The Hiding Place (13 page)

No Pippo here, she says, closing the door again.

Philippo, corrects Frankie hastily through the crack, just as Pippo appears behind her. He reaches above his mother’s head, pulling the door open again.

Mamma! This is Frank Gauci – I tell you Frank is coming. Frank, Come and Sit, he says, waving him into the parlour. Mrs Seguna frowns at the two men grinning down at her.

Coffee, Mamma, Pippo says.

The Segunas’ parlour is a shrine to mourning; a black mantilla is draped across a framed portrait of Our Blessed Virgin, and on the sideboard beneath, an assortment of keepsakes that
Frankie recognizes from when his mother died – the prayer book opened flat with a rosary snaked across the page; two lighted candles guarding a photograph edged with black paper; the bloom of
a single white lily, crisping brown at the edges. Frankie hopes it is this, and not Pippo, causing the strange smell.

Pippo stands too close to him. He thinks Frankie is paying his respects to the dead, and approves of this by gently nodding his head. Frankie catches on; he bends his chin to his chest,
ostentatiously making the sign of the cross in the air in front of his body.

Scusate, says Mrs Seguna sharply, nudging through the door with a tray held in front of her. She places it on the bureau next to Frankie, bends low to pull out a kidney-shaped table from the
side of the chair and bangs the tray down on it, muttering all the while. She slams the door behind her as she leaves.

Sit, my friend, Sit! says Pippo, his loud voice cheery, Drink some coffee with me.

The thought of more coffee makes the bile rise in Frankie’s throat. He fingers the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket, but doesn’t pull it free. Instead
Frankie covers his mouth with his hand, belching quietly into the curve of his fist. The burning in his chest is mighty. Pippo sits opposite; he’s taken a good look at Frank Gauci – the
thin smear of sweat on his forehead, his trembling hands – and he’s heard the dialect unearthed in Frankie’s nervous talk: this is a Sliema man, a country boy. Pippo decides to
play it cool.

Ah! Business! he begins, Me and You, Frank, We are Business Men.

Frankie closes his eyes with a slight smile, a slight incline of the head.

And we are Men, continues Pippo.

Frankie holds his smile in place. He opens his eyes to see that Pippo is not looking at him at all, but at a point fixed approximately two feet above his head: Pippo appears to
be addressing the curtain-rail.

You see, Frank, he continues, You see, it’s hard, A Business Man with No Wife.

Frankie nods, resisting the urge to turn around and find what it is exactly that Pippo is staring at.

You follow me? After Maria – Pippo gestures to the mantelpiece and another photograph of his late wife – After Maria, I not think to marry again.

Another nod from Frankie. Come On, he thinks, Get on with it.

But . . . I have no children, Frank—

No son! says Frankie, blundering into the pause. Pippo raises his voice; he hasn’t finished:

—So if I do,
If
I do marry – I pick and choose
Who
I Want.

Silence. Frankie’s not sure if he’s allowed to speak yet. Pippo sighs, unhooks the top button of his shirt and scratches his throat. His eyes finally meet
Frankie’s.

But Celesta! She a very beautiful girl, Pippo says on the out breath, A beautiful daughter, Frank.

Frankie looks at Pippo squashed into his armchair, taking in the shiny curls of hair peeping out over his collar, the fabric of his shirt stretched across his midriff, down to
the naked ankles bulging over his brown leather slippers – until Frankie can look no more. He takes a sip of his coffee; the milk is off. He thinks of Celesta, her slim hands held tight by
this sausage-fingered man, and imagines Pippo easing the straps of his braces off his shoulders. Frankie doesn’t want to think like this. His eyes flit to the far side of the room, to the
grandfather clock and the mahogany cabinet full of chinking glass and silver. A big room; carpeted, warm, with pictures of Saints he can’t identify and of Jesus, who he can, with a ray of
sunshine booming from his chest. Jesus is holding out his arms to Frankie as if to say, What’s the problem, Frank? It’s a Good Match!

He’s so –
ugly
, Jesus, argues Frankie to himself. But . . . he’s rich. And not
so
old. Frankie looks from Jesus to Pippo and back again. Jesus is
still smiling. Frankie nods at the picture. Alright, he says in his head, Give me a sign then.

Pippo notices the downward turn of Frankie’s mouth, and the fist held tight against his chest; notes too that Frankie has hardly touched his coffee. Perhaps he thinks his daughter is too
young.

