The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [45]
‘Ah,’ he said expressively, relieved that the problem was so simple. ‘But she is not looking.’
‘She may not seem to be, but she is.’
He looked at the mound of the blonde woman lying like a ripe plum on her coat of wool. ‘She is having a little sleep.’
Brenda felt threatened. She had kept her eyes fixed on his in hopes of subduing the wild beast in him. Now, as he still advanced, she wavered. Her glance shifted to the trees beyond. She thought of the shadowy hollow to which he would lead her, the bugs in the grass, the spiders walking across her hair.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t push me about.’ Almost as soon as she had uttered the words she was sorry for them. She wouldn’t like anybody to feel she was nasty. ‘It’s not my fault,’ she said. ‘I am thinking of you too. You see Freda said she would tell Mr Paganotti if you ever tried to interfere with me again. You wouldn’t like that, would you?’
He couldn’t deny it. Expressions of misery and doubt wrinkled his flushed face. ‘She would tell things to Mr Paganotti?’
‘Yes, she would – I mean, if she sees us going off, she would tell.’
‘She would not dare—’
‘Freda? She’d dare to do anything. She doesn’t give a fig for Mr Paganotti.’
She had stabbed him twice, put in the knife and twisted it. The colour drained from his cheeks.
‘It is impossible,’ he said.
But she did not wait to hear any more. The longer she stayed with him the more likely was it that she would find herself in another awkward situation. She turned her back on him and called over her shoulder: ‘We should go back to the others. Freda will think there’s something funny going on.’
The men had resumed the game of football under the captainship of Vittorio. His beautiful velvet trousers were crumpled now, his backside grey with dust from the ride on the horse. Brenda weaved her way between the sporting players and flopped down on the grass beside Freda. She was smiling.
‘I did it,’ she said.
‘You what?’
‘I told Rossi where to get off.’
Freda’s eyes snapped open. ‘Good for you. What did you say?’
‘I said you were going to tell Mr Paganotti.’
‘Whatever did you say that for? Why did you involve me, you fool?’
‘But you said you’d tell Mr Paganotti. You said if ever—’
‘You didn’t have to tell him I would. You should bloody well have said you were going to.’
All the joy went out of Brenda’s victory. She hugged her knees and despaired of doing the right thing.
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Why the hell should I be pleased? It’s nothing to do with me what you get up to with Rossi.’
You never said that before,’ protested Brenda. ‘If you hadn’t been so nasty to Patrick he would have protected me.’
‘Me – nasty to Patrick? That lout tried to hit me.’ Freda was outraged at the recollection. She sat upright and combed her hair with agitated fingers.
‘He never. You hit him with the French loaf.’
‘Christ,’ bellowed Freda. She jumped to her feet, snatching up her coat and waving it wildly in the air. A shower of grass and the gnawed bone of chicken slid to the ground. ‘He attacked me, he did – in the Chapel, he tried to punch me on the jaw.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ whispered Brenda, though she did. She couldn’t think what Freda had done to make the Irishman so violent. ‘What did he say?’
Freda was staring across the field. Rossi and Vittorio, beyond the surging line of workers, seemed to be having an argument. Like dogs about to leap snarling into combat they padded in a small circle around each other. Vittorio’s voice carried, harsh with anger, on the still air.
‘What did he say when he tried to hit you?’ persisted Brenda.
‘Get off,’ Freda said. ‘What’s it about? What are they saying?’
‘It’s foreign,’ said Brenda sulkily.
Rossi had boldly asked Vittorio to take Mrs Freda into the woods. Though Vittorio was nephew to his beloved Mr Paganotti he would surely understand. Vittorio was appalled at the suggestion. His impending betrothal to Rossi’s niece made such a thing out of the question: he was not a boy burning with lust, he was a man of honour. Rossi said nervously he was in bad trouble with Mrs Freda,