The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [28]
‘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.