So, Celesta. How old she is? asks Pippo casually, bending over to pour more coffee.

Seventeen, says Frankie, covering his cup with his hand.

She have boyfriends? She a beautiful girl, Frank, she have boyfriends?

Pippo, still bent close to Frankie, grins, rubs his thick forefingers together.

No, says Frankie, insulted by the gesture, She’s a good girl.

Pippo laughs out loud, slapping Frankie’s knee. The coffee cups jump on the tray.

Go talk with her, Frank. I’m a kind man, tell her. Then we’ll see, ah?

~

Outside, Frankie grips the railings that border the Segunas’ house. He glances up at the scrubbed white steps, the heavy black door with its shiny brass knocker and its
ghoulish wreath, the warm light in the window. He should feel pleased – it
would
be a good match – but there’s a heaving in his chest and a clamping sensation at his jaw.
Frankie’s mouth fills with liquid, bitter, slippery as egg-white: he leans on the railings, sweating, with the dark square of basement pulsing below. He heaves up the sour milk and burnt
coffee in one raw burst.

~  ~  ~

Bending her head so that her chin rests on my shoulder, Fran’s face against mine is cool as marble. I can smell bonfires in her hair. She gives me a squeeze, and from the
way her cheek moves I can tell she’s smiling. I’ve come up to ask her to try to be good and not upset our mother, but anyway she’s here now; I don’t want to spoil it.
We’re sitting like this on Rose’s bed, staring out beyond the garden wall and the alley, down the hill past the street-lamps to the blacked-out rows of condemned houses. The rooftops
are blue in this light. We’re waiting for something to happen.

Just you see, Dol, they’ll be here in a minute!

The excitement washes through her: her heart flashes madly at my back. I can just make out my mother’s hand-print on her leg, but Fran’s forgotten all about it,
she’s so happy.

There’s a drum of footsteps up the stairs, and the sound of a familiar song:

And So it Begin-za,

Rose’s voice gets louder, the door opens,

Needles and Pin-za!

She’s caught the tune from my mother. Rose stands in the doorway and switches on the light. In the window, two reflections leap out of the black: Fran’s face is
ghostly, mine looks like the moon.

What
you
doing in here? says Rose, What’s wrong with your own room?

Ssh! Turn that light off, Fran waves an arm at her, We’re listening!

Rose kneels on the bed and prods Fran’s shoulder.

Why do you need the light off to listen?

Because there’s a fire!

As soon as Fran says this, the sound of a siren cuts the air: it comes in waves, it makes me shudder. My bones start to twitch and my head goes all hot down one side, like
boiling water on my scalp. Rose bounces back over the bed and flicks the switch off, and suddenly there’s a great flash, a roar in the distant street, and the night is full of sparks.

~

Crossing Devil’s Bridge on his way back home, Frankie catches this shower of falling lights out of the corner of his eye, brilliant orange, a sunburst in a midnight sky.
It looks to him like a sign from God.

I hear their voices before I open my eyes; it’s Saturday – the only time my mother and father are both at home all morning – so there’s usually a
row.

No, Frank, says my mother.

Yes, Mary, says my father. This one is serious. My mother is shouting too.

We’ve already lost one daughter!

I
haven’t, he says.

My mother’s voice goes soft: I imagine her moving through the house, picking up the heap of folded washing from the living room and carrying it into the kitchen, bumping
my father’s chair as she goes past. Him sitting at the table with the
Sporting Life
, a Joe Coral pencil stuck in his mouth, staring at the forecast.

She’s only seventeen, Frank, she pleads.

It’s enough, is all my father says.

He means old enough. My mother won’t argue like this for long – my father has a method for getting his own way. It goes very quiet downstairs. I lift my head off the
pillow and see that Luca’s side of the bed is empty. Over in the far corner, in her own bed, Fran is hidden under a mound of blankets. Luca races back in through the door, puts a finger to
her lips when she sees me.

They’re at it again, she whispers, Celesta’s going to be married!

Is she down there? I say.

Luca curls her lip,

Don’t be Stupid – she’s at work.

Although Celesta’s only been working at the Co-op for six months, she’s already in charge of the meat counter. My mother says it’s because she’s got her
father’s way with business, but Celesta knows better: Markus the Manager’s in love with her, he likes to have her on display.

