls falling behind her. Her eyes were closed but her mouth had fallen open. She showed a considerable amount of cleavage while being held by a pair of male arms. The rest of her male companion was not shown, his form hidden by shadows.
"Thank you, I suppose." She put the book beside her other reading on the nightstand. "Will you tell dad we talked so he will leave me alone about this?"
"Certainly," Edgar said simply, with a nod of his head.
—
"Well?" Barnaby asked eagerly, sitting up on the sofa. "How did it go?"
"Splendid," Edgar told him, shrugging. "She will try to bed fifty boys by age twenty one."
"What on earth did you tell her?" Barnaby asked, frowning, then realised Edgar was joking. "She shouldn't try to bed even one if it is not to her liking. Edgar, we really must be sensitive about these matters."
"You're too sensitive about these matters," Edgar said and rolled his eyes. "Blithering on about blossoming and blooming like you've never had sex yourself. At least I was honest with her."
"I don't want to traumatise her," Barnaby said, looking down at his book, made awkward by the simple mention of the topic. "She is still so young."
"She isn't that young." Edgar walked to the drink cart and poured himself a drink, an inch of gin. "Besides, if she has looked at Lertre's books she's already traumatised, we can't do much worse than that. Enough cocks in those books to impregnate all the hens in the country."
"Some of his work is very metaphorical," Barnaby said defensively. "Should hope that is what she got her hands on."
"Please," Edgar said. "Just let her be. She'll come to me if she has further questions."
"And why not me?" Barnaby asked, taking a minor slight. Of course he knew himself to be the disciplinarian, the unfun parent, but he still hoped for a confidante role.
"Because, Barns, you're not a subject expert and thank the gods you're not." Edgar took a sip of his drink. "We don't need two filthy people in this household."
"Perhaps," Barnaby conceded diplomatically. “I’ve removed the books from the library and taken them into your study, just in case. They’re housed next to Lertre’s letters and diaries.”
“She’s already read them, man,” Edgar said tiredly. “Let it go, Barns. The kid will grow up to be charming because of me, smart due to your influence and rich, naturally. She can snap her fingers and get anyone she wants.”
“She is very vulnerable.” Barnaby closed his book, looking over the spine. “But of course we will support her in every way we can.”
“As long as she becomes the High Chancellor by forty and marries for love,” Edgar finished and raised his glass, tipping the rest of its contents into his mouth, grimacing as he did. “And doesn’t marry a Socialist, lest we forget.”
“Not this again, hatred for the Socialists who have done nothing but win an election.” Barnaby smiled. “I think Gloria does a fine job running the country.”
“It’s your money she’s stealing with her tax raises, my dear.” Edgar frowned. “I’m unemployed, so it’s my great luck that I’ll be spared.”
“You’ll always be paid to run your mouth, I’m sure,” Barnaby told him, gently encouraging.
“If all else fails, I’ll sell my body to the highest bidder.” Edgar placed the glass down on the table and sank next to Barnaby on the sofa. “Will you bid for me, Barns?”
“I’ll bid but I won’t compete,” Barnaby said, patting Edgar’s thigh with a hand.
“You really think me that useless?”
“Frankly? Quite.”
“I’m wounded.” Edgar frowned, staring off into the distance, until Barnaby reached out to run a hand over his neck.
“I’m off to bed,” he said lightly and this was all that was needed to put the former High Chancellor in a better mood.
"Well," her father said, hands on his knees. They were in his home office, its dark green curtains drawn over the mellow setting autumn sun. Eleanor was not used to being in this room, as it held no use for her. All it had was a wooden desk with an old typewriter and her father's letters in neat stacks. She doubted even papa visited this room often. It was small and crammed, yet there was hardly a night when Dr Barnaby Forqand didn't spend a couple of hours here, going through letters.
Her friends called him the professor. He glanced at her and cleared his throat. "Has Edgar already talked to you about this?"
"About what?" She looked at him, warily.
"The birds and the bees?" He bit his lip and looked at her from beneath his brow, his hair falling slightly over his eyes.
"No, papa hasn't said anything about nature." She sensed his nervousness.
She was twelve and had gotten her period two years ago and knew all sorts of things about all sorts of matters. She didn't need to be told much at all, she thought. She read a lot and the things she couldn't read about probably didn't need to be known about, she figured.
"Oh thank God," her father said, leaning forward on his hands, still looking remarkably uncomfortable even while sitting in his favourite chair. "Well, Eleanor. I suppose the main thing you need to know is that when two people love one another very dearly, they at times want to express it in different ways."
