Free Winter Garden by Beryl Bainbridge Page A

wife, spoke with one hand partially covering his mouth as if he hardly believed what he was saying. The Secretary of the Union, Mr Karlovitch, was strolling in the grounds and would join them shortly. In the meantime he himself, with the limited amount of English at his disposal, would try to acquaint his distinguished guests with his work and aspirations: as could be seen, he wasn’t only an illustrator but something of a connoisseur of folk-art. ‘Them’, he said, indicating the cloths above the fireplace, ‘I unearthed in Sydney, Australia.’
    ‘Charming,’ Ashburner said.
    Encouraged, the illustrator pointed to the table on which lay a small charcoal drawing of a child hugging a teddy bear. He said deferntially to Ashburner: ‘That is the frontispiece of my latest book. I hesitate to show it to a man so forward in his field.’
    Bernard was no help. He sat morosely in an armchair, balancing a plate of crumbs on his knee.
    ‘It is for the six- to nine-year-olds,’ elaborated Andrei Petrov.
    ‘It’s awfully good,’ Ashburner said. He was to remember later the exact positioning of the white woolly rug he so thoughtfully side-stepped as he advanced across the polished wooden floor.
    On his return to the Peking Hotel he immediately telephoned Nina’s room. As he had expected, he received no reply. There wasn’t any point in his going upstairs; he had nothing to change into and his shower didn’t work. Disturbed, he prowled the lobby, buffeted by numerous women who, swaddled in furs, waited in a disorderly queue for the services of the cloakroom attendant. It was impossible for Ashburner to tell to which class they belonged. If he had been at home he might have referred to them as day trippers; his own wife, in winter, beyond a faint reddening of the nostrils, remained inescapably Kensington. Divested of hats and coats and scarves, the women emerged several inches thinner though still formidably stout-busted in layers of brightly coloured jumpers worn above minuscule skirts. It wasn’t surprising, he thought, that there had been an October Revolution: really cold weather was a great leavener of society. It was also possible that arctic conditions affected people in much the same way as heat waves; the Secretary of the Union had certainly behaved very oddly, going for a stroll in sub-zero temperatures, but perhaps that had something to do with his Siberian background.
    Entering the restaurant and choosing a table nearest to the swing doors, Ashburner took from his pocket the large brown envelope Mr Karlovitch had given him earlier. Opening it, he draped Nina’s pink scarf across his knee and read her note again. Sweetheart, wear this and keep your little old head warm in memory of me. See you when you get back . Though she had never written to him before the levity of her message struck him as characteristic. It was the wording of the last sentence that he found peculiar. How convenient that she had happened to have a large envelope handy. Picking up the scarf he held it to his cheek and was sitting in this vulnerable attitude when Bernard came into the restaurant.
    ‘Listen, Douglas,’ Bernard said. ‘I’ve been up to her room and she’s not there. I’ll tell it once more and then leave me alone. I’ve just about had it.’
    ‘I don’t need to hear it again,’ said Ashburner. ‘I know your side of it.’ He folded both note and scarf and stuffed them in the pocket of his jacket. ‘But just answer me this if you can. Why did Olga say there was no need to disturb Nina this morning when she already knew Nina was having lunch with Prince Nevsky and that Boris chap?’
    ‘What Prince?’ said Bernard. ‘He’s as dead as a dodo.’
    ‘Well, why didn’t she give the note to you?’ asked Ashburner.
    ‘I told you, mate. She was leaving when I got there. They both were. He was taking her to see Pasternak’s grave. I wish to Christ I’d gone with them.’
    ‘She was looking quite well, was she?’