Read Online Winter Garden by Beryl Bainbridge - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Beryl Bainbridge
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washroom to clean his teeth. The paste lathered like soap and the brush disintegrated in his mouth. Spitting nylon stalks into the basin and examining his ears for frostbite, he dwelt on an image of Nina, blue eyes wantonly regarding her companion as they talked meaningfully about Art. This Boris character was obviously one of those clever chaps who spoke English; otherwise the interpreter would have been present. Perhaps Mr Karlovitch was chaperoning them. It’s just possible, thought Ashburner, that she will mention me. Holding the remains of his toothbrush in one hand and still frothing at the lips, he ran back into the lounge bar and seizing Bernard by the shoulder exclaimed, ‘Boris!’
‘He is, I think, a friend of yours,’ said Olga, when she had fathomed the cause of his excitement. ‘He contacted Mr Karlovitch this morning and was most insistent that you should attend the exhibition.’
‘I thought we were having tea with a metal worker,’ Bernard said.
It was important, Olga Fiodorovna stressed, to realise that arrangements were flexible. A great deal of care had gone into the organisation of their visit, but if Mr Douglas thought fit to make alternative plans it wasn’t in her nature to dissuade him.
‘I’m quite in the dark,’ protested Ashburner. ‘I really don’t know the fellow from Adam.’ He felt in some undefined way that he was at fault and wished his wife was at his side. In company she had been known, once or twice, to back him up. He thought she might have found the exact, light-hearted phrase calculated to put Olga Fiodorovna in her place.
He was further discomfited during lunch to be handed an envelope containing a hundred roubles.
Olga Fiodorovna seemed annoyed when he argued that he wasn’t a guest of the Soviet Union. ‘Mr Douglas,’ she said, ‘You are destined to be awkward.’
Blushing, he pocketed the money. He felt like a kept man.
Later they drove to a tourist’s shop to buy him a hat. Bernard refused to step inside. Shopping, he said, was anathema to him and he didn’t want anything for his head. If need be he’d wrap an old newspaper about his ears. After a whispered consultation the driver was instructed to take Mr Burns to the artist’s studio and return without delay.
Inside the store, Ashburner changed his mind. He was disinclined to spend eighty pounds worth of traveller’s cheques on a fur hat which would have to be abandoned long before he arrived in Chelsea. He was forced to loiter in the wake of the two women as they wandered from counter to counter. Shocked, he examined his reflection in a mirror; his complexion flared pink and mauve. Far from resembling a stone carving he thought his face looked like something stamped on the lid of a biscuit tin.
At the last moment, when the car was actually at the kerb, Olga Fiodorovna, murmuring that she had business to attend to, turned back and was gone for quite ten minutes.
Ashburner, waiting in the car with Enid, dwelt on the events of the previous day. In the aeroplane Nina had asked him if he was happy, though she herself had looked rather miserable. But then, frankly, it had never been apparent that Nina had any capacity for happiness or that she appreciated it in others. In the restaurant she had told him to stop laughing, that the sound he was making was absurd. It was difficult to think of an acceptable way of laughing when she behaved so distantly yet lay so close to his heart, and of course he had been suffering from the effects of that unusual afternoon tea. He imagined the squeal, so repugnant to Nina, that had issued from his lips had been the result of repression rather than amusement. One way or the other, he had been repressed for the last twenty-four hours.
‘I could wring Nina’s neck,’ he said. ‘I really could.’ He was astonished at the ferocity of this outburst.
‘I know what you mean,’ Enid said. She was thinking of the unobtainable Bernard. ‘It would be more peaceful if she
‘He is, I think, a friend of yours,’ said Olga, when she had fathomed the cause of his excitement. ‘He contacted Mr Karlovitch this morning and was most insistent that you should attend the exhibition.’
‘I thought we were having tea with a metal worker,’ Bernard said.
It was important, Olga Fiodorovna stressed, to realise that arrangements were flexible. A great deal of care had gone into the organisation of their visit, but if Mr Douglas thought fit to make alternative plans it wasn’t in her nature to dissuade him.
‘I’m quite in the dark,’ protested Ashburner. ‘I really don’t know the fellow from Adam.’ He felt in some undefined way that he was at fault and wished his wife was at his side. In company she had been known, once or twice, to back him up. He thought she might have found the exact, light-hearted phrase calculated to put Olga Fiodorovna in her place.
He was further discomfited during lunch to be handed an envelope containing a hundred roubles.
Olga Fiodorovna seemed annoyed when he argued that he wasn’t a guest of the Soviet Union. ‘Mr Douglas,’ she said, ‘You are destined to be awkward.’
Blushing, he pocketed the money. He felt like a kept man.
Later they drove to a tourist’s shop to buy him a hat. Bernard refused to step inside. Shopping, he said, was anathema to him and he didn’t want anything for his head. If need be he’d wrap an old newspaper about his ears. After a whispered consultation the driver was instructed to take Mr Burns to the artist’s studio and return without delay.
Inside the store, Ashburner changed his mind. He was disinclined to spend eighty pounds worth of traveller’s cheques on a fur hat which would have to be abandoned long before he arrived in Chelsea. He was forced to loiter in the wake of the two women as they wandered from counter to counter. Shocked, he examined his reflection in a mirror; his complexion flared pink and mauve. Far from resembling a stone carving he thought his face looked like something stamped on the lid of a biscuit tin.
At the last moment, when the car was actually at the kerb, Olga Fiodorovna, murmuring that she had business to attend to, turned back and was gone for quite ten minutes.
Ashburner, waiting in the car with Enid, dwelt on the events of the previous day. In the aeroplane Nina had asked him if he was happy, though she herself had looked rather miserable. But then, frankly, it had never been apparent that Nina had any capacity for happiness or that she appreciated it in others. In the restaurant she had told him to stop laughing, that the sound he was making was absurd. It was difficult to think of an acceptable way of laughing when she behaved so distantly yet lay so close to his heart, and of course he had been suffering from the effects of that unusual afternoon tea. He imagined the squeal, so repugnant to Nina, that had issued from his lips had been the result of repression rather than amusement. One way or the other, he had been repressed for the last twenty-four hours.
‘I could wring Nina’s neck,’ he said. ‘I really could.’ He was astonished at the ferocity of this outburst.
‘I know what you mean,’ Enid said. She was thinking of the unobtainable Bernard. ‘It would be more peaceful if she
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