His coyness amused her. "Oh, you mean sex, dad? I know all about that from Uncle Antoine's books."
He blushed. "Eleanor, those books are– they aren't true to life. And you shouldn't be reading such things at your age. I gave you access to the library but perhaps you ought to show me what you are picking up from there." His brow came together in a frown. "You have to understand those books are written with a certain audience in mind."
"Oh, no worries at all, dad," she replied cheerily. "It has been very educational reading."
"But those books are rather crude," he attempted. "Love is very– delicate. Beautiful, even. The way it, er, blossoms–"
She smiled, teasing him. "Blossoms? What does that mean? Is that when the penis–"
"Eleanor!" he gasped. Her father's hands tightened into fists on his lap. "You shouldn't, I mean – it's not really–" He took a deep breath in. "What I mean to say is that you should know how to protect yourself as well as enjoy yourself. Young girls can be rather vulnerable to pressures from the outside."
"You mean pregnancy?" She was really having fun with this. It was not often that the professor was this flustered. Usually he was the one reprimanding her about this, that or the other. He was very particular about cleanliness and homework. She preferred her papa's attitude, which was more relaxed about such things.
"No!" The professor was faltering now. "I mean, yes, of course, that is a concern. I will give you some, er, accoutrement to prevent that. But you shouldn't do anything if you don't feel comfortable."
"Sex is very normal, though, isn't it? But as it stands I don't like any boys at the moment." She looked at him, and he wouldn't meet her eye. "Or girls. I know such things are normal, too."
"Yes," he agreed. "Quite. But things are a bit more complicated, er– And the ways that one might – well, I suppose, in a sense, it’s quite different between the two genders – insofar as there are only two. What I mean to say is, I cannot give you any exact guidance, I just hope – that is –"
"I don't want to do it yet, dad." Eleanor looked at him, folding her arms. She was getting a bit annoyed. "I don't see why we need to discuss this now."
"To prepare, um." Her father visibly paused to gather himself. "Never mind, dear. I think it might be better if Edgar discusses this with you. I'll ask that he have a chat with you at some later time."
"Thank you, dad." She smiled at him, encouragingly. "You tried your best."
He looked at her, utterly defeated.
Two days later, papa was back from his speaking engagement and came to her room, where she was writing a letter to her friend Affila. They didn't have a fax machine at home, because her parents were boring and old fashioned, unlike Affila's parents. Eleanor was sometimes surprised her fathers allowed her to even watch television.
"Nora," papa said gently. "You've read uncle Antoine's books and didn't tell me? Dear, we could have had a book club."
She laughed. "Papa, they were disgusting. I put them back on the shelf immediately."
"Indeed, they are. That is their beauty, you must understand." He sat down on the edge of her bed. "God rest his soul, old Lertre."
She said nothing. She didn't actually remember the uncle in question, but papa had a picture of him on the mantle. An older man, with brown skin and a wide smile, wearing a bowler hat. In the sleeves of the books he looked younger but more stiff, formal. They were strange images for a man who wrote such salacious books, though of course the professor had spent the past two days reminding her that uncle Antoine also wrote books without any sex in them. Yet he was quite flushed when he said this, making her doubt his words.
"Regardless," her papa said easily, "these are quite simple matters. You used to play as a little girl. It was your instinct to do so, and you learned a lot doing it. Now you no longer care for dolls or train sets. But in time you may get interested in play of a different type. Your instinct may even demand it."
She frowned. Now he was being as coy as the professor. "That sounds very strange."
"In a sense," he said, shrugging. "But also, fun with the right person. Even the wrong person, at times. But it doesn't matter until you are ready for it. And you know best when that time comes."
"I see," she replied. "What about pregnancy?"
"What about it?" Her papa rubbed his scalp with fingers, thinking. "Don't get pregnant. Sleep with girls, perhaps?"
"What!" She frowned, then broke into a smile when she understood he was only teasing. "I don't like girls. Or boys. I don't like anyone enough to, er, play with them."
"Of course, take your time." He smiled. "Nora dearest, I was hoping you might be enlightened. Men are so–" He made a vague gesture with his hands. "And women just so much better, as you well know, being one."
"Is that why Gloria Nachdro is the High Chancellor and not you?" she asked, teasing him in return.
"Ha!" He pointed a finger from his nose toward her. "I gave her that grace, Nora, as you well know."
"You lost an election, dad says," she argued. She knew that was indeed what had happened.
