The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [68]
The workers went to the lift and rode in groups up to the first floor. Brenda had been sent by Vittorio to the Italian confectioners in Lucas Street. She had brought dry little buns seamed with chocolate and a cake, torta di riso, that Maria said was a speciality of Bologna. They had cleared a dining-room table, riddled like a collander with woodworm, and laid out the cakes and a row of paper cups. Rossi had sent up five bottles of Spumanti. Before coming to pay their last respects, the men had removed their overalls and washed their hands in the yard. The hogshead of sherry, empty and with its lid neatly sawn off, stood ready by the lift. At the far end of the room, candles burning at her head and her feet, lay Freda on a couch strewn with plastic tulips. Her eyes had been closed. She wore a long white gown reaching to her ankles. Maria had removed the hand-made boots and after some thought encased her feet in a pair of tennis socks somewhat worn at the soles. Her hair, brushed and lightly curled, quivered on the grey upholstery.
‘Wherever did you get that?’ asked Brenda when she had first clapped eyes on the white dress. It was a night-gown, extremely old in design; fragile lace clung to the collar and cuffs.
‘In Mr Paganotti’s box,’ explained Maria, hastening to add that it was clean and aired. She herself had heated an old steam iron found in the basement and pressed it. Thoughtfully arranged, the brown spots of damp no longer showed.
The men shyly poured out the Spumanti. Glasses had been found in the outer office. ‘Careful, careful,’ urged Rossi, fearful there might be breakages. They huddled at the mouth of the lift amid a pile of kitchen chairs and bric-a-brac, watching the leaping candles at the far end of the room. Brenda still wore her black dress and her stockings and the old coat that Freda had despised.
The men who had not been on the unforgettable Outing revelled in the unaccustomed festivity of the moment. The rest, worn out from the previous day and hours spent emptying the consignment of sherry at breakneck speed, rubbed their creased foreheads, and stifled yawns. Maria sat in an armchair heavy with dust; her legs did not reach the floor. Grey hair, escaping from the bunch on her neck, spilled down her back, as she rocked back and forth gulping her champagne. She remembered other places, other deaths. Her lips moved.
‘Ah well,’ sighed Rossi. ‘It cannot be helped. It is life.’
‘Aye, aye,’ agreed the men, though life it was not.
Brenda gazed at the distant sofa. At this angle nothing of Freda was visible save for one big toe warm in its tennis sock and a fringe of golden curls tipping the shadowy upholstery. She remembered that Rossi had brought her here two weeks ago. He had chased her round the tables and the chairs. She had jumped over the back of the sofa and stumbled. He had leapt upon her. Down came his little red mouth in a jangle of springs and a flurry of dust. He had tried to unbutton her coat. Squealing, she rolled to the floor and fluttered her rubber gloves in his face. Freda, when told, had been scornful. ‘You must be mad,’ she had said. ‘You wouldn’t catch me lying down on that dirty old couch.’ Brenda glanced at Rossi to see if he too remembered, but he was examining the barrel at the lift.
‘She looks beautiful, yes?’ asked Maria.
‘Beautiful,’ agreed Brenda. Where were Freda’s clothes – her purple jumper – her knickers? I could never do anything like that, she thought, looking at Maria, not even if I was paid.
‘On her splendid legs,’ whispered Maria, ‘there