Authors: Mary Wesley
Rosa knitted for several minutes before rallying. “There is the child of that couple who are so wrapped up in each other,” she said. “She has potential.”
“Do you mean the Trevelyans, who were staying here when you arrived? Angus met them on the boat from Southampton; he thought the wife pretty. I remember they had a child, but much too young to interest the boys. They moved on somewhere. Cosmo took a dislike to them for some reason.”
“They are still in Dinard,” said Rosa. “They moved to a flat near the quay, leaving the child in the annexe where she has spent the winter with her governess. The mother was here for part of the time, they got special rates for a long stay—out of season—the mother has been in England with her husband for the first months of his leave. He goes back to India at the end of June.”
“What a lot you know,” said Milly.
“I talk to the hotel servants, they are fond of the child.”
“Oh,” said Milly, who hoped she disapproved of gossip.
“The Mademoiselle has been sacked; no great loss, I gather. The child is left to her own devices.”
“But her parents—”
“I suspect that in this weather they spend their time in bed doing the things you look up in the dictionary,” said Rosa. “One sees the child, but she is rarely with her parents.”
Milly thought Rosa’s suggestion coarse. She was of course Dutch, but even so … She kept her eyes on her knitting. She and Angus had never done anything like that in the daytime.
Rosa gave her an amused glance. “That child is having a slap-dash education,” she said. “A couple of years with a governess in Italy on the cheap, small
pensions
, that sort of thing, and then the same in France. I hear she is learning Russian from one of the émigrés and now the parents plan to put her in a school in England when the mother rejoins the father in India.”
“That’s what happens to the children, long separations. It’s sad, they hardly know their parents in some cases,” said Milly.
“Perhaps this child does not wish to,” said Rosa.
Milly thought Rosa was being rather harsh; she had probably got a garbled version from the hotel servants. “I expect she has a grandmother or kind aunts who will take care of her in the holidays.” She felt it necessary to present a happier picture; the child’s parents were, after all, English.
“There are no aunts or uncles. The only grandmother died recently, I hear.”
From the hotel servants, thought Milly. “Many parents have quite a struggle these days,” she said. “Look, for instance, at Hubert’s mother, Mrs. Wyndeatt-Whyte—”
“Such a ridiculous name,” said Rosa.
No more ridiculous than yours, thought Milly.
“She has only her widow’s pension,” she said. “She tries to manage on that, and his rich relation will not help with one single penny.”
“Hum,” said Rosa, feeling she had teased Milly enough. “He is a good-looking and nice-mannered boy. How does he spend his time while Cosmo plays enforced golf?”
“He learns the piano,” said Milly, “goes for walks.”
B
LANCO’S WALKS TOOK HIM
no further than Madame Tarasova’s lodging above the horse butcher. On his way he called at the patisserie to buy cakes to share with his tiny Armenian teacher. After a certain amount of heart-searching she had been persuaded to drop the piano lessons in favour of French conversation. This arrangement suited Madame Tarasova; she could stitch at whatever garment she happened to be making while they talked. When she had placed the cakes on a plate, she would resume her sewing while Blanco, sitting astride the piano stool, asked questions. He was consumed with curiosity about the Revolution, thrilled to meet someone who had been in Russia in 1917. Maybe she had played no actual part, but she would have met people who had, people who would have given her first-hand accounts. He questioned her in schoolboy French. “Tell me what you saw. Your experiences, were they exciting?” He was avid for history at first-hand.
Madame Tarasova, sitting opposite the plate of cakes, savoured them with her eyes.
“Have one, go on, they are for you,” urged Blanco.
“Presently,” said Madame Tarasova. “I like to look at them. Look,” she said, “this is for the child, isn’t it a pretty blue?”
“The one I—”
“Her maman has commissioned three—this blue, a green and a pink. Quite cheap material, but it is pretty. I would myself have chosen silk.” Madame Tarasova sighed. Blanco pushed the plate of cakes towards her. “Oh, Hubert, you spoil me.”
