The Hiding Place (15 page)

Must be
some
tattoo!

Celesta wears a two-piece of shocking crimplene pink, a turtle-neck blouse, and a pair of white patent lace-up boots which don’t quite reach the knee. American Tan
tights. A look of cool defiance on her face. She makes her entrance as my mother stirs the gravy on the gas ring. Tonight, Celesta has a date with Markus the Manager from the Co-op, and she is not
remotely hungry. She is also in disgrace. She stares from a safe distance at the bubbling gravy.

Here she is, says Eva, What a Bobby Dazzler!

The kitchen is full of us; my mother at the cooker, me and Luca and Rose at the table, Celesta in the doorway, and Eva at the sink. She’s invited herself round to help my
mother, who seems to have forgotten how to do ordinary things like comb her hair or cook our tea. But any attempt at assistance sends her into a fury, so Eva just stands about and smokes. She
lights up another cigarette from the stub of her old one, dropping the butt into the bowl of potato peelings.

A real Bobby Dazzler, she persists, trawling the silence. Rose makes snake-eyes at Celesta, who leans against the pantry door. Celesta stares down at her boots, shifting her handbag up into the
crook of her elbow. She looks ready to bolt.

You are going to eat something, aren’t you, love, says Eva, pulling out a chair for Celesta.

Last Supper, murmurs my mother darkly. Her displeasure is expressed in code, but we know why she’s vexed. Celesta’s supposed to be meeting Pippo Seguna tonight; she agreed to it when
my father was here. But now he’s gone out, and she’s got other plans.

You’re the image of Cilla in that hair-do, Eva continues, broaching the subject of Hair. A deafening clatter of gravy-pan on stove.

Celesta has been to Panache! in the Castle Arcade, and she’s had nearly all her hair cut off. What is left is high and black, and glossy as spun sugar. She reaches up with her fingers to
poke at its springiness. A pair of new-moon curls lie sharp along her cheekbones, as if she’s been licked by the Devil; deadly spikes fringe her eyes. She is already affecting the habitual
jerk of the head which will so infuriate my father. I notice for the first time that Celesta has the makings of a double chin – and tiny ears.

Two photographs, framed in gilt, sit on the mantelpiece in the living room: both of them are of Celesta. Here she is as a very small child, a monochrome bridesmaid standing on a table, a pair of
Champagne glasses at her feet, a towering wedding cake on her left. She looks as if she could be a gift – a wonderful doll from a foreign land. My father loves this picture.

In the second photograph, Celesta is clutching a Communion Book. She gazes beatifically into the space beyond the lens, seemingly unaware of the storm around her head. She is backlit and sidelit
and glowing like a nebula. So much hair, Mrs Richards from the salon down the street asked for a copy to put in the window. Celesta’s face sat there for a year, so that every time my mother
went by, she would stop and look, pointing it out to passing strangers.

That’s my girl, you know,

as if her daughter lived in the window, behind a skin of yellow foil, and not at home. It didn’t seem to matter that Celesta had never entered a salon in her life. Until
today, that is: it’s her final act of defiance against the prospect of Pippo. Naturally, my mother is raging.

Look at the state of you! she says, waving the spoon, You’re in for it, my girl. Celesta sits gingerly on the edge of her chair and puts her handbag on her knees. She stares at the
tablecloth. It’s my favourite, Exotic Birds of The World, protected under vinyl.

Eva’s smile is a conspiracy; she winks at us through the screen of smoke.

It’s all The Go now, Mary, she says to my mother’s back, Wouldn’t mind that style myself.

Suddenly, I’m aware of everyone’s heads. Eva’s hair is platinum, except for a nicotine-streak of amber running up the left side. She ties it into what she calls a Pleat, with
an arrangement of primped tendrils over her brow. I can’t see my mother’s hair – she’s wearing her cap from the bakery; she won’t start back until next week, but she
wears it all the time. I know what it’s like underneath; thin and streaked with grey. Her scalp shines through.

Rose and Luca have the wildest hair, like barbed wire. Mad Locks, my mother calls them, when she’s trying to tame them for school. Everyone blames the shock of the fire for my lack of
hair. Sometimes, my mother licks the palm of her hand and runs it across the brittle furze on the crown of my head. My hair will be yellow when it grows.