"Barnaby knows very little about politics, Nora dearest," her papa said, leaning back on his hands and raising both eyebrows. She could tell he was annoyed, but then the mood faded. "It was time for me."
"Now you may enjoy retirement," she said. "Write a book."
"Perhaps," he said. "But back to you. When you want to play with a boy or a girl, come to me and I'll tell you how to talk to them. I've had some success with that."
"Dad says that's just what the papers write and I shouldn't believe what they say," Eleanor corrected him.
"Why of course. There are only two types of people who you should never trust, Nora, and one of them is journalists."
He stood up to leave. She frowned at him.
"What's the other type?"
"Politicians," he said with a look that told her he probably wasn't being serious. He then took a book he had left on her bed. "Almost forgot. I was told this is a better book on the topic for the female audience than Lertre's blessed filth. I haven't read it myself, not really being interested, but I leafed through and the lady seemed to be enjoying herself greatly."
Eleanor took the book from him. The title was written in silver engraved lettering: About Sir Henry and His Lady, by Federica Plew. The woman on the cover had her head thrown back, her brown curls falling behind her. Her eyes were closed but her mouth had fallen open. She showed a considerable amount of cleavage while being held by a pair of male arms. The rest of her male companion was not shown, his form hidden by shadows.
"Thank you, I suppose." She put the book beside her other reading on the nightstand. "Will you tell dad we talked so he will leave me alone about this?"
"Certainly," Edgar said simply, with a nod of his head.
—
"Well?" Barnaby asked eagerly, sitting up on the sofa. "How did it go?"
"Splendid," Edgar told him, shrugging. "She will try to bed fifty boys by age twenty one."
"What on earth did you tell her?" Barnaby asked, frowning, then realised Edgar was joking. "She shouldn't try to bed even one if it is not to her liking. Edgar, we really must be sensitive about these matters."
"You're too sensitive about these matters," Edgar said and rolled his eyes. "Blithering on about blossoming and blooming like you've never had sex yourself. At least I was honest with her."
"I don't want to traumatise her," Barnaby said, looking down at his book, made awkward by the simple mention of the topic. "She is still so young."
"She isn't that young." Edgar walked to the drink cart and poured himself a drink, an inch of gin. "Besides, if she has looked at Lertre's books she's already traumatised, we can't do much worse than that. Enough cocks in those books to impregnate all the hens in the country."
"Some of his work is very metaphorical," Barnaby said defensively. "Should hope that is what she got her hands on."
"Please," Edgar said. "Just let her be. She'll come to me if she has further questions."
"And why not me?" Barnaby asked, taking a minor slight. Of course he knew himself to be the disciplinarian, the unfun parent, but he still hoped for a confidante role.
"Because, Barns, you're not a subject expert and thank the gods you're not." Edgar took a sip of his drink. "We don't need two filthy people in this household."
"Perhaps," Barnaby conceded diplomatically. “I’ve removed the books from the library and taken them into your study, just in case. They’re housed next to Lertre’s letters and diaries.”
“She’s already read them, man,” Edgar said tiredly. “Let it go, Barns. The kid will grow up to be charming because of me, smart due to your influence and rich, naturally. She can snap her fingers and get anyone she wants.”
“She is very vulnerable.” Barnaby closed his book, looking over the spine. “But of course we will support her in every way we can.”
“As long as she becomes the High Chancellor by forty and marries for love,” Edgar finished and raised his glass, tipping the rest of its contents into his mouth, grimacing as he did. “And doesn’t marry a Socialist, lest we forget.”
“Not this again, hatred for the Socialists who have done nothing but win an election.” Barnaby smiled. “I think Gloria does a fine job running the country.”
“It’s your money she’s stealing with her tax raises, my dear.” Edgar frowned. “I’m unemployed, so it’s my great luck that I’ll be spared.”
“You’ll always be paid to run your mouth, I’m sure,” Barnaby told him, gently encouraging.
“If all else fails, I’ll sell my body to the highest bidder.” Edgar placed the glass down on the table and sank next to Barnaby on the sofa. “Will you bid for me, Barns?”
“I’ll bid but I won’t compete,” Barnaby said, patting Edgar’s thigh with a hand.
“You really think me that useless?”
“Frankly? Quite.”
“I’m wounded.” Edgar frowned, staring off into the distance, until Barnaby reached out to run a hand over his neck.
“I’m off to bed,” he said lightly and this was all that was needed to put the former High Chancellor in a better mood.
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