The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [53]
‘Sweet Jesus,’ blasphemed Patrick, ‘what are we to do?’
‘We cannot tell them,’ said Vittorio, ‘we should perhaps turn round and go home alone.’ He was desperate to be out of the car and away from his silent companion, yet fearful she would slide sideways at his departure.
‘Wait,’ said Patrick, ‘I have to think. I have to decide what’s best.’ And he frowned and fingered the congealed cut at the corner of his eye.
There was no longer, Brenda thought, any possibility of turning back. It seemed to her that they should have driven hours ago to a hospital or a police station. A faint curiosity rose in her as to the outcome of their actions.
‘Why can’t we tell them?’ she asked, watching Salvatore and his men licking ice creams at the side of the road. It was awful not being able to turn round and look at Patrick. She wanted to ask him things. She would have liked to know what he was afraid of.
He said: ‘Be quiet, I’m thinking,’ and he drummed his fingers on the back of her seat.
Aldo Gamberini came to the side window. ‘We go now.’ He pointed to the hill and the row of telescopes. ‘The wild ones are that way.’ He peered through the glass at the silent Rossi.
‘Tell him it’s all right,’ prompted Patrick. ‘Go on.’ And he prodded Rossi, who stirred at last, listlessly and with great effort as if emerging from a deep sleep. ‘Tell him we’ll follow.’
The two cars moved down the road away from the helter-skelter and the dozing elephant. They passed a house behind a wire fence and an open air cafe. Above painted tables the multi-coloured petals of aluminium umbrellas still dripped from the rain. There were public conveniences marked ‘Tarzan’ and ‘Jane’, screened by saplings of silver birch and a toll box manned by a ranger in a boy-scout hat.
Vittorio paid the entrance fee – Patrick hadn’t got any money and Rossi never moved. Brenda didn’t think he was mean. It was just that he was in a state of shock and nothing got through to him. Since her own fit of weeping she was feeling much better, and she couldn’t think why he was still so upset; he made her feel she was shallow for recovering so quickly. She wondered if it was safe to let him drive them through a herd of wild animals – they might all end up in a ravine.
The man in the toll box thumped the roof of the Cortina and told them to get out. ‘You can’t go through in that. Everybody out.’
‘We can’t get out,’ said Patrick. The mini, revving its engine a few yards ahead, tooted an impatient horn.
‘Why he tell us to get out?’ asked Vittorio, gripping the handle of the door in alarm.
‘It’s the sliding roof,’ explained Brenda. ‘It’s not safe. The lions might rip it off.’
‘Down there,’ directed the helpful ranger, pointing further down the path at a rustic shelter thatched with straw. ‘Catch your bus from there and park your car under the trees.’
They waited some minutes for the bus to arrive. They sat in a row with shoulders pressed together as if they had got into the habit of leaning on each other. Over-head the sky paled in patches leaving dark pockets filled with rain. The red mini waited for them, the men hardly understanding what was happening – they glanced curiously at the Cortina parked under the trees with Mrs Freda alone on the back seat.
The safari bus when it came was painted with black stripes like a zebra. It looked as if a whole pride of lions had hurled themselves at the rusty bonnet and ill-fitting windows and torn the tyres to ribbons. The driver was dressed in a camouflaged jacket of mottled green and a hat to match, one side caught up at the side as if he were a Canadian Mountie. When he opened