Sensible Life by Mary Wesley

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