After we had scraped our bowls clean, if it was not a working day, we sat in the garden and debated how to run the commune. We set it up as if we were establishing a small independent state. We had a Customs House, run by two Customs Officials to whom all members handed over any food they came by. A Finance Ministry controlled most of the money the members might earn, apart from a small amount to be kept by individuals. A Triumvirate of Food Commissars was in charge of buying and bartering the supplies for the month. Small articles such as soap, paper, pencils, hairpins, and so on were in theory available from the Shop Without a Clerk, which was in a cupboard in the meeting room; a small red book was provided for members to note down what they had taken, and we relied – in this as in all our arrangements – on the communards’ good faith. All these positions were rotated weekly, and those who were not assigned any that week were expected to show solidarity with their labouring comrades. For example, while the Ironing Brigade was at work, volunteers might entertain them with songs or funny anecdotes.
Almost despite myself, I loved it all… so many jokes, so many passionate debates. We pinned up reproductions of non-objective pictures we admired. We painted slogans on the walls: ‘Come on, Live Communally!’ in yellow letters on the red wallpaper in the hall, and in the study a quote from Gerrard Winstanley: ‘Live together, Eate together, Show it all abroade’. In Slavkin’s workshop, which he set up in the empty drawing room, we nailed a banner along one walclass="underline" ‘We have nothing to lose but our chains.’ (‘And that hammer… I’m sure I left it here somewhere,’ added Pasha, of course.) The men’s dormitory was Mr Kobelev’s bedroom, while at first the female members of the commune had the small, separate bedrooms at the back of the house. Then Dr Marina (as we called her, although she was still in training) disagreed with this arrangement.
‘Why do women need privacy? Only to hoard some kind of private property, some frippery; or to indulge in private fantasies instead of working; or perhaps to facilitate sexual relations, which would be the most offensive reason of all… We women, more than any men, need to rid ourselves of the insidious reactionary voice in our head – look pretty, be charming, please everyone! A collective life will help us to be free of it. We assert our right to a communal women’s dormitory. They are only partition walls between the bedrooms; I propose we demolish them.’
Tall and thin with short dark hair, constantly smoking and grave as a Spanish hidalgo, Dr Marina was the most militant of all of us. She had already spent three years struggling against the casual chauvinism of her male colleagues, and no battle was too small to fight.
‘Well said!’ approved Slavkin. ‘Everyone, share your thoughts on this suggestion.’
‘Let’s hope the house shows a proper Revolutionary spirit and doesn’t collapse on us all,’ ventured Pasha.
‘They’re such nice little bedrooms,’ Vera said wistfully.
She could barely have chosen a more outrageous description, in our terms.
‘Nice!’
‘Perhaps you mean cosy!’
‘Verochka, you should be ashamed of yourself! Explain to your sister that we’re in the middle of a Revolution, Doctor—’
‘Let’s vote on it – who’s for the women’s dormitory?’
The motion was carried unanimously, even the blushing Vera putting up her hand, and the following week the three back bedrooms were knocked into one. Sonya, Dr Marina, Vera and I moved in together, and it did mean that there was little time for vanity – and even less for introspection. At night, when I couldn’t sleep, I still felt desolate – although what right did I have when Nikita had been so honest with me from the beginning? But at least, day by day, my ego was being eroded – ‘dragged out and crushed’, as our Manifesto said. I was changing, little by little, and the pain it caused me was only natural. It was a sacrifice worth making for our cause.
‘The children seem to be turning everything upside down, Miss Gerty!’ Anna Vladimirovna kept saying querulously. ‘In my day, Father would have sent them to bed with no supper.’
‘Well, that’s more or less what happens these days too.’
‘Nichevo strashnovo,’ Vera soothed them. ‘Nothing to worry about.’ Vera, who wasn’t remotely interested in politics, was probably the most generous and selfless communard of all of us. Kind and plump, with shiny dark hair and huge blue eyes, she often helped me with the old ladies, who adored her. ‘Let’s listen to the gramophone, shall we?’
‘If you say so, my dear…’
Dr Marina and Vera had brought the gramophone with them; in the evenings we played ‘Sensation Rag’ and Marion Harris singing ‘I ain’t got nobody’, and danced on the lawn. Pasha asked his aunt to dance, and Nikita led out a shy and delighted Mamzelle. I hung back as each song ended, hating myself for minding that he never asked me. Later, under the warm night sky, we lay on the grass, told stories and read poems. The one I remember best was the Futurist poet Khlebnikov’s ‘Incantation by Laughter’, which, read aloud, always reduced us to helpless snorting heaps:
‘Miss Freely,’ said Miss Clegg, striding into the hallway one hot August day. ‘I made a promise to your poor parents. I cannot abuse their trust. I simply will not allow you to remain in this house a moment longer.’
It was some months since I had last seen Miss Clegg. Her appearance, however – solid and weathered, still topped by her small crocheted cap – had scarcely changed. I admired her for that. There were not many who had stayed so unbowed by the hardships of the Revolution.
‘Miss Clegg, how kind of you to think of my parents, and me. But there is no reason to feel concerned, I assure you. I make a reasonable living by 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.