by Mary Wesley
“What were they wearing? Were they hampered by their fancy clothes?”
“Hubert,” she reproached him, “do not mock.”
“Another cake, Madame Tarasova?”
“I shall keep one for the child.”
“And Igor. Igor would make a nice waistcoat lining. Where is Igor, the princely Pom?”
“With the child. Please do not make such jokes, Hubert.” She was quite cross.
“Sorry, Madame. Tell me about Rasputin. Wasn’t he a monk?”
“The Tsarina should have spoken to the Orthodox priests, not to Rasputin.”
“Properly dressed, were they?”
“Oh, Hubert, their vestments! Their wonderful vestments of blue and crimson, embroidered with gold. The Metropolitan’s robes resembled those of the holy angels. The Tsarina should have been advised by him.”
Blanco reassembled his ideas; angels in his book had always dressed in outsize nightdresses. “Russian angels sound rather dressier than ours,” he said, laughing. “Why didn’t Rasputin—”
But Madame Tarasova, losing patience, was angry. “You are making fun of my lost country, my lost life. All you want to talk about is the ugliness, the violence, the horror, while I want to remember the beauty.”
Blanco felt ashamed of the one cake left on the plate. He wished he had bought more; he could find nothing to say as he watched the little woman. She was whispering now in Russian, then, as he leaned forward to hear, in French, “et vous êtes sacrilèges—”
“I apologise, Madame. Jesus Christ would never need to bother about his tailor. He would dress in clouds of glory, would he not?”
“Tailor?” Madame Tarasova choked. Blanco wondered how he had put his great foot in it now.
Flora came into the room. “I say,” she said, “what’s going on? I couldn’t keep Igor out in the rain any longer; he has done his jobs twice and has no squirt left for pipi. Am I interrupting?” (“Am I interrupting?” She talked like an adult.) “Oh, Madame Tarasova, is that my dress finished? How lovely! May I try it on?”
“Turn your back, Hubert, while she tries the dress. Look out of the window.”
Hubert looked out into the grey street. In the glass he saw a faint reflection of the woman and child, saw the child pull her ugly brown jersey over her head, let her baggy tweed skirt drop, saw her standing white-skinned in vest and knickers, heard Madame Tarasova say, “Don’t your underclothes scratch you, child?” Her voice low. “In Russia you would wear silk.” The dress was dropped over the child’s head, straightened and buttoned. “There,” said Madame Tarasova, “how is that?”
“Lovely.” Flora climbed onto the table so that she could see herself in a glass on the wall. “Thank you so very much.” She looked down at Blanco.
“Hello,” said Blanco, looking up. “Hello.”
Flora flushed. “Hello,” she said.
“I don’t know why you had to go out in this weather,” said Blanco. “We’ve given up the piano. French conversation shouldn’t make Igor howl. Are you living here?” She was taller than him standing on the table. He had the illusion that she was adult.
“I spend most of the day here. I’m learning Russian and maths and keeping Madame Tarasova company.” She got down from the table carefully, so as not to spoil the frock. “I am still sleeping in the annexe,” she said.
“We never see you,” said Blanco, realising as he said it that she did not mean to be seen. “There is one cake left,” he said. “We kept it for you.”
“Is it really for me?” Her pale face grew pink. “You kept it for me?”
“Madame Tarasova, actually.”
“Oh.”
“I have some parcels for ladies at the Marjolaine,” said Madame Tarasova. “Will you help Flora carry them there?”
“Of course I will,” said Blanco.
“Take the dress off, Flora, I have one more button to sew on.”
He could see she did not wish to take the dress off. The dressmaker had cut it with a square neck which showed the hollows above her collar bone. “It’s too cold to wear the dress today,” he said. “If the weather changes before we go back to school, you could wear it at the picnic.”
“What picnic? Oh, I—” She bit her tongue, remembering discretion. “Could you look the other way,” she asked, “while I dress?”
“All right.” When he turned round she was back in her drab jersey and the tweed skirt which, much sat in, made her look as though she had a large bottom. But she had a neat bottom, he had seen it reflected in the window. “You haven’t eaten your cake,” he said. “Eat it.”
