Joanna Godden | Page 7

rising early as she always must,
and pulling aside the flowered curtain that covered her window. The
prospect was certainly not one to cheer; even in sunshine the horizons
of the marsh were discouraging with their gospel of universal flatness,
and this morning the sun was not yet up, and a pale mist was drifting

through the willows, thick and congealed above the watercourses,
thinner on the grazing lands between them, so that one could see the
dim shapes of the sheep moving through it. Even in clear weather only
one other dwelling was visible from Little Ansdore, and that was its
fellow of Great Ansdore, about half a mile away seawards. The sight of
it never failed to make Joanna contemptuous--for Great Ansdore had
but fifty acres of land compared with the three hundred of its Little
neighbour. Its Greatness was merely a matter of name and tradition,
and had only one material aspect in the presentation to the living of
Brodnyx-with-Pedlinge, which had been with Great Ansdore since the
passing of the monks of Canterbury.
To-day Great Ansdore was only a patch of grey rather denser than its
surroundings, and failed to inspire Joanna with her usual sense of
gloating. Her eyes were almost sad as she stared out at it, her chin
propped on her hands. The window was shut, as every window in every
farm and cottage on the marsh was shut at night, though the ague was
now little more than a name on the lips of grandfathers. Therefore the
room in which two people had slept was rather stuffy, though this in
itself would hardly account for Joanna's heaviness, since it was what
she naturally expected a bedroom to be in the morning. Such vague
sorrow was perplexing and disturbing to her practical emotions; she
hurriedly attributed it to "poor father," and the propriety of the
sentiment allowed her the relief of a few tears.
Turning back into the room she unbuttoned her turkey-red
dressing-gown, preparatory to the business of washing and dressing.
Then her eye fell on Ellen still asleep in her little iron bedstead in the
corner, and a glow of tenderness passed like a lamp over her face. She
went across to where her sister slept, and laid her face for a moment
beside hers on the pillow. Ellen's breath came regularly from parted
lips--she looked adorable cuddled there, with her red cheeks, like an
apple in snow. Joanna, unable to resist the temptation, kissed her and
woke her.
"Hullo, Jo--what time is it?" mumbled Ellen sleepily.
"Not time to get up yet. I'm not dressed."

She sat on the edge of the bed, stooping over her sister, and her big
rough plaits dangled in the child's face.
"Hullo, Jo--hullo, old Jo," continued the drowsy murmur.
"Go to sleep, you bad girl," said Joanna, forgetting that she herself had
roused her.
Ellen was not wide enough awake to have any conflicting views on the
subject, and she nestled down again with a deep sigh. For the next ten
minutes the room was full of small sounds--the splashing of cold water
in the basin, the shuffle of coarse linen, the click of fastening stays, the
rhythmic swish of a hair brush. Then came two silent minutes, while
Joanna knelt with closed eyes and folded hands beside her big, tumbled
bed, and said the prayers that her mother had taught her eighteen years
ago--word for word as she had said them when she was five, even to
the "make me a good girl" at the end. Then she jumped up briskly and
tore the sheet off the bed, throwing it with the pillows on the floor, so
that Grace Wickens the servant should have no chance of making the
bed without stripping it, as was the way of her kind.
Grace was not up yet, of course. Joanna hit her door a resounding
thump as she passed it on her way to the kitchen. Here the dead ashes
had been raked out overnight, and the fire laid according to custom.
She lit the fire and put the kettle on to boil; she did not consider it
beneath her to perform these menial offices. She knew that every hand
was needed for the early morning work of a farm. By the time she had
finished both Grace and Martha were in the room, yawning and rubbing
their eyes.
"That'll burn up nicely now," said Joanna, surveying the fire. "You'd
better put the fish-kettle on too, in case Broadhurst wants hot water for
a mash. Bring me out a cup of tea as soon as you can get it ready--I'll
be somewhere in the yard."
She put on an old coat of her father's over her black dress, and went out,
her nailed boots clattering on the