The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [54]
She nudged Patrick, who was edging forwards to climb into the bus, and he stopped abruptly and asked ‘What’s up, what’s wrong?’ frowning and looking about in an alarmed way. The driver was beckoning her and she couldn’t tell Patrick about the socks.
‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘nothing.’ And she clambered into the van and sat near the window.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Patrick sitting heavily beside her and tugging at her cloak.
‘His shoes,’ she whispered, ‘and his socks.’
‘His what?’
‘Look at his feet.’
‘For the love of God – what are you on about?’
She sighed and settled herself more comfortably on the wooden bench. The driver stretched out a speckled hand shaking with palsy and started the engine.
‘He’s got Parkinson’s,’ she said. ‘He shouldn’t be driving a bus.’
Patrick was staring at Rossi’s hand, braced against the green slats of the seat in front.
‘Will you look at that?’ he said, nudging her with his elbow.
‘Not Rossi – the driver. Either that or he’s over a hundred.’
‘Do you see his watch?’
She looked without interest at the damaged time piece. ‘He broke it playing football.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘He didn’t say anything. I don’t think he cares about his watch being broken.’
‘When we got – her – up from the ground there was bits of glass – there was a piece stuck to her jumper – at the back.’
She listened and watched a dead fly, relic of a previous summer, quivering on the window pane. The bus rattled over ruts in the gravel path and bounced down a lane towards a metal fence covered with wire netting and patrolled by men with rifles.
‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘do you think it’s dangerous?’
‘Will you listen to what I’m saying. Rossi was in the bushes with her before anybody else. His watch is bust. I told you – I seen the pieces.’
‘What pieces?’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘Your brain’s addled with the shock. I can’t make you see how serious it is. I can’t get any sense out of that Vittorio and none out of you.’ He sounded pained as if she had let him down. He stared gloomily ahead and watched the barricade slowly rising in the air.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I don’t seem able to take it in. I don’t know why we didn’t get a policeman. I don’t—’
‘For God’s sake, will you think about me. I was seen. Wasn’t I seen in that Protestant chapel having a barney with her?’
‘But you said you didn’t hit her,’ she said primly.
‘I didn’t. I didn’t lay a finger on her. She thumped me.
She pushed me into some hole in the wall and shut me in. I had a devil of a time explaining what I was doing in there.’
‘She locked you in a hole?’ Her mouth began to turn up at the corners – she couldn’t help admiring the spirit of Freda.
‘And she hit me in the eye with a bloody big stone.’
‘Where?’
Vittorio turned and looked at them. He had dark circles under his eyes and his lashes were stuck together. ‘What is wrong?’ he hissed. ‘Everyone is looking.’
‘Sssh,’ reproved Brenda. ‘People are looking.’ After a few moments she whispered: ‘Where did she hit you with a stone?’
‘In the woods.’
‘You said you didn’t go into the woods.’
‘Well, I did. I was minding me own business, throwing pebbles at birds, and she chucks a bloody big boulder through the trees at me.’
‘You shouldn’t have thrown pebbles at birds,’ Brenda said, shocked at his unkindness.
They drove through a field of ostriches who fled bedraggled at their approach and disappeared into some trees. It didn’t look like a park. The grass was patchy and littered with lumps of dung; the leaves hung tattered from the branches.
‘Isn’t it messy?’ she whispered in Rossi’s ear, but he didn’t reply. He was holding his wrist with one hand and hiding his shattered watch.
Brenda went pale. Beads of perspiration broke out on her temples. She struggled to open a window.
‘You can’t,’ said Patrick. It’s not allowed to open the windows. What’s the matter with you?’ And he stared at her ashen face and her pale lips parting as she fought for