My mother moves round the table, slamming down plates and cutlery and plastic beakers spilling Seguna’s orangeade. She lays a place for Fran, forgetting, then snatches the knife and fork
away and throws them with a wail into the sink: it’s been a month since Fran got taken away.

Just wait until your father sees you, she says, And Christ knows what Pippo will think!

Celesta opens the clasp of her handbag with a soft click, drawing out an assortment of devices; powder compact, lipstick, eyebrow pencil, Mary Quant Matte Make-up. She lines
them up in front of her like instruments of torture.

I won’t have him, Mam.

You will if your father says, he’s gone to a lot of trouble. The trouble he
will
go to – is what my mother means – to make sure Celesta doesn’t end up like Ann
Jackson.

Celesta opens the tablet of mascara and spits on it, dashing the little wand along the cake until it’s muddy. Holding the brush to each eye, she blinks hard, her mouth widening as she
sweeps. When Celesta’s finished, her lashes are weighed down with the effort. Tiny grits of blackness gather at the corners of her eyes; she picks them out with a pastel fingertip.

No, I tell a lie, it’s Dusty, Eva says, pointing her cigarette end at Celesta. Eva inhales and exhales all at once, sucking on the filter as two jets stream from her nostrils. The ash
grows long and grey, it bends, it falls, just as she raises the cigarette again to her lips.

Well, it’s supposed to be Cathy McGowan, says Celesta, pouting into her compact.

But she’s got long hair! cries Rose.

I
know
, Celesta shoots her a look, I meant the
fringe
, stupid! She smooths the powder-puff along the line of her chin; creamy dots sprinkle onto the table. I am awed by this
process of beautifying.

Look at this, Dol, she whispers, drawing the powder-puff across my cheek, Close your eyes now.

She draws it once, twice, down the side of my face. There is a faint scent of lilies. She holds up her compact mirror for me to see: my scar is almost invisible. I hold out my
bad hand for mending.

~  ~  ~

There are three Pippos reflected in the dressing-table mirror – left-side, right-side, full-on – and as he leans forward to adjust one of the wings, his image
bounces into infinite regress. Pippo studies the crown of his head, checks the lick of hair that won’t stay flat, pouring more oil from the bottle into his already soaked right hand. He
slicks, bends his chin into his neck, takes up his comb and rakes it carefully across his scalp. Pippo casts about for something to wipe his hands on, and finding nothing, grips the ornate handles
with his fingertips and drags the top drawer open. It’s still full of Maria’s underwear, tangled flesh-toned stockings and thick creˆpe bandages, bloomers and petticoat slips and a
mysterious length of white rubber hosing. He takes up one of the bandages from the pile and holds it to his face; Maria comes back to him in Wintergreen and roses.

Downstairs, Pippo can hear his mother running water in the kitchen, the deep metal thunder of a bucket being filled and the shunk of the pipes as the tap is turned off. He could clean his hands
properly, really get rid of the oil – except he doesn’t want his Mamma to see him in his good suit and his polished shoes. She’ll be scrubbing the steps again, probably –
it’s a job best done in anger. He hears the front door open and feels the change of air it brings into the room. He’ll go out the back way. He tiptoes down, shoes in hand, cringes as
the stair-treads creak mutinously under his weight.

Philippo, Ey! cries his mother, swinging the door wide open. She’s on all fours in the porch, holding out the scrubbing brush with a rough red hand.

You’re not going? she asks.

Pippo sits at the bottom of the stairs and pulls on his shoes.

Yes, Mamma, he says, bent double over his laces. They slip under his greasy fingers, he can’t get a loop.

Eh? she says, waving the dripping brush at him.

Yes, Mamma. I’m going.

Pippo softly touches her shoulder as he edges past. Mrs Seguna plunges the brush into the bucket of suds and slaps it down on the front doorstep.

Philippo! Your laces! she cries, as he takes the steps two at a time, almost running into the street.

Pippo doesn’t look down, or back, but as the rasp of scrubbing dies away, he can hear the tips of his laces clicking freely against the shiny leather of his shoes.

~  ~  ~

I find out what happened to Celesta on that first date via Luca. She gives up her version grudgingly, sometimes casting her eyes to heaven as if deciding whether I am worthy of
being told.

Well. She met Markus in the Milk Bar, she says confidently. And stops. She stops for ages. This is my first brush with suspense.

