‘Stick this,’ said Freda at last, when she had eaten her fill, and she rose to her feet and wandered away in the direction of the beech wood. She hoped Vittorio would follow. She was in a state of suspense as to his intentions. His declaration of true love, his betrayal moments later, had confused her. Still, she was not too distressed. The gradual turning of the October day from storm and cold to balm and mildness filled her with optimism.
Rossi wanted to play games, he tried to explain. He spoke in English to Brenda and in Italian to the respectful men.
‘In the woods … a little jump out … you will count and we will hide.’
They looked at him without enthusiasm. He pointed at the woods and at Freda slowly perambulating round the perimeter of the fencing and covered his eyes coyly with his hands.
‘We will hide and you will come to find.’
He jumped to his feet and urged Brenda to stand up.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I want to rest.’
‘Ah, never. We are here for a little jump out, yes?’ And he pulled her quite roughly to her feet and she cried, ‘No, no, later,’ and sank down again among the dandelions.
The men averted their faces. They had had enough of finding and seeking. They knew well who would be found and who would be lost.
Rejected, Rossi went slowly to his car and returned with the stained football. He kicked it high in the air and the men lumbered to their feet and brushed down their clothes and ran about, eyes dilated and legs stiff from lack of exercise. Vittorio did not follow Freda across the park. Instead he discarded his coat and, luminous in a red jumper and trousers of black velvet, joined in the game. In contrast to Rossi, who trundled, garments flapping, in a furious rush along the pitch, he ran elegantly with arms outstretched, placing the heel of one foot precisely against the toe of the other, as if balanced on a tight-rope. After a few moments several players stopped in mid-field and bent over, heads dangling, and fought for breath. If they felt the day lacked real splendour, they were too polite to declare it. It made no difference that the sky now drifted baby-blue above their heads – there were no village girls to dance with, no perspiring members of la banda blowing golden trumpets flashing in the sun; the wine balanced on the stump of the tree was contained in barrels of brown plastic. Digging their fists into their stomachs, the men jostled and stumbled together on the turf. They erupted into sly bursts of hysterical laughter as one or other of them, lunging too energetically at the flying ball, lost his balance and slipped on all fours upon the green grass. Patches of damp darkening their knees, and clumps of earth sticking to the soles of their winkle-picker shoes, they dashed back and forth between the oak trees.
Freda, lingering at the edge of the timber fence, watched Vittorio in his fiery jumper, flickering beneath the autumn leaves. She went very slowly round the curve of the fence and entered the beech wood. Singing in a slight acrid voice a song her aunt in Newcastle had taught her as a child, she started to march at a rapid pace, with swinging arms, along the path. After one verse, the bracken crackling beneath her boots, she stopped abruptly and listened. Faintly from across the park, now lost to view, she could hear the sporadic cries of the gambolling men, the drone of an aeroplane above her head and somewhere, deeper among the trees, the distinct noise of someone moving. She had the feeling she was being watched. She tried a few experimental paces further along the path and was sure she was being matched, step for step, by something invisible and level with her, screened by the stippled bark and the dying leaves of the beeches. She halted, and all was quiet. It was probably children playing Indians, stalking each other, unaware of her presence. Above her, the vapour trail of the vanished plane rolled wider and mingled with the clouds. Uneasily she continued along the path and tried not to feel afraid. She was nowhere near the safari park: it couldn’t be a wolf or a runaway lion. There would be notices all over the place if she had wandered into the lion reserve. She paused and pretended to be examining the curve of a leaf. This time she saw the shape, human in form, of someone gliding behind the trunk of a tree. It’s a dirty old man, she thought, relieved, but turned all the same and walked back towards the park. It would be funny if it was Mr Paganotti keeping an eye on them, watching to see if there was any hanky-panky going on in the forest. She wouldn’t put it past him. He acted as if he owned his employees body and soul, handing out his cast-off clothing as if he was God Almighty.
A pebble, spinning from the bushes, glanced her cheek. Instantly she was filled with anger.
‘Who the bloody hell did that?’ she shouted, brave now that she was approaching the fence.
Another pebble, bigger in size, pitched on to the path a few inches from her foot. She went stealthily as a cat through the tangle of bushes, cuckoo spittle on her boots, and stooped to select a large stone from the undergrowth. Peering into the trees she flung it with all her strength into the gloom. There was a pattering of torn leaves, a thud, and an audible intake of breath.
