Winter Garden by Beryl Bainbridge Read Free Book Online Page A

He had brought three carafes of water, eight glasses and several silver-plated dishes filled with caviar.
    Enid poured herself some water and drank thirstily.
    ‘I ordered tea,’ said Ashburner apologetically. He could see that Bernard was disgusted.
    ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ Enid said. ‘It’s vodka.’
    Nina refused to drink. She said she was feeling pretty awful as it was. She thought Bernard and Ashburner shouldn’t drink either: they were guests of a foreign power and they oughtn’t to let the side down, not immediately. For some reason Bernard attempted to comply with her request, though he failed.
    At six o’clock Olga Fiodorovna at last brought them the keys to their rooms. She had taken off her coat and headscarf and wasn’t at first recognised. Everyone except Ashburner, who merely thought her a pretty girl, was taken aback by her aristocratic nose and the width of her cheekbones. She wore her hair in an Eton crop save for one strand of hair that was pushed back behind her left ear and fell in a curve to her chin. Waving aside a carafe of vodka, she ordered a glass of iced water which, when it came, she drank languidly, holding the tumbler to her lips and sighing. She got on very well with Nina. Ashburner thought he heard her say that she and Nina had the same mother, which was patently absurd as he knew for a fact that Nina had been born at Westcliffe-on-Sea.
    After ten minutes had elapsed, Olga Fiodorovna suggested they retire to their rooms and report downstairs for dinner at seven o’clock. Then the itinerary could be discussed, objections aired, alternative plans considered. They should have an early night; they deserved it.
    ‘You most of all,’ said Nina, patting Olga Fiodorovna’s valiant arm.
    Ashburner was so befuddled with drink and fatigue that he forgot to ask Nina the number of her room. He did remember her going up in the lift with him, because she said how splendid the lift was, how old, how ornate, and he offered to buy it for her. His cheque book fell to the floor. He also remembered complaining to Bernard that someone had stolen his bath plugs and Bernard telling him that it didn’t matter, all he had to do was put a wodge of lavatory paper in the plug hole. He thought he had taken Bernard’s advice and turned on the taps. Then he imagined he heard the sound of water spilling on to a tiled floor and woke to find himself lying on a bed in an alcove. Hardly recollecting where he was, he ran panic-stricken into the small bathroom and was astonished to discover that there wasn’t a bath, merely a shower attachment placed behind a torn plastic curtain. He was sobered by the whole occurrence. He washed his face and hands and combed the clipped two inches of hair that rested like a slipped bandeau, ear to ear, on the back of his head.
    When Bernard knocked on the door to fetch him downstairs for dinner, Ashburner thanked him for his thoughtfulness. He fully realised that without Bernard’s intervention he might by now be in the hands of the police, secret or otherwise. He was grateful to Bernard and furious with himself for having behaved like an ass.
    ‘Feeling all right, mate?’ asked Bernard.
    ‘Super,’ said Ashburner, though truth to tell, when he trod the brown carpet which ran the length of the corridor, he fancied that it, not he, was moving.

8
    During dinner a man with his trousers tucked into the tops of his boots and smoking a little paper cigar approached the table and spoke to Enid. Angrily, the interpreter waved him away.
    ‘What was that about?’ demanded Enid.
    ‘The usual,’ said Olga Fiodorovna. ‘A man away from home, on business, his wife left behind. He wanted you to waltz.’ And she shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.
    It wasn’t usual for Enid to be asked to dance. She sniffed the burning fragrance of the man’s cigar and was annoyed that she herself hadn’t been consulted. She had hoped Bernard might have noticed the episode, but he was hunched