The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [71]
He was standing now with his feet wide apart, bracing himself for some shock or blow about to be administered. Curiously they watched as he rolled his jersey above the waistband of his trousers. There was a button missing, a glimpse of vest.
‘I am a man,’ he said. ‘I am drinking. I see her skin as she breathe in and out with the hotness, the little bits wobbling. I make to put my arms round her but she is too tall. I only reach her here.’ He was miming the incident now. He leaned forwards from the waist and circled the air with his arms. His curls bounced upon his brow. ‘She say to me – she say—’ Evidently it was too painful for him to repeat.
Vittorio frowned and tapped the desk lightly with his finger-tips.
Rossi continued: ‘She take one little step backwards, like so. She falls away from me. Her neck goes like this—’ He was staggering in a ridiculous fashion away from them, jumper ruched about his chest; he was raising an arm in the air. Suddenly he reached up and yanked his head violently backwards by the hair. His mouth fell open; his tongue flickered horribly; he made a small clicking noise. He straightened, and sneaked a glance at his audience, who were sitting bolt upright watching him. Vittorio was white-faced and dismal. His brown eyes seemed to have grown larger as if to be ready for all the things he still had to see, feel. His fingers, playing with the edge of his collar, brushed his throat. Rossi pointed at the dusty floor of the office. ‘She fall down. Bang. I am falling on top of her.’ He landed absurdly on his knees in front of them, scrambling on all fours before the desk. ‘My head bump in her stomach.’ And he jerked his chin upwards as if heading a ball. His eyes closed as he butted the warm swell of Freda’s belly.
There was a long pause. Nobody said anything. After a moment Rossi remarked: ‘There is a stone under my wrist. When I get up, my watch is no good. It is done for.’
He fell silent. He got to his feet and, red-faced, brushed the dust from his knees. Again he looked at Vittorio.
‘I have forgotten nothing,’ he muttered, ‘nothing.’ He took out the comb and raked his hair once more with a tragic expression.
It sounds reasonable, thought Brenda. She had wanted to know the exact details. It was the sort of thing that could happen to anyone, if they were tall and they were grabbed in the bushes by a small man. It certainly wasn’t anything you could hang someone for.
‘Well,’ said Patrick grudgingly, ‘just as long as we know.’ He sounded as if he had been cheated out of something.
Outside the office window Brenda saw Salvatore and Aldo Gamberini rolling an enormous barrel out of the lift.
Brenda wanted Patrick to come home with her and have a cup of tea: the butter and olives were still on the table. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even walk up the street with her. He strode off without a word and turned the corner. Maria said her sister was waiting. She had cried so much in the washroom when the men were battening down the barrel that her face was lop-sided. She had leant against the wall holding Freda’s flannel to her eyes and moaned.
‘Stop it,’ Brenda had advised. ‘You will make yourself ill.’
The men had swept up the crumbs and blown out the candles. Trembling at the waste they had pumped a quantity of brandy up from the basement. They had glued the lid of the barrel into place and driven nails. They had marked it as unworthy.
Vittorio jumped in the Cortina with Rossi and an unsteady Aldo Gamberini. The green shutter was rolled down in the alleyway. Anselmo adjusted the padlock and went to the car to give Rossi the key. Those who were going in the opposite direction shook hands. ‘Ciao,’ they murmured, clutching their