The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [70]
The workers did not know what to think. If anything, they were inclined to be sympathetic to the Irishman; he was so openly broken-hearted at finding Mrs Brenda in the arms of Rossi. They brushed Patrick’s raincoat with tentative hands. They picked his cap from the floor and avoided Rossi’s eyes.
‘Have you gone mad?’ choked Patrick, speaking to Brenda alone.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘really I’m sorry. It’s not what you think.’
She would have comforted him if she had known how. It was embarrassing the way he was looking at her in front of everybody.
Vittorio was shouting at Rossi. Rossi had stepped back a pace and was blinking watery eyes.
‘How could you?’ said Patrick again, as if she had fallen from a pedestal.
‘We were only looking at the bookcase,’ she whined. ‘You know what Rossi’s like, I told you before—’ and stopped because she never had – it was Freda she had told.
He sat down on the mattress beside Gino as if he was tired.
‘You’re never going to bury her up here,’ he said, jerking his head at the funeral couch.
‘We’ve thought of a plan,’ she said. ‘It’s quite a good one.’ It didn’t seem fair to let him go on suffering, worrying that he was going to be found out – waiting for the knock on the door, the uniformed men on the step. ‘Nothing can go wrong. You don’t have to be frightened.’
‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake, I never did it.’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of Rossi. ‘That bastard did it I tell you. I never touched a hair of her head.’
‘Oh well,’ she murmured, ‘it doesn’t matter.’ Appalled, she saw that tears were squeezing out of his hurt blue eyes. She sank down on the mattress beside him and would have liked to put an arm about his shoulder.
Vittorio came to her and whispered: ‘We are going to put her in the barrel. It’s getting late.’
‘I’m going,’ she said, starting up in horror. ‘I can’t watch that.’
‘Go downstairs to the office,’ he said, ‘with the Irishman. There is something to tell you.’ And he put a hand under Patrick’s elbow and helped him to his feet. ‘Go and wait,’ he said.
Brenda took Patrick to the lift. He shuffled his feet like an old man, all the fight gone out of him. They waited for some time, Patrick slumped behind Rossi’s desk, herself standing looking out of the window at the factory floor and the stacked cartons.
‘They’re very kind really,’ she said. ‘They’re nice men.’
‘What are they doing with her now?’ he asked.
‘Doing things – putting her in a container.’
‘A container?’
‘In a barrel,’ she said, ‘with brandy. They’re exporting her.’
She thought he might laugh, but he didn’t. She herself bit her lip in case.
‘Is it done?’ she asked, when Vittorio and Rossi came into the office. She wondered if they had stuffed the plastic tulips in as well.
‘No,’ said Vittorio, ‘the men are working now.’ He looked at Rossi and at the Irishman behind the desk. He said something in Italian.
‘I want to tell you what happened,’ said Rossi. ‘It is I.’
The Irishman did not appear to be listening.
‘He is wanting to tell you the truth,’ said Vittorio.
‘Whose idea was it to put her in a barrel?’ asked Patrick.
Rossi threw up his hands in despair. He prowled about the office. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror beside the door he took a comb from his pocket and attended to his hair.
‘Tell him,’ urged Vittorio.
‘It is I,’ cried Rossi, turning from the mirror and steeling himself to go quite near the Irishman. He put his hands on the desk and lowered his head. ‘I do it.’
‘What happens at the other end when they try to fill the barrels up again? Or this end, if old Paganotti mistakes the barrel and syphons himself a drink? By Jesus, there’d be more body in the brandy than he bargained for.’ He giggled nervously.
Vittorio said slowly: ‘Rossi is wanting to tell you what happened to Mrs Freda.’ In his desperation he hit the blotter with his fist and the glass tubes rolled together and jingled. The Irishman concentrated on Rossi.
‘It is very bad,’ began Rossi, ‘but it is the truth.’ He looked briefly at Vittorio who nodded