The Bottle Factory Outing (18 page)

‘Well, she might begin to – to smell!’ His mouth fell open. ‘You ought to put something in the barrel with her – like brandy.
To preserve her.’ She couldn’t look at him. She gazed at the floor.

‘But we cannot use Mr Paganotti’s brandy – it is very expensive – very good.’

Still, he was beginning to see what she meant. Perhaps just a little brandy. The lid would have to be clamped down very securely,
so as to avoid leakage. The English girl was right. There was bound to be some kind of a strike.

‘We do it,’ he said. ‘We put a little brandy in the barrel – just a little.’

‘Well, that’s very satisfactory,’ Brenda said and wondered who was going to tell the aunt in Newcastle that Freda had fled
to Spain.

Maria wanted flowers for Freda; she said it was no good without flowers. She came out of the lift all heated from her work,
the sleeves of her frock pushed up to her elbows, her pinny streaked with damp. Vittorio said he would donate money and some
should be bought from the shop on the High Street.

‘Lots of flowers,’ reiterated Maria, and she held her arms out to a certain width and rolled her eyes.

Brenda thought it would cost a fortune.

Rossi said in alarm: ‘No, we cannot go to the High Street shop. What for are we buying flowers? Mr Paganotti might see –
Mr Cavaloni the accountant – the secretary from Rome.’

Maria drooped in disappointment. Never had she laid out anyone without flowers.

After some moments it occurred to Rossi that when his wife bought washing powder earlier in the week she had returned with
a plastic rose. ‘A free offer,’ he said excitedly.

‘The washing powder isn’t free,’ said Brenda.

He waved his hands impatiently. ‘We all buy the powder – we all go one by one and purchase the powder with the little rose.’

Throughout the afternoon the men went to the super-market and returned with packets of powder and the free offer. Brenda paid
for her packet with her own money. She felt it was a gesture. She was scandalised that the
little rose turned out to be a sort of tulip on a long yellow stem.

The boyfriend of Mr Paganotti’s secretary from Rome came at six o’clock in his red sports car and tooted his horn. Mr Paganotti’s
secretary ran out on the dot in her caramel brown coat of fur and whisked herself into the seat beside him. Five minutes later
the accountant, Mr Cavaloni, escorted Mr Paganotti to his grey Bentley and held open the door with respectfully bowed head.
They shook hands. A child holding a ball scraped the gleaming paintwork with his nail and was admonished. When the grey Bentley
had turned the corner, Mr Cavaloni scrambled into his Ford and drove off down the street.

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 are bruises.’

‘Bruises?’ said Brenda.

‘And on her stomach. There are bruises.’

‘Oh,’ said Brenda, and wondered if the ride on the horse had caused the bruises on her legs. Freda had said she was aching;
she had said her thighs hurt – she hadn’t mentioned her stomach.

The men were beginning to drift about the room, relaxed by the Spumanti. They opened drawers and looked inside the suitcases
and found sheets of music. Gino, exhausted from his labours with a blunt saw,
lay down upon a mildewed mattress and went to sleep. He sprawled with his mouth open and groaned softly.

‘He is tired,’ said Rossi apologetically, fearing it might seem disrespectful. Under cover of the gloom, he put his hand on
Brenda’s waist and dug at her with his fingers. He drew her to a bookcase standing against the wall and pointed at the shelves.

‘I think it is very good, yes? It is very valuable.’ He was licking the tip of her prominent nose.

‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s mostly plywood. Look at the cheap varnish on it.’

He was offended. Nothing remotely connected with Mr Paganotti could be cheap or tawdry. Still, he did not let go of her waist.

There was quite a hum of conversation growing. The little buns crumbled to the floor. The bottles of wine emptied. The men
filled their cheeks with rice cake and munched and munched. Maria, bolt upright on her chair, fingers closed and pointed at
her breast, shut her eyes and prayed. Anselmo found an old gramophone with a handle; a voice reedy with age began to warble
a ballad.

‘
Santa Vergine
,’ cried Maria out loud, and the record was abruptly removed. The turntable continued to spin round and round, slower and
slower. From below came the sound of heavy banging. Someone was hitting the shutters of the loading bay with a brick. A voice,
dulled at this distance, but dreadfully loud outside in the street, demanded admittance. Vittorio crossed himself. He looked
about for Rossi but could not see him. The banging began again, louder this time.

‘The Irishman,’ whispered Aldo Gamberini, face pressed to the windows above the street.

‘Let him in,’ cried Vittorio. ‘He will wake the town.’

Nobody moved. Like a drowning man, Vittorio ran to the lift and sank below the floor.

When he returned with Patrick they were still in their places: Maria in the chair, the men about the table, Gino asleep on
the dusty mattress.

Patrick stared at the remains of the cake, the empty bottles, the flickering candles. ‘For the love of God,’ he said. ‘What
are you doing?’

The cut on his eye was already healing; in the dim light it was no longer noticeable. He saw the sofa, the hair tumbled on
the padded arm, the white mound strewn with stiff and everlasting flowers.

‘Where is she?’ he demanded, turning on them grouped together for safety. ‘Where’s Brenda?’

They too looked about at the shadows, at the dull gleam of the cheap bookcase, the black cave behind a mound of boxes.

He ran to the wall. He clambered over chairs. He kicked the boxes to the ground. Clothing spilled to the floor, old books;
there was the smash of disintegrating plates. But he had Rossi by the throat, lifting him bodily from the darkness by the
front of his jacket, shaking him like a rattle. It seemed to the men that he would shake the breath out of his body. They
hurled themselves upon Patrick. They clawed his hair. They pulled him back-wards from the gasping Rossi. Brenda, dishevelled,
her coat unbuttoned, treading a carpet of broken crockery, stumbled into the light. She peered short-sightedly at the
ring of men. She was dreadfully alarmed and confused.

‘You—’ she said, ‘I thought you’d gone away.’

‘At a time like this?’ shouted Patrick, outraged. He appeared simpler than before, his cap knocked from his head, a button
torn from his mackintosh. Maria gave a small dry titter and clapped a hand over her mouth. The men, shrinking from the heavy
blows they had delivered, trembled in the candlelight. Rossi straightened himself, he tugged his shirt into place, he adjusted
his ruined tie.

‘You have no right,’ he said. ‘You have not the right to touch me.’ And his face crumpled at the unfairness of it.

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.