Free The Vanishing Futurist by Charlotte Hobson

giving English lessons, and I’m among friends. I’ve lived here for over four years now – I feel at home.’
    Her eyes flickered over our ‘Red Corner’ with its slogan and portraits of Marx and Engels.
    ‘Miss Freely, you know I am not one to mince my words. You are living in a house of ill repute. Your name is connected with the most depraved behaviour. There are those at St Andrew’s who would refuse you entrance to the hostel, but I have used what little influence I have to persuade the Reverend Brown that we must offer you this charity.’
    ‘Please thank the Reverend for me and tell him that I’m in no need of assistance.’ I smiled at her and attempted to be firm. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have a meeting to attend.’
    ‘Miss Freely! I will not be sent away like this—’
    ‘Well – then perhaps you’d like to stay for our evening meeting? You will see that there is nothing remotely depraved about it.’
    It was perhaps unfortunate that she attended the session at which we set up the Commissariat for Clothing.
    ‘Comrades!’ began Slavkin, once we had all gathered. ‘Good, all here, and we have with us also an acquaintance of Comrade Freely’s. Welcome, Comrade Clegg.’ He nodded towards Miss Clegg, who was perched on a chair in the corner, her expression a wonderful mixture of excitement and disgust. ‘Now we must discuss the matter of the collectivisation of our clothing. We have already decided to pool all our possessions for the common good. We have handed over our income and our valuables. How can we, therefore, allow one member to walk about in an astrakhan coat, while another shivers in a cotton jacket?’ As he talked, he loped about on his long, knobbly, Bactrian legs.
    ‘Quite right,’ said Dr Marina. ‘Clothes only provide fuel for vanity. We cannot have them creating inequality between us.’
    ‘I don’t see anyone in an astrakhan,’ commented Pasha.
    ‘Pasha, you’re a . . . a Galliffet,’ Sonya said, frowning at her brother (the latest term of abuse, it was a reference to the French general who suppressed the Paris Commune). ‘A wool coat, then. You know what he means.’
    ‘I am not! I just don’t think this idea is radical enough. Why do we need clothes at all? It’s warm at the moment, clothes only get dirty and need washing, as well as promoting inequality. I mean, even collectivised clothes – give one man a smock, and he’ll look like a wastrel; give the same smock to another and he’ll wear it like a hero,’ he ran on. ‘Everyone knows that. Only the naked body can be truly equal.’
    ‘I’ll second that,’ Volodya, the ex-soldier drawled, speaking past the soggy cigarette stub that lived in the corner of his mouth. ‘Clothes off, everyone!’ He stood up and took off his jacket with a flourish.
    Miss Clegg made a noise in her throat, something like ‘Oglf.’
    ‘Well, in that sense nudity wouldn’t be equal either, would it? Some people are better made than others, there’s no escaping that,’ snapped Fyodor. ‘We need clothes for protection and warmth. Enough of this oafishness.’
    Even then, of course, fault lines existed within the commune. Volodya, just back from the trenches and highly suspicious of anything that smelt of refinement or intellectual snobbishness, did not blend happily with Fyodor’s rather prissy emphasis on ‘Revolutionary culture’ (that is, neatness, politeness and meticulous self-discipline), and Fyodor disapproved of Pasha’s jokes.
    ‘Don’t be so hasty!’ Pasha retorted. ‘Haven’t you heard of the nudist movement these days? They dance with only a loin cloth, or a fig leaf, or something. I’m sorry to say I haven’t seen it yet. Anyway, I think some of the other members agree with me. Didn’t I hear Comrade Clegg expressing an interest?’
    Miss Clegg, chins quivering, stood up. ‘I didn’t come here to be insulted. This is the last time I offer the hand of friendship to you, Gertrude