The Hiding Place (10 page)

She flicks through the pages of
True Crime
, looking for a bit of white space to fill with a shopping list, and suddenly, she stops. She holds the magazine close to her face and stares at
it for a long time. From my angle, I can only see half the page; the head and shoulders of two grainy gangsters, looking a lot like my father’s friends.

Well I never, my mother says quietly. I’m sitting on the high stool so that I can see out on to the street. The Jacksons have got their front door open as usual, with their dog, Jackson
Jackson, perched on the front step, guarding. I knock at the window, and his ears twitch; when he sees me he wags like mad.

Don’t do that, Dol, says my mother, not looking up. She puts
True Crime
flat on the table and covers the picture with her hand.

Fetch your coat, then, she says.

When I come back from the hallway,
True Crime
has vanished. My mother helps me on with the raincoat. It’s yellow, ex-Luca: ripped pockets and a circular stain on the left lapel
which looks like the imprint of a beetle. She gives the shoulder a sharp tug.

If anyone talks to you, run straight home, she says, tying the string on my bobble hat. She turns me round and shouts from the step,

If you get lost, ask a policeman. Tell him where you live. But don’t talk to anyone!

I balance on the kerb, trying to remember the advice I’ve been given. I’m not even at the edge of the street, and my mother’s there at my back.

Don’t forget this, Dol, she says, pushing the note into my fist. I have to carry it in my hand, these pockets being so useless, with the shopping bag hitched up into the crook of my elbow.
I cross the road to say hello to Jackson, and I’m stroking his face and ears when he puts up his muzzle and grabs the piece of paper – he’s always on the lookout for something to
eat – and I have to wrench it out of his jaws. It’s torn and covered in slobber, but I still recognize it; a crumpled corner of blue sky, a fragment of Humpty Dumpty’s head, and
on the other side, my mother’s sloping script. She must have found my crayoning book. I look back at our house and there she is, standing at the window. She’s forgotten me: she’s
studying the picture in
True Crime
.

~

‘Do You Recognize This Man?’ Eva reads out loud. My mother moves quickly while I’m safely out of the way; she’s summoned Eva from Number 14 to come and
have a look. Eva bends over the table, sweeping her finger across the page.

Which one? she asks.

There – that one! says Mary, exasperated, It’s him, Eva, I’m telling you!

They both pore over the photograph. Joe Medora smiles directly at the camera, his arms are folded across his chest; he’s puffed out like a pigeon. On his left stands a man
with his head tilted to one side. Both are wearing hats: Joe’s is pushed up, revealing his brow and an escaped lock of black fringe; the other wears his hat so low the shadow of the brim
covers his face. His bony fingers are locked in front of him. Mary doesn’t recognize this second man. She’s relieved it’s not Frankie.

He’s involved in all sorts, says Eva, scanning the story, Racketeering, armed robbery – armed robbery! Vice . . . What the hell’s that then?

Means he’s a Pimp, says Mary, too quickly, They call it ‘vice’ in America.

So. Will you show Frankie?

Not on your life! says my mother, pressing her lips together, He’s a bit more settled these days, Eva. This sort of thing – she gestures to the photograph – It’d send him
bonkers.

What about Marina? Eva’s voice is low; she hardly dare ask.

Mary can’t speak for a minute: she snaps open the lid of the sewing-box and pushes her hand under the cards of wool and glittering pins. She takes out her scissors.

The last I knew, they were in Malta, she says, Now see . . . What does it say? – she snatches
True Crime
out of Eva’s hands – ‘Recently sighted in
Sydney’.

My mother cuts along the page, folds the article in half, then in half again.

He gets about a bit, says Eva, watching as Mary slides the cutting down into the bottom of the sewing-box, He’s wanted everywhere!

He certainly is, whispers my mother, working the scissors in her hand.

~

I’m trying to remember what the shopkeeper’s name is; my mother calls her Miseryguts behind her back, but is always polite to her face. I open the door, and it comes
to me at once – it’s Mrs Evans. She’s there, hunched over the glass counter with her long face cupped in her hand, talking to Mrs Jackson. They both glance my way, but Mrs Evans
carries on her conversation in a whisper. I sneak my bad hand in my pocket while they’re talking; I know that any minute now Mrs Jackson will want to inspect it, and then she’ll tell me
how much better it looks. This is a lie: it always looks the same.