‘Serve you right,’ she said and half ran, for fear of reprisals, round the curve of the path and into the park.
She trudged thankfully towards the running men and the tilted barrels perched on the oak table. She thought Brenda looked ridiculous, still wrapped in the purple cloak, attempting to kick the ball without exposing her legs. Freda said nothing, but she gave one of her mocking smiles.
‘Do join in,’ called Brenda. ‘It’s good fun.’
Her hair was messy and her ankles were braceleted with stalks of grass.
‘Don’t be absurd,’ snapped Freda, and she lowered herself on to the ground and propped her back against the stump of the oak.
She rubbed at her cheek with a piece of twig, trying to scratch it though not wishing to draw blood. Vittorio, peacocking across the pitch, hunched his shoulders like a baseball player and ran to her.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
She held her cheek and shook her head. He squatted on his haunches in front of her. Lip beaded with perspir ation, his face bloomed like a rose.
‘Ah, you have hurt yourself,’ and he touched her soft cheek with one exploring finger. ‘What has happened?’
‘There was a maniac in the woods,’ she said, ‘hurling stones at me. I shouldn’t be surprised if it was Patrick getting his own back.’
He found it difficult to understand. His eyes widened, and he waited for more words, but she bent her head and kept silent. She hadn’t thought of the Irishman until this moment. Surely he wouldn’t dare to chuck stones at her? Maybe it had been children. Perhaps some irate parent would come soon over the grass leading a bleeding child by the hand.
‘Come,’ said Vittorio caressingly. ‘Be on my side. You play the ball game with me.’
He was challenging her, she thought, asking her to show her allegiance in front of the workers.
‘I’m not keen,’ she demurred, and he coaxed her to her feet, holding her hands in his. The men faltered and gave a few encouraging cries as the ball raced across the pitch.
‘Why didn’t you come for a walk?’ she asked.
‘But I cannot leave the men,’ he said. ‘It is not possible.’
Still entwining his fingers in hers, he dragged her some yards across the grass and then loosed her. She floundered as if in deep water among the sea of men, striking out, first in one direction and then another, in a breathless endeavour to intercept the ball kicked from side to side.
‘That’s it,’ encouraged Brenda. ‘Get at it, luv.’
She was in her stockinged feet, with one toe protruding from a hole, hopping up and down with excitement. There was no goal mouth to aim at – Freda wasn’t even sure whose side she was on. She saw a row of black hats dumped on the ground and kicked out wildly with her boot. She missed and fell heavily on to her bottom. A faint titter began and died away instantly. Vittorio and Brenda, taking no heed, ran together, bumping and shouting after the bouncing ball.
Struggling to her feet, the tide of players rushing away from her, Freda returned, sc
arlet in the face, to the tree stump and turned the tap of the wine barrel.
Presently Vittorio came to see if she was all right. He looked at her spoilt face and disturbed hair.
‘You want a little rest?’ he said.
‘My back,’ she said abstractedly, as if it was an old burden she was used to bearing alone. She refused to meet his eye and winced bravely and bit her lip.
‘Have you hurt your back again?’ asked Brenda, leaving the game and looking at her anxiously. It seemed to Freda that wherever Vittorio went, Brenda followed. She stood very close to him, as if they were both united by their concern for her.
‘Play on,’ said Freda nobly, waving her hand selflessly at the make-shift football pitch, though she would have liked to catch Brenda a stinging slap across the face. She sank down with extreme caution on to the grass and closed her eyes.
‘She’s got a bad back,’ said Brenda. ‘It plays up from time to time. That’s why she has to sit on a beer crate to do her labelling.’
‘Perhaps a little sleep will do her good,’ Vittorio said, as if speaking of his grandmother; and they went away together.