Meat is his Thing, she says proudly, as if everybody has to have a Thing or their life’s not worth living. She comes home with Bowyers’ Pork Sausages and thick grey parcels of bacon,
which my father has taken to eating raw. Anything but Haslet.

Worms! warns my mother, when she sees him stretching the rasher between fist and mouth, You’ll have a tapeworm inside you six foot long!

I don’t know what a tapeworm looks like. I picture the coiled spool of measuring tape in my mother’s sewing-box, slithering over the faces of the men from
True
Crime
; imagine it inching up my father’s throat like a creamy yellow snake. Maybe it’s this that gives him heartburn.

There’s a wet hiss of frying, a stink of sausages, a knock on the front door. My parents don’t hear it, but Luca does; she’s over the other side of the bedroom in a leap,
sliding the net curtain over her head. She angles her face against the corner of the sash.

It’s the police! Come and see!

Fran pokes her head out of the cocoon of bedding; her hair’s all on end and her cheeks are flushed. She lets out a high-pitched cry as she ducks back under the
blankets.

At the window I see the top of the policeman’s helmet, and one shoulder with a number on it. There’s a woman standing next to him. She’s not wearing a hat. They both bend down
and look through the letter box, then shout through it. I try to get a better view of them, but Luca’s breath has steamed up the glass. She wipes at it with the net, so they’re haloed
in sketchy fog. The front door opens below us.

Mrs Gauci? says the woman, Would you mind if we came in and had a chat?

Luca turns and pokes me.

You go and listen, she says.

No – you go.

You! I’ll stand guard.

Standing Guard is a swizz; it means Luca’s out of danger. She’ll just wait for me to report back or get caught on the stairs. I can’t get caught on the stairs.
Luca knows what this means for me, but she doesn’t care; she puts her face so close to mine that only her bared teeth are in focus.

Go on!
she hisses.

~

The door at the turn of the stairs is slightly open. I put my head round and have a peep. Through the blue of smoke I see my mother standing at the sink, clutching a plate to
her breast. My father sits at the table, with the woman just next to him, her notebook open on the cloth. The policeman’s facing away from me, so I can only see the back of his head and the
dent in his hair where his helmet has pinched: it sits like a giant tea-cosy on the table. They’re still as a painting. I don’t know
her
, but I can tell he’s PC Mitchell by
the way he coughs before he speaks.

Erm – it’s a very serious offence, Mrs Gauci, he says, Mr and Mrs Evans could have been killed!

As it is, they’ve lost everything, says the woman.

Are they hurt? Maybe – my mother starts to ask, but my father bangs both his hands down flat on the spread pages of the
Sporting Life
.

Bring her! He shouts, Bring her Now!

From behind me is a sound light as silk: it’s Fran, brushing past in her nightie. She creeps down to the bottom step.

My father leaps forward at the sight of her; she jerks like a puppet off his fist. He holds his arm raised high – he’ll club her again if she moves, but Fran knows the best way to
behave in these moments. We all do. She stays absolutely motionless, taking small sips of air through her mouth. PC Mitchell steps forward, but my mother gets there first. She cracks my father
against the pantry door.

What proof have you got! she cries, not to the police but to Frankie, Prove she did wrong! Go on!

They stare at each other, panting. My mother has her hands by her sides now, but she holds them open. She’s ready to tear.

Roy and Tommy Jackson, says PC Mitchell quietly, Erm – they’ve made a statement, Mary.

He moves her back to the table and gently presses her down into his seat,

They saw her in the Evanses’ shop last night. Lighting a fire, they said.

Below me, Fran sips air.

~  ~  ~

It’s been a whole week since the Evanses’ shop burnt down. I keep getting pictures: of the back room in flames, with the shelves collapsing down on each other and
the brownness of it all colouring to a hot rich red; Mr Evans’ pinny going up like the title sequence of
Bonanza
; Mrs Evans flapping out into the street with a thick rim of smoke round
her mouth and her cardigan hanging off her shoulders. Tins of exploding peas, butter bleeding, blocks of cheese sighing into a sweaty pool. What I
don’t
see are the Jackson boys,
flashing their endless cigarettes around – Park Drive, Sovereign, Players, Craven A – when all they ever used to smoke were butt-ends off the street. Nor Mr Evans, holding the torched
remains of his accounts book between finger and thumb. He won’t be calling in any debts now. And no one in the neighbourhood blames our Fran.