Free Sensible Life by Mary Wesley Page B

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