There’s a bluebottle flitting about under the glass; it crawls over the tray of bacon, over the mince piled up like worms, then it springs across to the oblong packets of butter. On the
far left are scotch eggs, pork pies, and an assortment of cooked meats which the fly has yet to discover. I’d like to get served before it does – my mother wants some Haslet. The meat
slicer sits on a slab of marble next to the counter. I’ve only ever seen Mr Evans use it; his wife stands back while the wheel spins round, as if it might drag her in and carve her to
bits.

Don’t mind us, Cherub, we’re just gassing, Mrs Jackson says to me. My mother sometimes says that, as well as, I’m Going to put My Head in the Gas Oven, when she can’t get
any peace.

Now, Dolores, what can I get you? Mrs Evans leans over the counter. Her brown cardigan hangs over her shoulders and as she bends, it slips a bit: she does a little shiver, crossing her arms over
her bosom and hitching her cardigan back into place.

I don’t feel the benefit of this heater at all, you know, she says to Mrs Jackson, My legs are blue!

Paraffin, I expect, says Mrs Jackson, peering over the counter to look, They give off more smell than warmth, they do.

Both women turn their heads and sniff. I pass the note up to Mrs Evans. It’s in a sorry state by now, and she doesn’t seem to be able to read it, because she says to Mrs Jackson,

Just look at this, Alice, holding the piece of paper above my head. They look at it for ages. I put my chin on the top of the counter and wait.

All on Tick? You’re a fool to yourself if you do, Marion, Mrs Jackson says as she takes off her rain-hat and shakes it. Her hair used to be mouse, but now it’s shiny and black; the
shop fills up with a bitter smell – the same as when Fran changes her sheets in the morning.

That’s a lovely shade, Alice, says Mrs Evans, crossing to the window and reaching in for a loaf of bread, Did you get it done at Frenchie’s? Mrs Jackson puts her hand up to her head
and pats it.

They’ve gone, she says, Two days’ notice, they got. Bloody council – they don’t waste time!

They’ve sent
us
an order as well, says Mrs Evans, lifting a bottle of milk from the crate next to the counter, They want us out by the end of next month. Mrs Jackson’s mouth
falls open,

You’re not going? Marion! We won’t have a shop left at this rate!

That’s what my Graeme says, and then, as if suddenly remembering him, she shouts Graeme! into the back room. She screws up her face,

I haven’t told you nothing, she whispers, It’ll only start him off again.

There’s a noise of rustling newspaper, the flitter of strip-curtain, and Mr Evans, pulling on his pinny. I get a glimpse of the room: an armchair, an upright chair with a
television on it, and behind it, shelves, going all the way up to the ceiling; everything looks brown and old. It’s a strange sensation, seeing things I’m not supposed to – it
makes me want to go in. Mr Evans peers at the note his wife passes to him, wipes his hands down his front, and picks up the roll of Haslet.

Terrible news, Grae, says Mrs Jackson, ignoring Mrs Evans’ instructions, Eviction! Terrible!

Eviction my Ar— he goes, then looks at me and smiles.

My Oh My, he sings. He presses the meat against the wheel and the slices fall into his hand, one by one. He slips them carefully on to a sheet of greaseproof paper.

Out by New Year, he says, turning the wheel, If we can find new premises.

Not with what they’ve offered, says his wife, shooting a narrow look at Mrs Jackson. Mrs Jackson fusses with her rain-hat.

What will you do with all your stock then? she asks lightly, her eyes scouring the shop, Sell it for discount? Mr Evans silently wraps the meat.

We’ll be calling in our debts, that’s for certain, he says, taking a packet of Park Drive down off the shelf and sliding it across the counter towards me. Mrs Jackson’s neck
flushes rose pink.

I suppose the fags are for the children too? she says quickly.

Ah, she’s not well, Mrs J, he says. He writes some figures on my mother’s note, then some more on the parcel of meat, with two quick lines underneath them. I’m busy with the
shopping bag, trying to hook it up my arm, so Mrs Jackson takes the Haslet from him and holds it out to me.

Here you are, Dolores, she says sweetly, Now – Let’s have a look at that hand of yours.

