The Hiding Place (14 page)

~

We’ve been sent up to our room again because the social worker’s back. The door to the stairs has been locked, but if we wanted to listen we could, by pressing up
against the wood. We know all about the things she made Fran do, drawing pictures, choosing colours from a book, and about the statements and the reports and recommendations. Eva told my mother
that the whole street thinks the Jackson boys are liars, but that isn’t news; and that the Evanses’ will use their insurance money to buy a new shop in Llanrumney. We’ve heard it
all; we’re bored with listening now. It’s been decided: Fran is going to The Priory. The social worker makes it sound like a holiday home, but Rose is better informed; she says you can
tell a Homes kid a mile away.

They hit you first and ask questions later. You’ll have more of them, I reckon, she says, nodding at the bruise above Fran’s eyebrow. In the last few days it’s changed from
blue to rusty orange. Fran wears my father’s handiwork with pride, but there will be more to show before she goes away. She prods the edge with her finger.

Hope it don’t fade ’til I get there, she says, I’ll look hard.

You’ll
want
to, warns Rose in agreement, Those Homes kids are Rock Hard!

What
you
need is . . . a tattoo, suggests Luca softly. She’s at her usual place near the window, clutching the balding head of her Sindy doll. She dangles it by a thin strand of
hair, moves it in a bouncing motion across the sill.

A tattoo would really scare ’em.

Luca has been saving the transfers from her comic, and as she says this, she casually hitches up the sleeve of her pullover: a small blue Spiderman is scaling her arm. Rose
snorts with laughter, but I can see that Fran is keen; she catches hold of Luca’s wrist and inspects the shiny surface, the deep blocks of blue and linear red web on her skin. Sindy’s
head twirls in Luca’s grip.

~

The social worker’s name is Elizabeth Preece – Just call me Lizzie, she says to my mother, who ignores this invitation and doesn’t call her anything –
and she’s fat like Carlotta. She probably buys her clothes from the same shop: green tweed coat, thick wool dress, sludge-brown stockings. Lizzie gets upset when she finds Eva’s always
at our house, feeding my mother cigarettes and teacups of rum. She doesn’t approve of smoking or drinking. She doesn’t approve of my father either; she’s made a note in her file
about him. History of violence, it says. She likes me though – she calls me Cariad.

Lizzie does all the talking, spreading her papers across the kitchen table as she lists out loud the forms that need signing.

Alright now, Mary, she says, This one here’s just to say you’ve understood the Conditions of Care Agreement, and this one’s for stuff that Francesca might be taking with her
– bits and bobs – that she’ll want to help her settle in.

Mary jerks her head away as if she’s been slapped.

It’s not for ever, you know, says Lizzie, holding out her pen, You said yourself you can’t cope with her. Think about the others, love.

She’d cope better without the likes of you, says Eva, lifting the lid off the teapot and frowning into the rising steam. The charms on her bracelet jangle as she rattles a spoon inside the
pot. Lizzie ignores this, glancing over her notes at my mother. Mary has a glazed, clean look which troubles her; it’s not the expression of someone about to sign away their child. Lizzie has
also made a note in her case files about my mother: Mental Instability, Bouts of Depression; second child fostered to extended family in Malta.

She thinks she knows our history because she’s written it down; and she has seen that Fran is in danger.

We need to make sure we’re shipshape, Mary, she says gently, Dotting the i’s, et cetera.

After all, it’s not every day you take someone’s kid away, mutters Eva, overfilling the cup so that the tea slops into the saucer, Or maybe it is? All in a day’s work,
then?

Mrs Alan, says Lizzie.

Amil, Eva snaps.

This is a family matter. I’m sure Mary can see what’s best, can’t you, Mary?

I don’t know, says my mother.

Mary really
doesn’t
know. She doesn’t know anything. She feels a dangerous shifting in her skull, as if it’s full of shards; she has to keep her head
still to stop them sliding. When she tries to sort things out, she gets a bright, jabbing pain at the corner of her eye. And the voice that comes – so close and tight against her ear it
causes her to flinch – doesn’t leave her any room to think.
Your mother’s blood! Your mother’s blood!
It’s the voice of her father.