When Freda opened her eyes, her head turned resolutely from the happy team of workmates, she was astonished to see a row of horses at the boundary of the field, flowing along the blue line of the firs. She sat up, shielding her eyes from the sun, absorbed in the sight, touched by some chord of memory, and watched them turn from mauve to chestnut brown as they swerved, two abreast, away from the trees and began to canter across the park. At this distance they resembled an illustration she had seen in a war book, sepia-tinted, of cavalry on the march. They came nearer, the thud of hooves muffled by the grass, and she saw that there were three riders each leading a saddleless horse on a long rein, and they were no longer brown but jet black from head to tail with trappings of dark leather burnished by the sun. Now she knew who they were. She could see quite clearly the peaked caps of the mounted men, the mustard jackets buttoned at the throat. The game of football broke up. The workers flocked to the tree stump to refresh themselves with wine. They gazed in awe and pleasure at the animals and the proud uniformed men sweeping towards them.
‘It’s them,’ cried Freda, getting to her feet and tugging Brenda by the arm. ‘The other morning in the street – there were hundreds of them.’
She stared in recognition at the riders, red-cheeked and bright-eyed as if risen from Flanders field, the dead young ones come back to ride again.
‘It can’t be them,’ said Brenda ‘We’re miles away.’
Rossi, cherubic face beaming with hospitality, ran to the horses. The men reined in and slowed their mounts to a walk. Circling the oak, Rossi at their rumps, the animals snorted, flared nostrils lined with purple.
The soldiers looked down at the ill-assorted group, at the blonde girl in her sheepskin coat, the dishevelled black-suited workers, the paper cups strewn on the ground. Brenda, with her formidable nose in the air and an utterly misleading expression of haughtiness in her somewhat hooded eyes, spun on the grass like a bird caught in a net. She was terrified of the prancing beasts.
‘You will have a little wine?’ said Rossi, and he twinkled back to the barrel and turned the tap and rinsed out grass stalks from the cups, pouring the red wine on to the ground and refilling the beakers to the brim. Like a woman holding up refreshments to the liberating troops he smiled coyly and held out his arms. The three young soldiers dismounted. The horses pawed the turf and bent their necks, the clipped manes standing like a pelt of fur along the curve of their necks, the tails, dense as soot, swishing flies from their dark and steaming haunches.
The riders were on a training course from Aldershot. They were exercising the Queen’s funeral horses.
‘Funeral horses?’ said Freda, eying the satiny flanks of the wicked-looking animals.
On great occasions, the soldiers explained, the death of military leaders, the laying to rest of Dukes and Princes, the Queen’s horses, glossy black, pulled the gun carriage with the coffin on top.
‘Of course,’ said Brenda, remembering the death of Churchill. She looked discreetly at the rounded bellies, trying to ascertain what sex they were.
‘Are they ladies or gentlemen?’ she whispered to Freda. ‘I can’t see.’
‘Geldings,’ pronounced Freda, though Brenda was no wiser. ‘You can’t have stallions at a state funeral …’
‘Why ever not?’ asked Brenda.
‘They’re too fruity – it stands to reason. They might go wild and stampede down the Mall dragging the coffin at breakneck speed.’
‘How awful,’ said Brenda.
‘They’re very carefully trained. In Vienna it was an art in itself.’
Freda spoke as if she knew all about it, though in truth she had only ridden once, and that on a donkey at Whitby Bay when she was six years old.
The soldiers, young boys from country districts with soft burring accents, ate pieces of salami and crusts of bread washed down by the wine. In return, unasked, they offered the two women and one of the men a ride on the horses.
‘Oh, no,’ said Brenda instantly, ‘I couldn’t possibly – honestly. Thank you very much all the same.’
She stepped backwards, as if fearing they would fling her into the air by force and strap her in the saddle like some sacrifice to the gods of war. The workers, having been picked once in their lives by Mr Paganotti, hung back, not expecting to be chosen again. Vittorio made a token attempt to stand back for Salvatore, but it was not serious, and he and Rossi mounted. Freda, her delicate back forgotten, flung down her sheepskin coat and was hauled by two soldiers on to the large gelding, the plump curves of her purple calves echoing the rounded swell of the horses. Admiringly the men watched her swaying under the sky, her peach face shimmering amidst the golden strands of her blown hair. Vittorio, the red jumper giving him a military air, rode at her side. The soldiers mounted their own beasts, the long guiding reins streaming out behind them, and began to canter slowly away from the pitch. Last went Rossi, hair clustered in damp ringlets upon his brow, bumping like a schoolboy across the neck of his horse. They rode through the air, level with the distant hills and the black fingers of the thorn trees, and Freda held an imaginary crop in her hand and tilted her chin imperiously at the sun. She was Catherine of Russia at the head of her regiment; she was Lady Barbara riding beside the young squire. Vittorio could not take his eyes from her: she was so majestic, so splendidly rooted to the black horse. She knew he was looking at her. She parted her lips, and a dimple appeared in her left cheek, and she thought, just at this moment we are one, you and I, only a little lower than the angels. They swept in a wide arc around the park, the scent of the firs mingling with the sweat of the horses, and turned at the curve of the timber fence, bending low to avoid the branches dipping in their path.