Flora ate the cake as they stood by the work table, watching Madame Tarasova pack the parcels of dresses for the ladies at the Marjolaine and writing bills which she pinned to the tissue wrapping-paper. The cake tasted of coconut, which she detested. She gave a piece to Igor, who sat on his haunches and begged, his black eyes glistening like pins. Igor spat it out onto the worn carpet.
They walked up the street carrying Madame Tarasova’s parcels.
“How can I persuade Madame Tarasova to tell me about the Revolution?” Blanco looked down at his companion.
“Playing backgammon reminds her of nice things; she sometimes talks of them.”
“We’ve rather missed out on backgammon. D’you suppose, if I can rescue him from the golf course, I could bring Cosmo tomorrow?”
“Cosmo?” Her voice lifted. “Would you?”
“Why not? He’s keen. Would she talk freely to him?”
“Not about the Revolution, but she likes telling her escape story. She hates the baboonery of Bolshevism.”
“Where did you learn that expression?”
“My father read it in The Times; someone called Churchill said it. I told Madame T. She likes it.”
“If I keep off the Bolsheviks, will she talk?”
“Oh yes. The Tsar, the Tsarina, the beautiful people.” Flora mimicked Madame Tarasova. “You are going to have a very funny accent if you learn French from Madame T.,” she said, laughing.
“I don’t mind,” said Blanco. “How did she escape?”
“She and her husband—”
“She’s married? Where is he?”
“In Paris. They escaped from Petrograd to Moscow, to Kiev, to Baku, then back to Odessa, to Constantinople where they got stuck for months, then Egypt, to Italy, to France. It took two years. I looked it up on the map. They were half-starved. She’ll tell you all that. I know it by heart.”
“What does her husband do?”
“He’s a taxi-driver. Lots of Russians, princes, generals and nobles drive taxis in Paris.” Flora threw the parcel she was carrying up in the air and caught it.
“Really?”
“All the best people drive taxis. C’est plutôt snob.” Flora mimicked Madame Tarasova again. “And get her to tell you the ‘insult’ of the underclothes.”
“No, you tell me about the underclothes.” Blanco felt a sudden urge to bully her, as he sometimes bullied small boys at school. He pushed Flora up against a wall between two shops. “Go on,” he said, towering over her. With his arms full of parcels it was quite difficult to keep her trapped; he thrust a knee between her legs, pinning her. “Go on,” he said. “Tell me.”
“It was winter and bitterly cold,” said Flora hurriedly. “In Constantinople the British ambassador’s wife organised a collection for the Russian refugees. She bought masses and masses of Jaeger underclothes and sent them to the refugees.” Flora tried to wriggle free, but Blanco had her pinned. “Madame Tarasova sent them all back with a message to say thank you very much but none of them ever wore anything except silk next to the skin.”
“Bloody cheek,” said Blanco, pushing.
“Do you like scratchy pants? Here, take this.” Flora thrust the parcel she was carrying into his arms, ducked and was gone, racing up the street.
Blanco, his arms full of parcels, watched her go. He was not thinking of the Russian refugees and the woollen underclothes;
he would remember them later and tell his hosts, the Shovehalfpennies and Cosmo at dinner to make them laugh. With Flora pressed against the wall he had wished he was not burdened with parcels. He would have liked to hold her throat and put his thumbs in the salt cellars above her collar bone. He felt a prickle of sweat on his upper lip and was startled to feel he had an erection.
TWELVE
FINDING THE DOOR BESIDE the horse butcher ajar, Cosmo was surprised, when he pushed it open, to see Flora squatting half-way up the stair leading to Madame Tarasova’s lodgings. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Equally surprised, Flora countered, “Why aren’t you playing golf?”
“My father is in confabulation with other paterfamiliases plotting how to get us back to school. If there is a General Strike there will be no trains.” Cosmo stood on the bottom stair looking up.
“So you could stay on in Dinard?”
“They’ll get us back somehow, even if they make us walk. How do you know I play golf?” Flora did not answer but pulled her skirt over her knees.
“What are you doing?” Cosmo climbed the stair. “I’m rather sick of golf,” he confided, “but don’t tell Pa.”
“I am playing myself,” said Flora primly.