Mary looks at the social worker, at her smile, her apple-cheeks, at the papers stealing across the table towards her. And the pen held out like an answer. She’s expected
to say something. She tries to, working her jaw and opening her mouth. Nothing comes out. Mary gets up from the table and walks away. They don’t stop her. No one stops her. In the street, two
women shelter from the rain in the Post Office doorway. They remark on the way she staggers along the pavement, and the fact that she’s got no coat on – then they forget her. Mary
passes the betting shop just as Martineau swings the door open. He would see her immediately, but he holds his newspaper in a shield over his head to stop the rain from driving in his face. He
doesn’t notice. Mary turns off the road, almost at a run now, and scales the greasy embankment which leads to the railway line. She climbs up, clawing at the blackened grass and sliding
shale. There’s the glinting track, the old timber pond with its skin of algae, the swelling River Taff in the distance. But Mary doesn’t think of these: she just thinks that the Gas
Oven is not an option, not with those people sitting in her kitchen.

~

It’s Arthur Jackson, picking along the edges of the track for booty, who catches a glimpse of something tumbling down the side of the cutting. He mistakes her for a heap
of rags. Arthur scans the horizon for tippers – probably gypsies, he thinks, but never mind, sometimes there’s something of value to be had. He gets close enough to make out the arms
and legs and the brown hair, and he’s afraid. He thinks of murder and of Henry Fonda in
The Wrong Man
. He edges closer, looking for witnesses, then he sees her face.

Mary! Fuckin ’ell, Mary!

The shout makes her start. All she sees are Arthur’s boots, moving towards her, caked with mud and much too close. It’s my Da, she thinks, in a panic. Hand and foot
she crawls away, but Arthur holds her, his voice going Shh, shh, as he sits her upright and hooks his coat around her shoulders. Her knees are green-stained and bloody. He takes the hem of her
skirt and arranges it gently over them.

Mary! What
have
they done to you, girl?

~  ~  ~

We’re not allowed to see our mother: she’s in the Box Room and the door is kept shut. We should all be in bed but the doctor’s due, so we are on display, to
show him everything’s alright. Except everything is not alright.

~

My mother had a visitor earlier. It wasn’t Mr Jackson, checking to see how she was, but it was definitely a man. She came upstairs and stood me at the window.

Give us a shout if you see him, she said, meaning my father. Her face was very white and her eyes wouldn’t keep still; they jerked around the room as if she was following a fly. She
switched off the bedroom light.

So he don’t see you first, she said, and laughed. It made me feel scared – not the dark, I’m used to that – but the way she laughed. Close, like a secret. My
mother’s had a funny look all day. When Mr Jackson brought her back, she got straight in the bath. There was no hot water but she climbed in anyway and sat there, filling up the jug from the
cold tap and pouring it over her head. Then she signed the papers Lizzie Preece had left her. Then the man came, and I had to keep watch. But it was so rainy outside, and I was so tired. By the
time I saw my father it was too late. I tried to warn her.

~

My father shoots his eyes at me – terrible, warning looks that make me want to hide away – as if he’s guessed what I’m thinking about. He’s nervous
about the doctor coming; he thinks he’ll be found out. I won’t tell – none of us will, not even Fran. I could go with her to the Home; we could have a nice time together, without
him giving us those looks.

We’re watching telly with the sound down when Dr Reynolds arrives. He’s brisk and dark and leaves a trace of winter in his wake. My father says nothing, takes him straight upstairs.
The whole house is hushed, as if there’s been a death. We listen hard at the ceiling. The lightbulb in the centre of the room is bare, with a crack running across the plaster like a vein
under skin. The doctor’s feet find a loose floorboard outside my father’s room; a door opens, then closes; bed-springs creak.

Luca sits at Rose’s feet, her mouth shut in a tight line and her eyes fixed on the telly. There’s nothing on, just dots and mess. I can’t watch it. Rose plays with an elastic
band, yawning it open and shut in her fingers; she was weaving plaits in Luca’s hair but they’ve both lost interest now. Luca looks unfinished – one side of her head is tamed into
a straight red braid, the other is a mass of frizz which Rose strokes slowly, repeatedly. I hunch up next to Fran. Normally she would cuddle me, but she’s put her arms inside her sweater so
that her sleeves hang empty on either side. Her hair falls all over her face. We don’t know what to do.

