The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [63]
‘What do you want?’ she called. She saw he was holding a bottle of wine.
‘Let me in.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Let me in.’
‘The landlady won’t let us have people in after midnight.’
‘For God’s sake, it’s only after ten.’
She couldn’t believe it. She thought it was the middle of the night – they had got up so early, the day had gone on and on.
‘I’m tired.’
He made to climb the steps. He lifted his hand to pound the brass knocker.
‘Wait,’ she called in desperation, fearful the two nurses would let him in. ‘I’ll come down.’ If he attacked her on the step she would scream or run towards a passing car.
‘What did they do with her?’ he asked, when she had opened the door.
‘They’ve put her upstairs among the furniture.’
‘Let me in. I’m parched for a cup of tea.’
‘I can’t.’ She sat down on the step and shivered.
‘I pinched a bottle of wine. Do you not want a drop of wine?’
‘I’d be sick,’ she said.
He put the bottle on the step beside a withered wall-flower. He removed his cap and sat down. He looked like a grocer’s boy – he ought to be riding a bicycle, she thought, delivering butter and eggs, and whistling.
‘What will they say?’ she moaned. ‘Whatever will happen?’
He tried to smile at her but his mouth quivered.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he admitted. ‘I’m wore out.’
‘It’s awful up there,’ she told him. ‘Her things – her clothes – everywhere.’
‘I’m wore out,’ he repeated sullenly, as if she had no right to burden him. A door opened in the flats opposite. An old lady leaned over her balcony and called quaveringly: ‘Tommy! Tommy! I’ve got your dinner, Tommy.’
‘Upstairs,’ said Brenda, ‘the table’s laid.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘No. I mean for her and Vittorio.’
‘Not for you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Just for them.’
The leaves of the privet hedge fragmented in the light of the street lamp. Shadows shifted across his face. He drew a handkerchief from the pocket of his mackintosh and laid it between them on the step. He unfolded it. There were a few pieces of glass.
She said: ‘That’s Rossi’s hankie.’
‘I know. The glass is from his broken watch. They were in the bushes.’
‘What did you bring them back for?’
‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘Rossi did. When we stopped on the way home didn’t he go off into the night? I pinched it from his jacket when we went into the factory.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you are clever’ – not quite sincerely. She didn’t know what to think and was having difficulty in concentrating. Even if she wanted to stay on in the bed-sitting room, could she afford it? Could her father be persuaded to send her a little more money? When people found out about Freda it was bound to get into the papers and her mother would tell her father not to send her any money at all, just to force her to come home.
They’d go out shopping, and her mother would tell her to stay in the car so the neighbours wouldn’t see. She’d tell her what clothes to wear, throw out her black stockings and buy her a pink hat from the Bon Marché. They’d put her in a deck chair in the garden and treat her like an invalid, only sternly. She’d never be allowed to stay in bed in the morning, not after the first week. Now that my moment has come, she thought, my chosen solitude, can I stand the expense?
‘I’m going in,’ she said. ‘I’m dropping.’
He twisted his cap in his hands round and round between his drawn-up knees.
‘Suit yourself.’ He plopped the handkerchief with its glass fragments into her unwilling hands. ‘I’ll leave this with you.’
She held the handkerchief at some distance from her as if it was in danger of exploding. She didn’t protest, because she was so glad he didn’t insist on following her into the house.
‘Good-night,’ she murmured.
When he said goodbye she couldn’t hear for the slam of the door. She took a pillow and blankets from the bed and went upstairs to the bathroom. If anybody tried to use the toilet in the night it was just too bad. Freda said the