said.
How American he is, thought Freda, with his dashing moustaches and his baseball-type boots. The red laces trailed like ribbons
in the grass.
She fitted herself into the back seat and allowed Vittorio to manoeuvre the basket through the door.
‘We are going?’ asked Aldo Gamberini, his hat securely anchored to his head by means of a striped muffler tied under his chin.
‘So soon?’
Rossi held the football to his chest. His mouth quivered. ‘I want to play the games,’ he said sulkily.
‘Brenda,’ shouted Freda. ‘Hurry up.’
They positioned themselves in the car.
‘There are little deer,’ murmured Rossi forlornly. ‘I think you like the little deer?’
‘I will later,’ assured Brenda. ‘Honestly, Rossi, I do want to see the little deer.’
They drove out of the Park and back along the road to the flowered roundabout.
Freda thought the castle was wonderful. It towered above the main street, its beige walls curving outwards, the green grass
studded with spotlights. She was reminded of a play about a Spanish family of noble birth that she had been in years before.
She would have liked to have mentioned it but she had only understudied a rather minor part.
‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ she breathed. ‘It’s so old.’
She couldn’t wait to get out of the car and look at the dungeons. If she couldn’t walk through the perfumed gardens with Vittorio,
then maybe here where Henry VIII had danced with Anne Boleyn she could find anequally lyrical setting for the beginning of their romance. There were bound to be dark places and iron grills, worn steps
leading to cramped stone towers overlooking the countryside. There, above the Thames valley and the blue swell of the Chiltern
Hills, he would, looking down at the small fields laid in squares and the ribbon of hedges, see in perspective how puny was
the world and how big their love for each other. Accordingly she bustled out of the Cortina and lingered only momentarily
outside the tobacco-scented doorway of a sweet-shop. Brenda insisted on writing a note in case the occupants of the mini came
upon the deserted car and searched for them.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘we have got the wine. I’ll never be able to look them in the face again if they don’t find us.’
‘You never look anybody in the face as it is,’ said Freda; and she drummed her fingers on the bonnet of the car, as Brenda
drew an arrow on the back of an envelope, pointing towards the castle, and wrote: ‘This way. We have just left.’ She signed
it ‘Mrs Brenda.’
‘You’re mad,’ Freda told her. ‘You’ve got terrible handwriting.’
All the same, Brenda felt more restful in her mind now that she had left some sign. She stood at various angles from the bumper
of the Cortina to make sure her arrow was accurate in its direction.
Freda began to toil up the steep cobbled rise to the main gate, pushed from behind by Aldo and Vittorio.
‘We are happy, yes?’ said Rossi, and he attempted to put an arm about Brenda’s waist. At that moment Aldochose to turn and see if they were following, and Rossi jumped away, anxious not to seem too intimate.
‘He is my cousin.’
‘He’s a nice man,’ said Brenda.
‘He is very inquisitive.’
‘Does he suffer from ear-ache?’ she asked, looking at Aldo with the scarf wrapped about his head.
‘It is a pity,’ Rossi said, panting from the climb, ‘that he fit in my car.’ He cheered up and dug her in the ribs. ‘Later,’
he promised, winking at her encouragingly, and she did her best to look enthusiastic. If his happiness depended on her, who
was
she
to offend him? He wanted his Outing, his day of escape. If the missing mini caught up with them, disgorging its quota of
fellow-countrymen, then she would not be to blame if he was thwarted. ‘It’s not my fault,’ she thought. ‘I can’t be expected
to take any blame.’
‘I’ve told you about that,’ reminded Freda, turning to
How American he is, thought Freda, with his dashing moustaches and his baseball-type boots. The red laces trailed like ribbons
in the grass.
She fitted herself into the back seat and allowed Vittorio to manoeuvre the basket through the door.
‘We are going?’ asked Aldo Gamberini, his hat securely anchored to his head by means of a striped muffler tied under his chin.
‘So soon?’
Rossi held the football to his chest. His mouth quivered. ‘I want to play the games,’ he said sulkily.
‘Brenda,’ shouted Freda. ‘Hurry up.’
They positioned themselves in the car.
‘There are little deer,’ murmured Rossi forlornly. ‘I think you like the little deer?’
‘I will later,’ assured Brenda. ‘Honestly, Rossi, I do want to see the little deer.’
They drove out of the Park and back along the road to the flowered roundabout.
Freda thought the castle was wonderful. It towered above the main street, its beige walls curving outwards, the green grass
studded with spotlights. She was reminded of a play about a Spanish family of noble birth that she had been in years before.
She would have liked to have mentioned it but she had only understudied a rather minor part.
‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ she breathed. ‘It’s so old.’
She couldn’t wait to get out of the car and look at the dungeons. If she couldn’t walk through the perfumed gardens with Vittorio,
then maybe here where Henry VIII had danced with Anne Boleyn she could find anequally lyrical setting for the beginning of their romance. There were bound to be dark places and iron grills, worn steps
leading to cramped stone towers overlooking the countryside. There, above the Thames valley and the blue swell of the Chiltern
Hills, he would, looking down at the small fields laid in squares and the ribbon of hedges, see in perspective how puny was
the world and how big their love for each other. Accordingly she bustled out of the Cortina and lingered only momentarily
outside the tobacco-scented doorway of a sweet-shop. Brenda insisted on writing a note in case the occupants of the mini came
upon the deserted car and searched for them.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘we have got the wine. I’ll never be able to look them in the face again if they don’t find us.’
‘You never look anybody in the face as it is,’ said Freda; and she drummed her fingers on the bonnet of the car, as Brenda
drew an arrow on the back of an envelope, pointing towards the castle, and wrote: ‘This way. We have just left.’ She signed
it ‘Mrs Brenda.’
‘You’re mad,’ Freda told her. ‘You’ve got terrible handwriting.’
All the same, Brenda felt more restful in her mind now that she had left some sign. She stood at various angles from the bumper
of the Cortina to make sure her arrow was accurate in its direction.
Freda began to toil up the steep cobbled rise to the main gate, pushed from behind by Aldo and Vittorio.
‘We are happy, yes?’ said Rossi, and he attempted to put an arm about Brenda’s waist. At that moment Aldochose to turn and see if they were following, and Rossi jumped away, anxious not to seem too intimate.
‘He is my cousin.’
‘He’s a nice man,’ said Brenda.
‘He is very inquisitive.’
‘Does he suffer from ear-ache?’ she asked, looking at Aldo with the scarf wrapped about his head.
‘It is a pity,’ Rossi said, panting from the climb, ‘that he fit in my car.’ He cheered up and dug her in the ribs. ‘Later,’
he promised, winking at her encouragingly, and she did her best to look enthusiastic. If his happiness depended on her, who
was
she
to offend him? He wanted his Outing, his day of escape. If the missing mini caught up with them, disgorging its quota of
fellow-countrymen, then she would not be to blame if he was thwarted. ‘It’s not my fault,’ she thought. ‘I can’t be expected
to take any blame.’
‘I’ve told you about that,’ reminded Freda, turning to
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