The Bottle Factory Outing - Beryl Bainbridge [8]
‘All over, really,’ admitted Brenda, not liking to go into details – Freda could be very crude in her humour if given the facts. ‘Sometimes we go upstairs among all that old furniture.’
‘Upstairs? When?’
‘Often. I told you, but you wouldn’t listen.’
‘You must have encouraged him. You must have egged him on.’
‘I never. I never did any such thing.’
Freda couldn’t get over it. She stared at Brenda lying full length upon the bed like a neglected doll – cobwebs stuck in her hair, her mouth slightly open and two little pegs of teeth protruding.
‘I don’t understand you at all. You must be mad. You’re not telling me he rushes out while we’re all bottling away and ties you up with his bootlaces and rushes off into the cellar? You’re not telling me I wouldn’t have noticed something?’
Brenda had no reply to that.
‘You shouldn’t have talked to him so much. You’re always talking to him, mouthing away at him as if he’s stone deaf.’
Brenda gazed up at the ceiling defensively, the padded shoulders of her coat grotesquely lifted about her ears.
‘I’m only saying my words clearly. His English is poor.’
‘You look like Edward G. Robinson lying there.’
‘You talk to Vittorio,’ cried Brenda, stung by Freda’s unkindness. She wanted sympathy and understanding, not criticism.
‘That’s different,’ Freda said, and was forlornly aware it was the truth. Vittorio wasn’t rushing her down into the cellar to fumble at her chests. She knew Brenda wasn’t making it up. Though she lacked imagination, Brenda would go to any lengths rather than cause herself embarrassment. It was her upbringing. As a child she had been taught it was rude to say no, unless she didn’t mean it. If she was offered another piece of cake and she wanted it she was obliged to refuse out of politeness. And if she didn’t want it she had to say yes, even if it choked her. It was involved but understandable. There had been other small incidents that illustrated her extraordinary capacity for remaining passive while put upon. There had been the man on the bus who felt her leg almost to her knickers without her saying anything, until she had to move because it was her stop and then she’d said, ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry.’ And the woman with the trumpet who had stopped her in the street and asked her if she could borrow a room to practice in. Brenda loathed music. When Freda opened the door to the trumpet player and told her what to do with her instrument, Brenda hid behind the wardrobe.
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ asked Freda more gently – she looked so dusty and pathetic lying there – ‘I would have put him in his place.’
‘I did,’ protested Brenda, ‘Often.’
Freda started to laugh again. ‘How on earth did you say my mother had died.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Brenda. ‘He did. I was trying to stop him fiddling with me and I mentioned the funeral we saw this morning.’
‘You driva me wilda,’ mimicked Freda. ‘Justa when I thinka I have you in my graspa you talka abouta da funerelo—’
‘Stop it,’ Brenda said.
‘You putta me offa ma spaghetti …’ And Freda shook with laughter.
Sulkily Brenda closed her eyes.
After a moment Freda remembered Vittorio and decided she would go downstairs and ring up Maria to ask her to pop in for a cup of tea. If Rossi had told everyone about her loss it was quite possible Vittorio felt sad for her. Perhaps he had said something tender when he heard the news – like ‘Poor child – poor grieving child’– maybe he was only waiting for an excuse to come round and offer his condolences. She had to know. ‘
Does Rossi ever get his thingy out?’ she asked, looking in her purse for money.
Brenda pretended to be asleep; she stirred on the bed and sighed as if she were dreaming. It took some time to bring Maria to the telephone. Such a thing had never happened to her before at work and Freda was worried the pips would go before her message was understood. She had to bellow down the phone to explain who she was. Brenda could hear her quite plainly.
‘Maria, Maria. It’s me, Freda. You know – Freda – Maria –’ She sounded as if she was going