Free The Bottle Factory Outing by Beryl Bainbridge Page A
Authors: Beryl Bainbridge
we’ve never seen them before.’
‘We’ve never been awake at that time.’
‘I have,’ said Brenda gloomily, thinking of the times she had watched the first streaks of the dawn appearing above the rooftops
of the grey houses.
Now that Sunday was so near, Maria had begun to wonder what she might wear on the Outing. She had found a frock in Mr Paganotti’s
boxes. She pulled it out from under the bench and draped it across her portly body, waiting for Freda’s opinion. It was made
of silk, with a pattern of miniature daisies on a band round the hem of the skirt.
‘Haven’t you got anything of your own?’ asked Freda dubiously, looking at the plunging neckline and the absence of sleeves.
‘It’s winter, you know.’
‘Certainly I have nothing,’ Maria said, and she whirled about with the hem of daisies flaring above the folds of her grey
football socks, whooping with laughter and growing red in the face at her exhibitionism.
‘I think it’s very nice,’ said Brenda.
‘By all means wear it,’ cried Freda, too happy to bring Maria down. And she looked about for Vittorio, anxious for him to
know that her period of mourning was over. After all, she knew now that there was something in store for them both. The premonition
of it was becoming stronger by the moment. She felt giddy at the thought of the future, and she longed to experience that
shudder of excitement the sight of him might bring. She plunged down the steps into the basement, her large buttocks quivering
in the brown trousers she had made herself, searching about among the barrels and the yellow containers, and calling his
name for the pleasure it gave her. He wasn’t there.
‘He’s in the office,’ said Brenda, when she returned disconcerted to her bench. ‘Him and Rossi.’
There were clients tasting the wine when she entered.A middle-aged woman dressed in black and a young girl in a grey coat with a velvet collar.
‘Oh,’ said Freda, ‘I
am
sorry. I thought Vittorio was alone.’ She looked at him tenderly, flashing messages with her eyes, and he hung his head as
if suddenly shy in her presence. ‘I wonder if I might use the telephone
– to confirm the van booking for the Outing.’
She was all sweetness and light, her gestures theatrical and charming, her blue eyes wide with candour. The girl in the grey
coat bent her head and studied the kid gloves on her lap.
‘Later,’ said Rossi. ‘I am busy just now.’
He spread his fingers expressively and spoke in Italian to the middle-aged woman, who was staring at Freda with polite bleak
eyes.
‘Of course,’ agreed Freda, ‘how stupid of me. Do forgive me.’
It was fortunate for Rossi that she was in such a good mood. She seemed not to notice how eager he was to be rid of her. She
lingered and postured, leaning against the shelves packed with pretty coloured labels. Finally she asked Vittorio if she might
have a word in private. He went unwillingly to stand in the open doorway, and she laid her hand on his sleeve and said she
was able to have dinner with him – that very evening if he wished. She smiled at him.
‘Ah, no,’ he said rapidly, trying to cover the sound of her voice by the breadth of his shoulders. ‘I have made other arrangements.’
And in spite of himself he gave a brief nervous glance over his shoulder at the group sitting about Rossi’s desk sipping their
wine in silence.
Freda made a gesture as if to touch his cheek, and he stepped backwards.
‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘till Sunday, then. Tomorrow I will be preparing food for the picnic and washing my hair. I do want to
look my best.’
As tall as he, she fanned his face with her breath and ruffled the fine hairs of his drooping moustaches. She fought to keep
calm at this unexpected set-back. It hurt that he wasn’t in the same frame of mind as herself. She was helped, however, by
the sound of her heart palpitating in her breast, for all the world like
‘We’ve never been awake at that time.’
‘I have,’ said Brenda gloomily, thinking of the times she had watched the first streaks of the dawn appearing above the rooftops
of the grey houses.
Now that Sunday was so near, Maria had begun to wonder what she might wear on the Outing. She had found a frock in Mr Paganotti’s
boxes. She pulled it out from under the bench and draped it across her portly body, waiting for Freda’s opinion. It was made
of silk, with a pattern of miniature daisies on a band round the hem of the skirt.
‘Haven’t you got anything of your own?’ asked Freda dubiously, looking at the plunging neckline and the absence of sleeves.
‘It’s winter, you know.’
‘Certainly I have nothing,’ Maria said, and she whirled about with the hem of daisies flaring above the folds of her grey
football socks, whooping with laughter and growing red in the face at her exhibitionism.
‘I think it’s very nice,’ said Brenda.
‘By all means wear it,’ cried Freda, too happy to bring Maria down. And she looked about for Vittorio, anxious for him to
know that her period of mourning was over. After all, she knew now that there was something in store for them both. The premonition
of it was becoming stronger by the moment. She felt giddy at the thought of the future, and she longed to experience that
shudder of excitement the sight of him might bring. She plunged down the steps into the basement, her large buttocks quivering
in the brown trousers she had made herself, searching about among the barrels and the yellow containers, and calling his
name for the pleasure it gave her. He wasn’t there.
‘He’s in the office,’ said Brenda, when she returned disconcerted to her bench. ‘Him and Rossi.’
There were clients tasting the wine when she entered.A middle-aged woman dressed in black and a young girl in a grey coat with a velvet collar.
‘Oh,’ said Freda, ‘I
am
sorry. I thought Vittorio was alone.’ She looked at him tenderly, flashing messages with her eyes, and he hung his head as
if suddenly shy in her presence. ‘I wonder if I might use the telephone
– to confirm the van booking for the Outing.’
She was all sweetness and light, her gestures theatrical and charming, her blue eyes wide with candour. The girl in the grey
coat bent her head and studied the kid gloves on her lap.
‘Later,’ said Rossi. ‘I am busy just now.’
He spread his fingers expressively and spoke in Italian to the middle-aged woman, who was staring at Freda with polite bleak
eyes.
‘Of course,’ agreed Freda, ‘how stupid of me. Do forgive me.’
It was fortunate for Rossi that she was in such a good mood. She seemed not to notice how eager he was to be rid of her. She
lingered and postured, leaning against the shelves packed with pretty coloured labels. Finally she asked Vittorio if she might
have a word in private. He went unwillingly to stand in the open doorway, and she laid her hand on his sleeve and said she
was able to have dinner with him – that very evening if he wished. She smiled at him.
‘Ah, no,’ he said rapidly, trying to cover the sound of her voice by the breadth of his shoulders. ‘I have made other arrangements.’
And in spite of himself he gave a brief nervous glance over his shoulder at the group sitting about Rossi’s desk sipping their
wine in silence.
Freda made a gesture as if to touch his cheek, and he stepped backwards.
‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘till Sunday, then. Tomorrow I will be preparing food for the picnic and washing my hair. I do want to
look my best.’
As tall as he, she fanned his face with her breath and ruffled the fine hairs of his drooping moustaches. She fought to keep
calm at this unexpected set-back. It hurt that he wasn’t in the same frame of mind as herself. She was helped, however, by
the sound of her heart palpitating in her breast, for all the world like