~

When I get back, my mother’s sitting by the fire. She’s got her face turned away from me. I want to ask her everything – about what will happen to the
Evanses’ shop, and about the picture in
True Crime
, and why did she have to use my crayoning book, and why does Mrs Jackson always want to see my hand – but I can tell from the
way she’s bent in the chair, with her forehead resting on the corner of the fireplace, that she’s been crying. She stuffs her handkerchief up her sleeve, blinking at Mr Evans’
additions.

Bloody thieving Bastard, she says screwing up the note and throwing it into the flames.

~  ~  ~

I’m not the only one who isn’t at school: Luca and Fran and Rose all left together this morning, but Fran walked in through the front gates, waved Rose and Luca
goodbye, and ran straight out again across the caretaker’s lawn. She hid behind the wall when Mr Rees came out and rang the bell for Assembly.

At the back of the school is The Arlies – a sooty curve of railway arches bounding into the distance: they cut across our neighbourhood like a serrated edge. On the north side is our
school; on the south side, the shops, cafes, and row upon row of terraces running down to the docks. We live at the town end, away from the sea, but the houses on the dockside, near the saltings,
are ancient back-to-backs. They have to be knocked down. Each week, another street is crushed to rubble; the grinding of the dumper-trucks gets louder, and overnight, a row of homes where people
used to live becomes a stretch of broken brick and tangled wire. The sky gets wider every day.

My father wishes they would knock our house down too; he just can’t wait to tell my mother the latest news.

They do Pomeroy Street this morning, Mary. I see them with the tape. Mr Meckis say he get Five Hundred Pounds! We get Compensation, Mary—

My mother would put a warning finger up to his face. They’re not demolishing
our
house, her finger says. Because she dreams all the time of a rap on the door, of
Marina standing there when she opens it. Marina would be thirteen now, but in my mother’s mind, she’s still only eight, with that front tooth about to go and the buckle of her raincoat
belted a bit too far to the right.

Frankie no longer thinks about Marina. He is fierce about the rest of us though: it keeps him awake at night. The change in the neighbourhood is inexplicable to him. It starts with a few
boarded-up houses, a friend waving goodbye from the back of an open-top lorry, and suddenly there are fistfights with contractors, lines of children lying on the ground in front of council trucks,
whole families watching as the wrecking-ball swings into their houses. Demolition changes everything: a gypsy encampment mushrooms on the open ground, and gangs of young men stalk the streets,
armed with broom-handles and lengths of chain. Frankie has heard them talking in The Bute, of ‘defending their women folk’, of ‘not having it from these Gyppos, these
Dagos’, and it frightens him.

He notices new things: a dead puppy lying in the gutter outside our house, with its torn grave of sacking slumped against the wall; the Jackson boys staggering home with a fetter of lead between
them; a permanent film of orange grit on his shoes. Young women collect on the corner to sell salvage from the derelict homes – a dented lampshade, a grill-pan from an abandoned cooker,
cardboard boxes full of clothes. None of it belongs to them, and nobody wants to buy it. They stand there all day, shifting their weight from one leg to another, smoking cigarettes. At night these
same girls call out to Frankie in their flat, chilled voices;

Wanna Play, Handsome? See anything you like? He passes them in a cautious arc – they are known to him. Despite the darkness and the heavy make-up, Frankie recognizes young Ann Jackson and
her friend Denise: they were at school with Celesta.

It is this that makes Frankie set his mind on his eldest daughter. He will do what he can for her: the rest of us will have to wait.

~  ~  ~

We Plough the Fields and Scatter, the Good Seed on the Land . . .

Fran hears the voices rise and fall from inside the Main Hall: with the sun glinting on the long windows and the playground empty, it’s as though the building itself is singing. She stands
near the railings, mouthing under her breath,

For it is Fed and War-aw-tered, By God Awmighty’s hand!

She only likes the hymns. When Mr Rees’s voice booms out from the high windows of the Hall – You May Quietly Sit! – she turns away. Fran walks along The Arlies, listening to
the bright splash of water off brick, to the short and long of her footsteps clapping out beside her. Some of the railway arches are deep as tunnels; others are bricked-in, flush with the bridge
itself. Fran counts them, a family of steadily shrinking crescents, with one so small at the end, it might be a dog-kennel: she can see daylight through this. She ducks her head, crawls on her
belly through the moist blackness until she’s out the other side.