When the doctor comes downstairs again he stands in the middle of the room and looks at us for a long time. Takes us all in. He leans over and strokes the bruise above Fran’s eyebrow.

Smashing colour, he says, Any more to look at?

Fran’s eyes jerk to the floor; she gives a tiny shake of her head. Dr Reynolds turns his attention to me, runs the back of his hand down the scar on my cheek. His touch is
massive, cool.

This is well on the mend, Dolores.

I’m so proud, I almost forget what he’s here for.
He
doesn’t. He raises his eyes and gives us a look.

Now then, girls, your mother’s very ill. And she’ll need your help to get better. Lots of peace and quiet. And
no
trouble.

He glances pointedly at my father, who is waiting to see him out.

When does Francesca go? Dr Reynolds asks.

Social worker come tomorrow, says my father. He doesn’t look at Fran.

I’d better give you something for Mary then, he sighs, unclipping the locks on his briefcase. He takes out a small brown bottle of pills and holds them out to my father.

But, you know, Mr Gauci – keep them out of the way, won’t you?

~  ~  ~

Fran is well-dressed today. My father shines her shoes, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs with his tin of Cherry Blossom and his pile of rags. He makes neat matt circles
across the toes, jamming the pattern of daisy holes with polish. Then he takes the brush and scrubs hard; short, brutal swipes at the leather. These are Fran’s best shoes, bought for the
Corpus Christi parade. Now she will wear them to the Home. The leather smells of richness to him, but at the top of the stairs, watching his shadow flit back and forth on the wall, it comes to me
like fear. He polishes his belt this way too.

Celesta is downstairs with him. She has got up early to press Fran’s pinafore. They don’t speak to each other and they don’t speak to Fran. Celesta spits on the iron, watches
the balls of saliva leap and growl as they fry on the plate. She has no spit left by the time Lizzie Preece arrives.

Fran removes her treasures from under her bed; she selects one white cigarette stub, the marble with the twisted turquoise eye, the priceless lump of emerald, and slips them into her pocket. She
leaves her dolls and her comics, and for the first time ever she forgets to strip her bed. She doesn’t come back upstairs to say goodbye.

The Box Room door stays locked.

~  ~  ~

The Priory sits at the bottom of Leckwith Hill, with tall iron railings running around the perimeter and bushy evergreens lining the road. No one can see in for the trees, but
sometimes there are sounds, like the noise of playtime in the schoolyard. In summer the drive is so thick with cow parsley you could easily miss the main gate with its mottled brass plaque:

It’s all died back for the Winter, so Fran gets a good view of the field to her left, and the low outbuildings, and the large grey house which fills the windscreen of
Lizzie Preece’s Mini.

There are cows in that field come summer, says Lizzie, And the Reverend Mother’s got a little dog, you know! Penny, I think it’s called. Or is it Pepe?

Fran pays no attention; pain is everywhere. Her skin feels paper thin – and so tight, she’s afraid it might split, spilling her blood all over Lizzie Preece’s
car. Fran holds herself rigid, feels her own infliction throbbing under the white cotton of her sleeve. It’s hot when she puts her hand there, stiff when she twists her wrist. This is hers;
it belongs to no one else. She hopes it hasn’t made a mess.

~  ~  ~

Frankie stands in the garden. It’s a beautiful blue morning. He sees a long graze of frost in the shadow of the wall, and a dew-soaked patch of flattened grass, glittering
like evidence. He rubs his fingers together. They feel greasy. There is a stain of black on his fingertips where the polish has leaked. He thinks about Marina, and Fran, and the house at his back
with its mass of children filling every space. Mary in the Box Room. He wants open air, sunlight, quiet. This place is too cold for Frankie.

~

We lie in bed until we think it’s safe to get up. The usual odour fills the room, but instead of Fran, silently folding her sheets in the half-light, there is no one. We
change the bedding for her. Luca wrinkles her nose as she pulls back the blankets. There’s the wet patch in the centre of the sheet, cold to the touch. Then we see. The pillowcase is flecked
with round brown stains. Beneath it, stars of scarlet streak across the bed in criss-cross lines. Luca touches one thickening splash, inspects the smear on her finger, wipes it across a clean part
of the sheet. She is impressed: