The Bottle Factory Outing (7 page)

She was all sweetness and light, her gestures theatrical and charming, her blue eyes wide with candour. The girl in the grey
coat bent her head and studied the kid gloves on her lap.

‘Later,’ said Rossi. ‘I am busy just now.’

He spread his fingers expressively and spoke in Italian to the middle-aged woman, who was staring at Freda with polite bleak
eyes.

‘Of course,’ agreed Freda, ‘how stupid of me. Do forgive me.’

It was fortunate for Rossi that she was in such a good mood. She seemed not to notice how eager he was to be rid of her. She
lingered and postured, leaning against the shelves packed with pretty coloured labels. Finally she asked Vittorio if she might
have a word in private. He went unwillingly to stand in the open doorway, and she laid her hand on his sleeve and said she
was able to have dinner with him – that very evening if he wished. She smiled at him.

‘Ah, no,’ he said rapidly, trying to cover the sound of her voice by the breadth of his shoulders. ‘I have made other arrangements.’
And in spite of himself he gave a brief nervous glance over his shoulder at the group sitting about Rossi’s desk sipping their
wine in silence.

Freda made a gesture as if to touch his cheek, and he stepped backwards.

‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘till Sunday, then. Tomorrow I will be preparing food for the picnic and washing my hair. I do want to
look my best.’

As tall as he, she fanned his face with her breath and ruffled the fine hairs of his drooping moustaches. She fought to keep
calm at this unexpected set-back. It hurt that he wasn’t in the same frame of mind as herself. She was helped, however, by
the sound of her heart palpitating in her breast, for all the world like the beat of horses’ hooves.

‘It is Madame Rossi,’ informed Maria, when told of the women in the office, ‘and her niece from Casalecchio di Reno.’

‘Is it indeed?’ murmured Freda, and she fixed her eyes on the office window and waited for the visitors to depart.

After a time a row of faces appeared at the glass and stared out at the factory floor, watching the workers at their labours.
Deliberately Freda touched her lips with the tips of her fingers and blew Vittorio a kiss.

‘You are awful,’ complained Brenda. ‘Rossi must be wetting himself, with his wife watching everything.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Freda. ‘It should be obvious that Vittorio and I are close.’

There was an air of festivity in the factory. The men drank copiously from the barrel of wine and fooled with the women. They
had never known Freda so animated.

At two o’clock, Salvatore, splendid in golfing shoes and a muffler of green silk, embraced Maria on her beer crate and received
a blow on the cheek.

‘Aye, aye,’ she wailed, drumming her heels on the planking. ‘They are mad for the Outing.’

She scrubbed at her face violently with her fist, to be rid of the moist imprint of his mouth. Salvatore, half-understanding
her words, nodded eagerly at Freda and rolled his eyes with mock excitement.

Freda waited in vain for Vittorio to come and speak to her. She clung to the belief that she must not let go of him, that
he was destined to be her true love, that he knew it too, only he had not begun to accept it. And yet, remembering the way
he had recoiled from her outside the office door, she could not help but wonder. Was it the same for him? She shivered with
the cold and drooped at the bench. She was dreaming now, rather than thinking clearly. She wandered among the ginestra bushes
and the olive trees, and the cool white rooms of the flat in Hampstead. She rose in a giant jet above the toy blocks of the
airport buildings and began her long journey over land and sea. Now and then she was aware of the dismal factory, the hum
of machinery in her ears, the tenderly smiling face of the Virgin Mary high on the green-painted wall. Had she been alone
she would have swung her head and crooned her love aloud.

Finally she was empty of images: no more pictures left in her head. There remained only an insatiable thirst for all the joy
and glory of the good times to come, the life she was soon to know.

Mercifully it was not raining. There was even a faint gleam of wintry sunlight. Brenda wore a black woollen dress, black stockings
and green court shoes. Freda had hidden the tweed coat the night before; she insisted she borrow her purple cloak. Brenda
didn’t want to wear the cloak, but neither did she wish to annoy Freda. Protesting that it was too long, she draped it about
her shoul-ders and looked down at the green shoes and an inch of stocking. Freda, in a mauve trouser suit, a sheepskin coat
gaily worked in blue thread down the front, and a lilac scarf casually knotted at the throat, wrapped two cooked chickens
in silver foil and placed them in the basket. There was a tablecloth embroidered in one corner with pink petals, a lettuce
in a polythene bag, some French bread and two pounds of apples. In a small jar, previously containing cocktail onions, she
had poured a mixture of oil and lemon and crushed garlic.

Having packed everything, she looked in her handbag and was dismayed to find she only had five cigar ettes. She asked Brenda
to lend her some money.

‘I haven’t any,’ lied Brenda. ‘You made me pay for one chicken and I bought the shampoo.’

It wasn’t that she was mean, but she wanted to be prepared for disaster – the 40p in her purse was to get home if she was
left stranded at the Stately Home.

Freda was livid. She kicked the basket roughly with her foot and threw herself on to the bed.

‘How can I get through a bloody day like this on five ciggies?’ she shouted.

‘But it was your idea. You got us into it. I’d much rather sleep all day.’

‘Shut up,’ said Freda.

She looked at her wrist watch and noted the time. She had ordered the van for seven-thirty but had no intention of arriving
at the factory before eight o’clock. It restored her good humour, prolonging the agony for Brenda, keeping her in suspense:
she was probably dying inside with embarrassment.

‘You shouldn’t have spent your money on that,’ said Brenda desperately, glancing at the table laid for two with the bunch
of dried leaves removed from the mantelpiece and set in the middle of the cloth.

There were wine glasses too and a bowl of real butter, and stuffed olives on a saucer. God knows where they had come from,
but two napkins, starched and folded, lay beside the blue-rimmed plates. She went to the window and stared out at the flats
and the deserted balconies. At the foot of a tree a cat stretched and sharpened its claws on the bark. It shouldn’t do that,
she thought, and she heard Freda telling her not to hang about. ‘We don’t want your Patrick dying of a broken heart.’

It was five minutes to eight when they let themselves out into the street. The basket tipped on the steps and a loaf pitched
to the ground. As Brenda carefully closed the front door, a huge gust of wind tore at the purple cloak and engulfed her in
its folds.

‘Christ,’ said Freda, reaching for her hair, which was blowing in all directions, and retrieving the long thin bread from
beside the dustbins.

At the corner of the empty street Brenda said: ‘Honestly, Freda, I don’t want to go. It’s going to be awful. Couldn’t I be
ill or something?’

‘Be quiet,’ snapped Freda, pushing the basket ahead of her, head bent against the gale.

A hundred yards from the factory the wind dropped and the sun came out quite strongly. Maria, a brown paper bag blown by the
wind wrapped round her swollen ankles, ran to meet them with outstretched hands.

‘There is a delay. We have no van. Amelio is not come.’

From beneath the hem of her working coat Mr Paganotti’s frock, edged with daisies, hung a full two inches.

‘My God,’ said Freda. ‘I might have known.’

She brushed past Maria and looked about for Vittorio. He was nowhere to be seen. The men stood in a row against the wall holding
briefcases and carrier bags. They nodded and smiled, raising their wide-brimmed hats in greeting. It looked like a gathering
of the Mafia – the street deserted save for the line of men dressed all in black, shoulders hunched, standing in front of
the great doors of the factory, and the blonde girl taller than all of them, marching up and down with a face of thunder and
a roll of French bread held like a sten gun under her arm.

Brenda tried to pretend she wasn’t there, that she was alone at the top of a mountain. Just then Rossi, who had been poised
in the middle of the road staring in the direction of the High Street, turned and saw her. Exuberantly
he ran to her, his hostility to Freda forgotten in the joy of the occasion. How he had longed for this moment, this day to
begin, driving into the countryside unaccompanied by his wife, as if he was an Englishman.

‘
Bongiorno
, ladies,’ he cried, ‘
Bongiorno
.’ Rubbing his hands together he positively jumped up and down on the pavement.

‘What’s going on here?’ asked Freda officiously, folding her arms and looking at him with deep suspicion. ‘I ordered the
van for seven-thirty. Amelio should have been here a quarter an hour ago.’ She had to bother about the details – the arrival
of the van she had organised – even though she was sick to her stomach at the street empty of Vittorio.

Rossi shrugged his shoulders. ‘The traffic, maybe. It is only a little waiting.’

‘Traffic, you fool? At this hour?’ She leant viciously on the wing of his Ford Cortina, and the car lurched slightly. ‘I knew
it,’ she said to Brenda, as if the others didn’t exist. ‘I knew it would be a shambles.’

‘It is only a little hitch,’ reasoned Brenda, smiling at the row of workers ashen-faced with the cold.

Round the corner of the street came first Vittorio, then Patrick.

‘There’s no sign of it at all,’ called Patrick, striding ahead in a belted raincoat and a cloth cap over his outstanding ears.

Brenda was surprised how like Stanley he appeared, in his mackintosh and his dark blue tie in a strangle knot at his throat.

Vittorio said something in Italian to Rossi, who
shrugged again and consulted his watch. The men murmured and dug their hands deeper into their pockets. At the kerb stood
the four small barrels of wine donated by Mr Paganotti. How old and worn, thought Brenda, are the faces of the men in the
daylight. Indoors the lighted bulbs, the constant nips of wine, had tinged their cheeks with pink.

‘Good morning,’ said Vittorio to Freda. ‘And how are you this wonderful English morning?’

He was mocking her. He was laying the blame for the weather at her feet. He was telling her how ridiculous she had been to
conceive of this Outing.

‘We’re fine,’ said Brenda quickly, smiling so hard that her jaw ached. Much more of this and her toothache would come on with
the strain.

Vittorio was so beautiful in her eyes, his immaculate duffel coat fastened with white toggles, his chunky boots threaded with
laces of bright red, that Freda was compelled to be off-hand with him.

‘Oh hallo,’ she said, as if she hardly knew him; and she turned her back. It annoyed her how confident he seemed. She was
conscious that for some reason she had lost ground since the visit of Madame Rossi to the office.

‘Are you not in a joyful mood?’ he asked, and she pretended she hadn’t heard.

‘You are looking very nice,’ Rossi told Brenda, looking at the purple cloak and catching a glimpse of black ankles above
the shiny green of her shoes.

‘Hmmmph,’ cried Freda, and she flounced several yards away.

‘Is the great manager getting out of the wrong side of
the bed?’ asked Rossi unwisely. He was so happy himself he could not believe Freda was angry.

‘Please, Freda,’ begged Brenda, following her. ‘Please behave.’

Brushing her aside, Freda returned to Vittorio. ‘Look here,’ she shouted. ‘I hope you don’t think it’s my fault that the bloody
van hasn’t arrived.’

He raised his eyes at her outburst, and the men at the wall shuffled their feet and looked politely at the sky. How vibrant
she was, always arguing and gesticulating, waving her loaf of bread like a battle flag in the air.

‘She should get herself seen to,’ said Patrick, gazing at her in disgust and admiration.

The sound of Freda’s voice was suddenly drowned by a great bellow of rage from the street corner, at which appeared the missing
Amelio on foot, shaking his fists and in the grip of some huge irritation. The men broke ranks and surged to meet him. A babble
of voices rose in enquiry. What was amiss? Where was the van?

Amelio had risen from his warm bed at six to drive from his house in the suburbs to Hope Street. He had parked his small black
car outside the factory and gone on foot to the garage off the Edgware Road to collect the van. They had told him that no
such vehicle had been promised for today. He had remonstrated. He had pleaded. He had mentioned the name of Mr Paganotti.
But there was no van.

‘There is no van,’ cried Rossi, turning to Freda.

‘No van,’ she echoed.

‘No, no, no,’ moaned Amelio, and he broke through
the circle of workers and wrenched at the side door of his little black car. Rossi tried to reason with him. He placed an
arm about Amelio’s shoulders. He clutched him like a brother. He shook him until his own plump cheeks wobbled with passion
and entreaty.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Brenda, clinging to Maria, who was scarlet in the face with emotion.

‘Amelio have a car. Salvatore and Rossi have a car. Nobody else. He want Amelio to drive us in the car to the picnic.’

‘Oh God,’ groaned Freda, crumbling the French bread into the gutter.

After a time Amelio freed himself from Rossi and got into the driving seat. He waved his hands at the window in a gesture
of dismissal. Rossi stepped back to the kerb, and they all watched the black car slew in a half circle into the middle of
the road and move towards the corner. It came to a halt, and then crawled cautiously into the High Street and vanished from
sight.

‘Poor bugger,’ said Patrick.

The men stood for some moments not knowing what to do. A torn poster, advertising some long-finished event, whirled upwards
and bowled along the road after the departed Amelio.

‘Why can’t we use one of the firm’s vans?’ demanded Freda.

‘We cannot go in Mr Paganotti’s business motors for a picnic,’ reproved Rossi.

Freda felt discredited. She stood shaken, her scarf ends and her ash-blonde hair mingling in the wind.

‘Give over,’ she whispered to Brenda, who, dreadfully
perturbed, was already picking her teeth with a matchstick.

After an interval of indecision, Rossi, seeing his excursion in danger, began to issue commands. He ordered Salvatore to
the wheel of the red mini. He held up his right hand and indicated with his fingers that there was space for three. The men
looked at each other and gripped their briefcases more securely. He propelled Brenda to the front seat of his Ford Cortina.
‘In, in, in,’ he urged; and she was bundled inside to find Vittorio in the back seat, where he had gone earlier to be out
of the cold. They didn’t speak. Brenda peered out of the window at Freda holding the mangled loaf to her heart. Rossi, skipping
about frenziedly and acting as if the street was on fire and must be evacuated immediately, motioned Freda towards the car.
He held open the rear door, and she bent her head. As she made to enter, Vittorio vacated his seat and leapt out into the
road.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Freda, white-faced and utterly demoralised, endeavouring to accommodate herself and the basket on wheels
inside the cramped interior. The car sank on its axle.

‘I wish I could die,’ thought Brenda; and then again, ‘I wish I was dead.’

There was a great deal of shouting going on in the street. A small boy on the far side of the road, intent on his paper round,
stopped to stare. A face loomed up at the window of the Ford Cortina. Brenda unwound the glass, and Anselmo, in a slouch hat,
brought his sad face on a level with hers and proceeded to kiss her, first on one cheek, then on the other. He went away,
and his
place was taken by Stefano, who contented himself with shaking her hand.

‘You take my place,’ urged Brenda, looking down at his hand lying like a little cold piece of cloth in her own. ‘Honestly
I don’t mind in the least.’

‘Ah no,’ he said, ‘you are young.’ And he backed away clutching his carrier bag filled with bread and salami, the tears standing
in his eyes.

Vittorio was arguing with Rossi and Aldo Gamberini, the overseer of the loading bay. They gripped him by the arm, one on either
side, and attempted to drag him from the pavement. He resisted strongly. Rossi winked and grimaced in the direction of the
parked car. He patted him playfully on the cheek as if to say ‘Don’t be a silly boy’, and Vittorio, finally submitting and
followed by Aldo Gamberini, clambered sullenly inside the Ford Cortina. The vehicle rocked as he and Freda fought for leg
space between the wheels of the shopping basket.

Outside there was an orgy of handshaking and leavetaking. Around the bonnet of the red mini the men clustered like tired
black flies. Brenda could see Maria waddling up the road in retreat, the hem of the silk frock bobbing against her calves.
She ground her teeth in misery and stared hard at the picture of the Virgin pasted to the dashboard of the car.

At last Rossi flung himself into the driving seat.

‘We are all right,’ he assured them over and over, clutching the steering wheel bound in black fur.

As he looked into the mirror to make certain he had clear access to the road, he observed the barrels of wine being trundled
towards the red mini. Out he jumped,
waving his arms censoriously, and the barrels, all four of them, were transported to the boot of the Ford Cortina.

‘Now we go,’ he told the silent passengers, and he pressed the starting motor.

The small diminished face of Patrick appeared at the back window. He flattened his pugilistic nose against the glass and made
frantic gestures to be admitted. Outside, the farewells of the dispersing workers rose in a continuous murmur like the sea.

‘Go away,’ bade Freda in a low voice.