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Authors: Katharine McMahon
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me a coherent reason why we are at war with the Russians.”
“In my album there’s a cutting from The Times that gives our reasons. The Russians treat their own people abominably and they threaten our very freedom.”
“How? ”
“They want a foothold in the Mediterranean.”
“How do you know? ”
“Well, it’s obvious. Father says they will break up Turkey and take everything. And then there’s the question of Jerusalem.”
“What about Jerusalem?”
“Well, I mean, we can’t allow the Holy Places to fall into the hands of Russia.”
“Why?”
“It’s to do with Christian . . .”
“The Russians are Christian.”
“No they’re not, they’re Orthodox.”
“Christian. The Turks, on the other hand, are Muslim.”
“I know. I know.”
“And to cap it all we are also siding with the French. Have you considered how odd that is?”
“Father says that is another excellent thing about the war; that for once we are not squabbling with our nearest neighbor.”
“But what do you think our real motives are? Have you considered? ”
“I’ve told you. Russia...”
“Politics. The government doesn’t have the wit or the will to stop it. And of course we are all supposed to be bored because we haven’t been at war for forty years. And everyone says our great and glorious country should strike a blow against oppressive Russia, never mind the fact that masses of our own population are half starved or slaving in factories sixteen hours a day.”
“The Russians have serfs. That’s different.”
“Mariella. Thousands of people will die in this war, including, incidentally, Max. You haven’t come up with anything that justifies that.” She stood at the window, held aside the lace curtain, and peered out.
How dreadful, I thought. She’s scarcely been in the room ten minutes and already we’ve argued. I was pierced by feelings I had not experienced for years: the sense of being absolutely in the spotlight, the desire to impress coupled with the fear of falling short of expectation.
She was still as a sculpture in her black gown, her hair loosely wound over a ribbon and tumbled down her back. Was it the fact that she came from the north, I wondered, that made her so indifferent to fashion? Though she certainly wasn’t poor, her dress had no petticoats to speak of, so the skirt fell in a straight line from a high waist and I could clearly see the shape of her figure. I had been rather contented with my own appearance, apart from the vexing question of whether or not to wear black, but suddenly I felt trussed like a chicken in my corset, full sleeves, and tight collar. My hair, even if allowed to fall loose, would never achieve those thick ringlets.
I picked up my sewing case, unfastened it, selected medium moss-green silk, and separated three strands.
“I didn’t realize it would feel so rural here,” she said. “I thought you were much closer to London.”
“We are quite near. Sometimes I walk to the river. Or we can take an omnibus, or the carriage.”
“Tomorrow, will you show me the sights?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know London that well.”
“You’ve lived here all your life.”
“Yes, but I don’t go to the city much.”
Her bright blue gaze was fixed on my face. “But why not?”
“I hardly need to.”
“But it’s there. London is there . I thought you must go all the time.”
“Oh, I’ve hardly any time. We’re so busy.”
“Why, what are you doing? How does your time get filled up?”
“There are so many things to do. Mother likes me to help in the garden, and I do all the household accounts. And then I am sewing for the Distressed Governesses.”
“The who? ” She stared at me in a mix of disbelief and amusement.
“We have raised money for a house in Bloomsbury. All that remains is for the house to be furnished.”
“How wonderful. Could I help? Can we go there? ”
“We can, yes. If you like.”
“I want, so much, to be useful.” She
“In my album there’s a cutting from The Times that gives our reasons. The Russians treat their own people abominably and they threaten our very freedom.”
“How? ”
“They want a foothold in the Mediterranean.”
“How do you know? ”
“Well, it’s obvious. Father says they will break up Turkey and take everything. And then there’s the question of Jerusalem.”
“What about Jerusalem?”
“Well, I mean, we can’t allow the Holy Places to fall into the hands of Russia.”
“Why?”
“It’s to do with Christian . . .”
“The Russians are Christian.”
“No they’re not, they’re Orthodox.”
“Christian. The Turks, on the other hand, are Muslim.”
“I know. I know.”
“And to cap it all we are also siding with the French. Have you considered how odd that is?”
“Father says that is another excellent thing about the war; that for once we are not squabbling with our nearest neighbor.”
“But what do you think our real motives are? Have you considered? ”
“I’ve told you. Russia...”
“Politics. The government doesn’t have the wit or the will to stop it. And of course we are all supposed to be bored because we haven’t been at war for forty years. And everyone says our great and glorious country should strike a blow against oppressive Russia, never mind the fact that masses of our own population are half starved or slaving in factories sixteen hours a day.”
“The Russians have serfs. That’s different.”
“Mariella. Thousands of people will die in this war, including, incidentally, Max. You haven’t come up with anything that justifies that.” She stood at the window, held aside the lace curtain, and peered out.
How dreadful, I thought. She’s scarcely been in the room ten minutes and already we’ve argued. I was pierced by feelings I had not experienced for years: the sense of being absolutely in the spotlight, the desire to impress coupled with the fear of falling short of expectation.
She was still as a sculpture in her black gown, her hair loosely wound over a ribbon and tumbled down her back. Was it the fact that she came from the north, I wondered, that made her so indifferent to fashion? Though she certainly wasn’t poor, her dress had no petticoats to speak of, so the skirt fell in a straight line from a high waist and I could clearly see the shape of her figure. I had been rather contented with my own appearance, apart from the vexing question of whether or not to wear black, but suddenly I felt trussed like a chicken in my corset, full sleeves, and tight collar. My hair, even if allowed to fall loose, would never achieve those thick ringlets.
I picked up my sewing case, unfastened it, selected medium moss-green silk, and separated three strands.
“I didn’t realize it would feel so rural here,” she said. “I thought you were much closer to London.”
“We are quite near. Sometimes I walk to the river. Or we can take an omnibus, or the carriage.”
“Tomorrow, will you show me the sights?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know London that well.”
“You’ve lived here all your life.”
“Yes, but I don’t go to the city much.”
Her bright blue gaze was fixed on my face. “But why not?”
“I hardly need to.”
“But it’s there. London is there . I thought you must go all the time.”
“Oh, I’ve hardly any time. We’re so busy.”
“Why, what are you doing? How does your time get filled up?”
“There are so many things to do. Mother likes me to help in the garden, and I do all the household accounts. And then I am sewing for the Distressed Governesses.”
“The who? ” She stared at me in a mix of disbelief and amusement.
“We have raised money for a house in Bloomsbury. All that remains is for the house to be furnished.”
“How wonderful. Could I help? Can we go there? ”
“We can, yes. If you like.”
“I want, so much, to be useful.” She
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