“Backgammon?” Cosmo noticed the board balanced on the step. “Playing left hand against right? Which is winning? Do you play fair?”
“There would be no point in cheating.”
“Let me watch you.”
“No.” Flora clenched the dice in her fist and began stacking the pieces into their box. “Elizabeth and Anne are having a fitting,” she said. “There’s no room in there to move. They are rather large.” She gestured with both hands, indicating the size of the Dutch bosoms. Cosmo was reminded of the trip to St. Malo, when they had bought the revolver for his father. She had made a similar gesture but lower down to indicate the café proprietor’s wife’s obesity. “How is your friend Jules’ wife?” he asked, settling himself below her on the stair.
“She’s grown thin. Jules says he will give her new dresses and she’s got a little baby.”
“Ah,” said Cosmo, “that’s interesting. Are they pleased, Jules and his wife?”
“Very. Jules says they’ve wanted a baby for ages. They had prayed for one, gone on a pilgrimage to Lourdes. It didn’t come from Lourdes, though. He said, ‘Voyez ma petite on s’est beaucoup applique.’ They managed to find one somehow.” Flora looked puzzled. “It’s a girl. They want to find a boy next.”
Cosmo said, “I see, yes, that’s nice.” In the room above he heard Elizabeth laugh and a burst of talk. He said, “Would you give me a game?”
“If you like.” Flora began setting out the board.
“I know the rudiments,” Cosmo said, watching her, “but not the finer points. Madame Tarasova hasn’t taught me how or when to double. Let’s see how we get on.”
“It’s Alexis who is the gambler. D’you want black or white?”
“Black. Who is Alexis?”
“Her husband. You start.”
Cosmo shook the dice and threw. “A three and a one. What shall I do? No, don’t tell me.” He moved a piece four paces.
Flora’s nose twitched. She shook the dice, threw a double six and rapidly—chunk, chunk—blocked Cosmo’s six-point as well as her own. Cosmo threw a three and a two and moved his men, leaving himself grievously exposed. Flora took him off and consolidated her board. Cosmo, who had been feeling kindly and patronising, now realised that Flora might not know where babies came from, but knew this game. As she took her last man off, he said, “Either I am a complete fool or you are extremely lucky.”
“It’s a knack.” Flora began stacking the pieces. “Were you meeting the Shovels here?” she asked, nodding upwards towards Madame Tarasova’s door.
“I’m making myself scarce, actually; when Pa’s finished, his mind may turn golfwards. I was hoping to find Blanco; my mother, Mabs and Tashie are at the hairdresser’s and going to St. Malo for lunch. It’s amazing what a lot of time they spend beautifying themselves. Who for, one asks? Who would they find in St. Malo?”
Felix, thought Flora, who had seen him board an early vedette. “I saw them,” she said, “go into the coiffeur.”
“You funny little thing, d’you spy on us?”
Flora flushed. “No! I just notice people.” And Felix does not notice anybody, she thought. “I’d better go now.” She shut the board.
“Don’t run away.” Cosmo caught her by the ankle. “Stay here, sit down. I have an idea. When Blanco comes for his bridge and conversation, you can teach me how to play this game properly. Will you?”
Flora said, “Oh—I—”
“Got something better to do? Does your mother want you, or your father?” He gripped her ankle, squeezing it hard.
“No, I—” She tried to move. Cosmo was hurting her.
“Hello,” said Blanco, entering from the street. “There’s a skinned horse’s head next door; spooky. What are you two doing? Its teeth are rather like young Joyce’s, except that it never needed a brace.” He kicked the door closed. “Eugh, horse blood. Are Anne and Elizabeth still here? What an age they take. I’ve been out to buy cakes and blown the last of my francs as it’s the last but one of the hols. I bought enough for everybody except Igor. Cakes make him throw up. Has the little horror had his run?” he asked Flora.
“Yes.” Flora jerked her ankle free and stood up.
Above them the volume of talk grew louder. Elizabeth opened the door. “Look at you all,” she said. “Why don’t you come up? We are quite decent, we’ve finished our fittings. Anne and I thought we would stay and make a four for your bridge, Hubert, but since you have Cosmo we shall be de trop.”
