hinges.
‘It’s cold,’ complained Freda, as Brenda climbed stiffly out to join Rossi on the grass sprigged with dandelions.
‘This is the best place for a little jump out,’ he cried, pointing eagerly at the woods in the distance, and the flat slanting
top of a cut-down oak a few yards from the bonnet of the car.
‘Good God,’ Freda said. ‘You don’t believe in moving far from the main road, do you?’
She lumped her basket on to the verge and wrapped her sheepskin arms about herself for warmth, standing disdainfully in the
shadow of the car. It wasn’t as she had imagined. There were no lush valleys or rising hills saddled with yellow gorse. The
land stretched flat and monotonous to the edge of the horizon. To the right was a clump of rhododendron bushes, a blackened
oak splatteredwith the nests of crows, and a timber fence encircling a wood of beech and sycamore. Above her an aeroplane hung low, nose
shaped like a bullet. Wings tipped with crimson, it shot in slow motion through an opening in the clouds. On the distant
boundary stood the blue haze of a fir plantation, blurred against the white stormtossed sky. Meanwhile the lorries, the private
cars, the containers of petroleum, roared continuously along the road, shaking the parked Cortina on the grass and filling
the air with noise.
‘Now what?’ she demanded. ‘Now that you’ve got us here.’
Aldo Gamberini, his hat hurled from his head by a gust of wind, scampered across the Park in pursuit. His black trilby bowled
to the foot of an oak and flattened itself against the trunk.
‘Did you tell the others we were going to the Park?’ asked Brenda anxiously. ‘There must be a lot of entrances.’
‘I say here, or maybe I say Windsor,’ said Rossi, and he took out of the car a large white ball and bounced it up and down
on the damp ground.
Vittorio caught it on the stub of his boot and kicked it high in the air. Hands deep in his pockets, he ran after it as it
soared towards the clump of bushes.
‘Wait, wait,’ called Rossi, mouth trembling petulantly, as he tried to catch the tall young man now dribbling the ball selfishly
ahead of him.
Trotting at Vittorio’s heels, pestering, he tried in vain to regain possession. The two men ran in a wide circle with the
muddy ball bouncing and rolling across the glossy wind-swept grass.
‘Look here,’ said Freda after ten minutes of this activity. ‘I want to see the castle.’
She had been picking at the silver wrapping about the chickens, digging at the carcasses with her nails and licking her fingers.
It was a quarter to eleven and there was no point eating yet – she would only be more hungry later on.
‘You want to go?’ said Rossi. He stopped running and stared at her in surprise, his cheeks rosy from his exercise with the
ball, his suede shoes stained with mud. He spread out his hands expressively. ‘We have only just come.’
‘My dear man,’ Freda informed him, ‘the castle is redolent with History.’ She wanted Vittorio to know how educated she was,
to make up for the scene in the car. Also, she felt the need to be near a cigarette shop in case she gained the courage to
ask him to lend her some money. ‘Besides,’ she said, indicating Brenda at the far side of the road, obsessively studying the
stream of traffic, ‘Madame won’t settle until we find the others.’
‘There is plenty of time,’ protested Rossi. ‘If they don’t come in a little moment, we go.’
Freda kept her temper with difficulty. She pointed out that she hadn’t intended to come here in the first place. She had planned
to go to Hertfordshire. However, now they were here she was going to look at the castle.
With some spirit Rossi argued that it wasn’t his fault if the plans had gone wrong. ‘We take our chances,’ he said mysteriously.
Vittorio decided to take Freda’s part. He walked to the car and tossed the football at Rossi.
‘Let’s go,’ he
‘It’s cold,’ complained Freda, as Brenda climbed stiffly out to join Rossi on the grass sprigged with dandelions.
‘This is the best place for a little jump out,’ he cried, pointing eagerly at the woods in the distance, and the flat slanting
top of a cut-down oak a few yards from the bonnet of the car.
‘Good God,’ Freda said. ‘You don’t believe in moving far from the main road, do you?’
She lumped her basket on to the verge and wrapped her sheepskin arms about herself for warmth, standing disdainfully in the
shadow of the car. It wasn’t as she had imagined. There were no lush valleys or rising hills saddled with yellow gorse. The
land stretched flat and monotonous to the edge of the horizon. To the right was a clump of rhododendron bushes, a blackened
oak splatteredwith the nests of crows, and a timber fence encircling a wood of beech and sycamore. Above her an aeroplane hung low, nose
shaped like a bullet. Wings tipped with crimson, it shot in slow motion through an opening in the clouds. On the distant
boundary stood the blue haze of a fir plantation, blurred against the white stormtossed sky. Meanwhile the lorries, the private
cars, the containers of petroleum, roared continuously along the road, shaking the parked Cortina on the grass and filling
the air with noise.
‘Now what?’ she demanded. ‘Now that you’ve got us here.’
Aldo Gamberini, his hat hurled from his head by a gust of wind, scampered across the Park in pursuit. His black trilby bowled
to the foot of an oak and flattened itself against the trunk.
‘Did you tell the others we were going to the Park?’ asked Brenda anxiously. ‘There must be a lot of entrances.’
‘I say here, or maybe I say Windsor,’ said Rossi, and he took out of the car a large white ball and bounced it up and down
on the damp ground.
Vittorio caught it on the stub of his boot and kicked it high in the air. Hands deep in his pockets, he ran after it as it
soared towards the clump of bushes.
‘Wait, wait,’ called Rossi, mouth trembling petulantly, as he tried to catch the tall young man now dribbling the ball selfishly
ahead of him.
Trotting at Vittorio’s heels, pestering, he tried in vain to regain possession. The two men ran in a wide circle with the
muddy ball bouncing and rolling across the glossy wind-swept grass.
‘Look here,’ said Freda after ten minutes of this activity. ‘I want to see the castle.’
She had been picking at the silver wrapping about the chickens, digging at the carcasses with her nails and licking her fingers.
It was a quarter to eleven and there was no point eating yet – she would only be more hungry later on.
‘You want to go?’ said Rossi. He stopped running and stared at her in surprise, his cheeks rosy from his exercise with the
ball, his suede shoes stained with mud. He spread out his hands expressively. ‘We have only just come.’
‘My dear man,’ Freda informed him, ‘the castle is redolent with History.’ She wanted Vittorio to know how educated she was,
to make up for the scene in the car. Also, she felt the need to be near a cigarette shop in case she gained the courage to
ask him to lend her some money. ‘Besides,’ she said, indicating Brenda at the far side of the road, obsessively studying the
stream of traffic, ‘Madame won’t settle until we find the others.’
‘There is plenty of time,’ protested Rossi. ‘If they don’t come in a little moment, we go.’
Freda kept her temper with difficulty. She pointed out that she hadn’t intended to come here in the first place. She had planned
to go to Hertfordshire. However, now they were here she was going to look at the castle.
With some spirit Rossi argued that it wasn’t his fault if the plans had gone wrong. ‘We take our chances,’ he said mysteriously.
Vittorio decided to take Freda’s part. He walked to the car and tossed the football at Rossi.
‘Let’s go,’ he
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