The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [65]
‘Lucky her,’ said the nurse dangling her hospital towel. ‘I expect she could do with a break after her mother dying like that.’
It was simple to explain really, once she got started. There was a bit of money due from Freda’s mother’s estate, not much but enough for a holiday: and her Uncle Arthur who was in a good way of doing had advanced her funds so that she could get away. She’d always wanted to go to Spain – she was very interested in flamenco dancing – so she just went off all of a sudden. Made up her mind, packed her bag, and went.
‘How long for?’ asked the nurse, scraping an envious cheek with the handle of her toothbrush. Brenda said it depended on the weather. It was winter after all – it wasn’t as if she was going to lie on some beach. She might come back next week or she might never.
‘Never?’ cried the nurse.
Brenda was laughing. ‘You know what I mean. She might, she might not.’ She continued up the stairs shaking with laughter. ‘Who knows,’ she called from the bend of the stairs and she stumbled upwards squealing and gasping for breath.
When Brenda returned with the pastel-coloured toilet bag and the washing-up bowl, the workers were crowded into the concrete bunker under the fire escape. She could hear them shouting as she went up the alleyway towards the pass door. The bottling plant stood idle. Alone, old Luigi, undeterred by the drama, was labelling with ferocious speed. Stefano was on guard beside the lift.
‘You go,’ he said pointing his finger straight up in the air. She said, No, she wouldn’t thank you, she’d just brought a few things for Maria.
He told her to fetch Salvatore from the bunker to keep watch while he took the bowl upstairs.
The men, wrapped in pieces of old carpeting, were sitting on upturned boxes, rolling cigarettes and gesticulating.
She felt terribly out of it. The way they carried on, so engrossed, faces drawn with grief, eyes mournfully gazing at their unwrapped luncheons – you’d have thought Freda was a relative. She wondered what Rossi had told them. Surely he hadn’t said Patrick had broken her neck – nobody could be certain. Rossi seemed terribly agitated. He was trembling and arguing with Vittorio.
‘What’s wrong now?’ she asked.
Vittorio said: ‘Mr Paganotti wants the first floor to be cleared of the furniture. He is going up in the lift this very afternoon to take the look around.’
‘Well, she can’t stay there anyway,’ began Brenda, ‘she’ll start—’ But she couldn’t continue. She wasn’t sure how quickly bodies began to smell – perhaps here in the factory, with the temperature close to freezing, Freda could be preserved for ever. ‘What’s he want to shift the furniture for now?’ she asked. ‘What’s the sudden hurry?’
‘Mr Paganotti call me in,’ cried Rossi. ‘His secretary is sitting there, she is smiling and asking me how the Outing go. Did we have the nice time in the country?’
‘How awkward,’ said Brenda. Mr Paganotti’s secretary came from a well-to-do family in Rome. Nobody had liked to ask her on the Outing. She could hardly be classed a worker.
‘I look at the floor,’ continued Rossi. ‘Mr Paganotti ask me if I like the Stately Home. If it had been an interesting Stately Home.’
That was kind of him, thought Brenda. Fancy Mr Paganotti remembering a thing like that.
‘Mr Paganotti say he is re-organising his business premises. He is going to get the new machinery, expand – he need more office space. For the ordering, the accountancy. He want the furniture gone from the first floor.’
‘I would have died,’ breathed Brenda, feeling terribly sorry for Rossi.
Mr Paganotti, it appeared, had noticed how disturbed Rossi had been. He had frowned. He had dug his thumb into the pocket of his beautiful striped waistcoat. He had asked what was wrong.
‘I tell him,’ said Rossi, ‘that the men are very busy at the moment. I say there is the sherry consignment from Santander – the barrels have to be emptied and ready for return shipment tomorrow. I tell him that if the barrels are not ready for return there is a storage charge.’ Rossi spread out his hands, palm