And then what? I say, jiggling my legs over the side of the bed.

Let me see, she pauses, finger on chin, eyes to ceiling. It’s so quiet, I can hear ringing in my ears, the soft whining of Jackson Jackson, and his chain as it grates against the door of
Number 1. He’s been put out in the rain again. I jump off the bed and go to the window where I can see his soaked back end protruding from the open door, his tail wagging hopelessly from side
to side.

What’s it worth? Luca muses. Nasty. I think of all the things I’ve got that Luca might want. It amounts to everything, except my impetigo, which no one on earth would want. I make an
offer.

Fuzzy Felts?

Her lip curls. Nah, she says.

Of course not.

How about . . . She stops, shakes her head, thinks, continues, How about your Bunty collection?

I’ll give you two, I start to say, but as soon as she realizes that I’m trying to bargain, she draws her finger and thumb across her sealed lips with a sharp Zipp! I’m so
desperate to know what happened to Celesta, I give in. Luca sidles up to the window, spits on her hand and holds it out to me: I do likewise, and we shake.

Luca says after they went to the Milk Bar, Markus took Celesta to his Mansion, where they had a whole pig for dinner (from the Co-op meat counter), served with Barley Wine, and Knickerbocker
Glories for pudding. I’m suspicious of the Barley Wine detail. Luca has been fixated with it ever since she found a bottle in the cupboard under the stairs and drank half of it in situ. But I
let it pass. After this, they went to see Gene Pitney at The Capitol. That’s when Celesta fainted and had to be lifted over the barriers they use to protect big stars like Gene. When she woke
up, someone had stolen her boots.

This is not true. Celesta’s boots are on the floor of the pantry. They’re not white any more, they’re a dingy grey; the laces are treacle brown, and some of the eyeholes have
closed up as if they’ve been in a fight. On the right leg, the plastic has swum down in slow waves. Burning does that. The left boot suffered only minor meltdown, which suggests that Celesta
was sitting with the bar-fire on her right when It happened. I’m not sure about what It is, but it must be shocking if it makes your boots melt. My mother says she should have known better.
This is true: Fire and the Gaucis are a deadly combination.

No one, not even Rose, knows exactly how Pippo got involved. We question her thoroughly. Her answer is always the same:

I hear a stone at the window, I look out, and there’s our Cel and Mr Seguna, standing there looking up. I go downstairs and he’s gone. I swear on Mam’s life!

and she makes the sign of the cross on her throat.

Celesta says nothing. She hides in her room for most of the day, playing ‘All or Nothing’ as if her life depends on it. By teatime my mother loses patience.

Will you come down and eat your tea! she shouts from the door of the stairs, And don’t mind your father!

We had forgotten about
him
. He hasn’t seen Celesta since yesterday morning, and he’s keen to find out how her meeting with Pippo went. He doesn’t know
about Markus or the boots; he doesn’t know about Gene Pitney. And my mother has neglected to tell him about Celesta’s hair.

My father sits at the table with a claw of garlic in one fist, a rasher of raw bacon in the other. He eats like a dog, with his head down, quickly. He doesn’t touch my mother’s
cooking; he’d rather scavenge.

What’s the matter with her? he says, looking up at my mother. She coughs nervously.

Last night, she see Pippo? he says, She see him, Mary?

Not exactly, she says, Now, Frank, before you start . . . Celesta turns the stairs. She sits down at the edge of the table. Her hair is a fright; the left side is battered flat where she’s
been lying on it all day, but the right side has compensated for this – it’s a cliff.

My father puts the garlic down on the table in front of him, slowly. He studies it for a minute. There’s nothing to see, apart from a few flakes of tissued skin and the wound where
he’s torn out a clove. He flicks at it with his fingernail, making it spin on the plate. He looks at my mother. He looks at Celesta. Mother. Celesta. Mother.

Don’t look at
me
, says my mother, It’s her hair, she can do what she likes with it!

My father leans across the table and puts his face very close to Celesta. She’s staring down at the pattern on her plate: she can smell his breath on her. Celesta shuts her eyes, waiting,
and when the blow comes it whips round the room like gunshot. The birds on the tablecloth rock in front of my eyes. My mother jumps at my father and holds his second punch by the wrist; she
won’t lose Celesta this way.