As they flashed past the beginning of the beech wood, Vittorio thought he saw someone in a peaked cap and a mackintosh running along an avenue of trees. For a second he imagined it was the Irish van-driver, but he remembered that Freda had said he had long since made for home.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Freda graciously, as the horses stopped once more at the oak tree. ‘It was so nice.’ And she slid, light as a feather, it seemed, to the green grass and stood patting the nose of her horse.
Her knees began to tremble, her thighs ached; she had not realised how tightly she had gripped the belly of the saddleless animal. Exhilarated and unsteady on her feet, she smiled with childish satisfaction at Vittorio and said gaily to Brenda: ‘Oh, you should have come. It was beautiful. It was so beautiful.’
They sat on the ground and lay in the sunshine. They drank thirstily from the barrels of wine. The soldiers, standing in their stirrups like jockeys, rode in a circle about the tree stump and made for the verge. Stepping delicately on to the gravel, the black horses swayed sedately towards the town, hooves clattering on the surface of the road.
‘What did it really feel like?’ asked Brenda.
/> ‘It was a bit like being on a swing,’ Freda told her. ‘Something gliding and rushing through the air. It was—’
‘It didn’t look like gliding. You were all jogging up and down like bags of potatoes.’
‘Rubbish. I was—’
‘You have ridden before?’ asked Rossi.
He made it sound like an accusation. He was aware that he himself had cut a poor figure in front of the cellar workers and was grateful that Mr Paganotti had not been present.
‘Several times,’ lied Freda, and she lay on top of her sheepskin coat, the wool curling in little fleecy knots about her purple limbs, satisfied, in spite of what Brenda had said, that she had been stunning in her deportment. She no longer needed to talk to Vittorio. For the moment she was sure of his admiration; she could afford to relax. She lay dreaming on her back, still experiencing the motion of the horse, the muscles in her legs trembling with fatigue. Behind her closed lids she indulged in fantasies: brandishing a riding whip, she leapt fences of impossible height and reached Vittorio, motionless in a meadow ringed with poplars.
The men went for little walks into the bushes or sat in the shade of the several oak trees and dozed. The parked cars had long since departed. The children, whining for sweeties, had gone from the grass. Brenda, not liking to lie down, in case she inflamed Rossi, propped herself on her side with her back to him and, leaning for protection as close to Freda as she dared, dug small holes in the soil with the tips of her grubby fingers.
After a time Rossi rose to his feet and wandered away in the direction of the fence. She watched his low-slung body amble across the park. He turned and waved, and she lowered her eyes and pretended she hadn’t seen. Even at such a distance, his very presence in the landscape chafed her sensibilities. He was like some persistently hovering insect buzzing about her ears. She longed to swat him and have done with it. I ought, she told herself severely, to be able to speak my mind: I can’t spend the next year or so running away from him. The thought of time lived as it was, spreading ahead of her – a long procession of days in the factory and evenings with Freda – filled her with gloom. She dwelt on the possibility of renting a room of her own: she would sit all day at the window without being disturbed, without having to respond. It occurred to her that she had escaped Stanley only to be dominated by Freda. Why do I do it, she thought, looking up abstractedly? And there was Rossi at the fence, fingers still fluttering in an absurd gesture of beckoning friendliness. Once and for all she would put him in his place. She jumped to her feet and strode purposefully over the grass. If he had been nearer it would have been easier. She had to walk quite a long way, and by the time she reached him she had been forced to smile once or twice and return his hand-waving. She trod on a snail and gathered it up on a leaf and brought it to him, cupped in her hands, to where he stood in tall grass and flowering weeds of red and purple.
The Bottle Factory Outing Page 10