Cosmo said, “Please stay. Flora is going to teach me to win this bloody game, aren’t you, Flora?”
Flora did not answer, but sprang ahead into Madame Tarasova’s room.
“You’ve been teasing her,” said Blanco.
“I don’t tease little girls.” Cosmo went ahead of Blanco into the crowded room. “Hello, Madame, bonjour, bonjour.” He shook her hand with the hand which had held Flora’s ankle vice-like.
Madame Tarasova chirruped with pleasure over the patisseries, moved her sewing onto the chaise longue, bundled Prince Igor’s basket underneath it, brought out the cards, placed chairs for the card players and arranged the cakes on a plate.
Elizabeth, Anne and Blanco squeezed round the table, while Cosmo and Flora, using the music stool for the backgammon, sat on the floor. “Now, start at the beginning,” said Cosmo. “Explain everything. Tell me all the hows and wherefores and how to win.”
Gaining confidence, Flora was soon demonstrating the game, showing Cosmo when to double, when to draw back, when to give in. When presently Madame Tarasova made tea, serving it in glasses with a slice of lemon, Elizabeth and Anne conducted a bridge post-mortem, accusing each other of crass mistakes with the utmost good humour, leaning back in their chairs, sipping tea, nibbling their cakes. They aired their excellent English in accents which charmed the ear. Cosmo, from his position on the floor, was impressed by the size of their breasts, which jutted like the prows of galleons under their jerseys; so unlike his sister Mabs and her friend Tashie’s fashionable flatness or his mother’s discreet curves. Holding his steaming glass in one hand he unconsciously cupped the other, until, aware of Flora eyeing him across the piano stool, he made a fist and feinted a punch at her nose. Flora did not flinch but, leaning across the stool, whispered, “Jules’ wife’s tummy has moved up high like Elizabeth and Anne’s fronts.”
“Has it really?” Cosmo calculated the length of her eyelashes. “Keep still,” he said, “I won’t hurt you,” and tweaked an eyelash out. “Nearly half an inch, I’d say.” He laid the eyelash on his palm.
“Is that dangerous?” Flora’s eye watered.
“Another rubber?” Blanco called the bridge players to order. “And cut the frivolity. I shall never survive in the gaming houses of Europe
at this rate or support myself in the world of Cousin Thing; I need all the help you girls can give me.”
Elizabeth said, “Very well, Hubert, but tell us about this cousin and his world. We do not know the secret.”
“It’s no secret,” said Cosmo from the floor, “he tells anyone who will listen about the merde his cousin has landed him in.”
“Do not use that word, Cosmo. Tell us, Hubert, the history of your cousin,” said Madame Tarasova.
“Be brief,” said Cosmo. “I know it by heart.”
“Hush,” said Elizabeth. “We want to hear.”
“My cousin, this old man, had six sons. My father was the distant residual heir. My father was killed, then all my six cousins, sons of the old man, were killed too. Voila!”
“The war exaggerated,” said Anne.
“All wars exaggerate,” murmured Elizabeth. “Go on, Hubert.”
“Get to the primogenital point,” said Cosmo.
“All right,” said Blanco. “The point is that this cousin’s house is entailed on the nearest male heir, that’s me, but none of the money. The old bastard is spending it while he lives so that when I eventually inherit, I shall have nothing to keep the house going. I shall not be able to sell the beastly place because it is entailed. So now perhaps you grasp why I have to make money?”
Everybody said, “Ah!” in a variety of sympathetic tones. “Poor Blanco, poor Hubert.”
“To add to the injury,” said Hubert, “I have been made to take his name, add Whyte to my father’s Wyndeatt. Double-barrelled names are ridiculous.”
“Only if you are a socialist,” said Cosmo, hoping to irritate his friend.
“What is he like, this old monster?” enquired Anne. “If he knew you better he would be charmed and alter his will.”
“He categorically refuses to meet me,” said Blanco.
“Like Little Lord Fauntleroy,” said Flora. Cosmo gave a whoop of laughter, throwing back his head and cracking it on the piano. “Ouch!”
“So you are a milord?” Madame Tarasova’s eyes sparkled with interest.
