The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [48]
‘Oh dear,’ she said, opening the door. ‘What’s wrong, love? Whatever’s wrong?’
She had to pull his hands away from his face by force and was shocked at his expression of fear.
Scrambling into the car, she wrapped him within her arms, asking: ‘What did she say to you? You mustn’t take any notice. She never means what she says. She’s kind really – you mustn’t take it to heart.’
She examined his face anxiously for signs of assault. Though the skin under his watery eyes appeared bruised she couldn’t be sure it was inflicted by violence. He spoke in Italian, teeth chattering, pouring out a flood of words, and she laid her finger to his lips and said, ‘Don’t, little lamb,’ as if he were Stanley or someone she knew very well. ‘It’s no use,’ she told him, ‘getting yourself into a state. I’ve been through it myself – I know. Just try to forget what she said, try to block the words out.’ And again, but rather more self-consciously, she pressed his head to her purple cloak and rocked him back and forth. Oh God, she thought, whatever did she say?
After a time he became calmer. He leaned his head against the seat and asked her what hour it was.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, and she took his wrist to examine his watch. The glass was shattered and the time stopped at twenty minutes past four.
‘Did she do that?’ asked Brenda, but he remained silent. Fine rain began to spatter the windows of the car.
‘Can’t you tell me what happened?’ she coaxed. ‘Did she mention Mr Paganotti?’
A spasm of distress flittered across his face. He struggled from the floor and half-knelt on the plastic seating, nose pressed to the streaked glass, staring out at the clump of bushes as if expecting to see Mr Paganotti in his camel-hair coat advancing through the rain.
‘Now that you’re more composed,’ said Brenda, ‘I’ll leave you alone, shall I? I’ll go and find Freda.’
‘No,’ he protested, gripping her by the arms, and she sank against him on the seat thinking he was his old self again and just as randy. She might even have submitted, if only to make him less unhappy, though she did wonder how they could manage in the confined space of the car and what she would say if the men ran in to be out of the wet. I could pretend it was artificial respiration, she thought and looked over his shoulder to see how the game was progressing. Out on the grass, standing beside the wine barrels, was a figure in a peaked cap and mackintosh.
‘Patrick,’ she cried and she thrust Rossi from her and opened the door and ran over the field.
The workers crowded about Patrick, curious to know where he had been. He was smiling, one eye elongated at the edge by a jagged cut beaded with blood.
‘I don’t think there’s much left to eat,’ said Brenda. ‘Did you bring your sandwiches?’
She looked inside the shopping basket and disinterred pieces of bread and the cores of apples. She wished Freda would come and help. Even though she might be hostile to Patrick, she was awfully good at looking after people – in a jiffy she would have produced quite a substantial little meal.
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Patrick, looking towards the road.
Vittorio seemed uncomfortable in his presence. ‘You have been in the town?’ he asked, holding the ball to his red jumper and rubbing it up and down the flat curve of his stomach.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Patrick replied, and stared at him without blinking for several seconds.
The men began to dress, knotting their ties at the throat, adjusting suspenders to concertinaed socks, taking out pocket combs and tidying their damp hair.
‘Freda’s gone to sleep in