“Tell me about the Revolution, The Bolsheviks; what were they like?”
“Bolsheviks, Bolsheviks.” She helped herself to a cake.
“Tell me what you saw,” urged Blanco.
Madame Tarasova threaded a needle. “She will look her prettiest in the pink, but the material is rather ordinary.”
“The Revolution, Madame?”
“It was terrible. I was twenty years old in 1917, the year of disaster. So many young officers were killed in the war. They were so elegant, such fine uniforms, sable linings to their greatcoats. There is no sound to equal the musical clink of spurs. You could see your face reflected in their boots—such polish.” On either side of her large nose Madame Tarasova’s eyes gazed into the past. “All their underclothes were silk, of course.”
Had she been engaged to one of these creatures? Had she lost a lover? How to ask? Blanco helped himself to a cake. “Were some of these officers relations of yours?” He screwed the stool round to watch her face.
“I watched them riding or driving in their carriages, such fine horses. They went to the great balls and to parties. This was before the Revolution. My heart went with them.”
“Ah.”
“The nobles, the princes, the Tsar and Tsarina, their beautiful children. Murdered by the Bolsheviks, oh, the shame and desecration.”
“Tell me about the Bolsheviks—”
“You should have seen the clothes the court ladies wore. The magnificent jewels, oh, the pity. Where are those jewels now?”
“I don’t know, Madame Tarasova. In hock?”
“The silks and velvets, the lace, those incredible furs. Imagine the sable and mink, Hubert.”
“Tell me about Lenin.”
Madame Tarasova pursed her mouth. “I cannot speak that name without wishing to spit. Je crache!”
“Trotsky, then, tell me about Trotsky.”
“I would spit on him too.”
“Stalin? More goo?” suggested Blanco.
“I will tell you of the wonders of Holy Russia. Of Petrograd, that exquisite city, of the grandeur of Moscow. I know nothing of the monsters who destroyed my country. Where are the beautiful people who drove to the opera, the ballet, the court balls in their sumptuous carriages and sleighs? I can tell you about the beautiful people—”
Blanco tried again. “Did you ever see Lenin?”
“Certainly not. Such badly cut suits, he had no idea of dress.”
“Did you see Trotsky?”
“He dressed a little better. No, I did
not
see him.”
Blanco pushed the cake plate towards her. She was stitching hard, hemming the bottom of the pink cotton dress with swift jerking movements. He would try another tack.
“The poor, Madame Tarasova. The serfs. What about the poor?”
“They were there. They served the beautiful people, cared for their jewels, their clothes. But let me tell you about the clothes, not the serfs; their clothes were dull, of no importance.”
“Tell me about the common people, the soldiers who died in the snow at the front.”
Madame Tarasova threaded her needle, holding it to the light, squinting. “They died. There were plenty of them. They had uniforms of rather coarse material.”
“They were poor,” said Blanco. “Poor.”
“Jesus Christ made it clear that the poor are always with us, did he not?”
“And not the officers?”
“Come to think of it, he never mentioned the officers.” Was she teasing him? “It was the officers who were beautiful. The soldiers were drab.”
“I don’t believe Jesus Christ was a particularly snappy dresser,” said Blanco. Madame Tarasova did not seem to hear. “So you were not, are not, interested in what Lenin did for the common people?”
“Only,” Madame Tarasova was stitching fiercely, vindictively, “in that his interference in the natural order of things has made me a poor and common person without even the security of a passport. My Imperial Russia is no more.”
“If you had stayed in Russia, would you have had jewels and silks and furs?” Madame Tarasova did not answer. “Forgive me for asking,” said Blanco, embarrassed, “but was your family very rich?”
“What does it matter now?” said Madame Tarasova, sitting in her cramped lodging above the horse butcher. “Look, the dress is nearly finished. It is all the fault of Rasputin and his influence on the Tsarina. He wore filthy clothes, he was a disgusting, drunken, devilish man; the nobles who killed him had great difficulty. He had inhuman strength.”
“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?”