The Hiding Place (17 page)

And how you pay? asks Salvatore. With a despairing sweep of arm, he takes in the bruised velvet of the booths, the dark stains of hair oil on the walls above, the carpets shiny with wear,

Where you find the money?

Frankie looks directly into Salvatore’s sad brown eyes. I know where to find it my friend, he almost says, But I won’t touch it.
I
won’t touch it.

No worries, Sal! He says finally, It’s a sure thing. This is
my
problem, he smiles, Not your problem!

Frankie takes up the tea-towel and sweeps it across the spills and circles on the counter. Balls it up and throws it into the sink.

I must go and make a dish! he says, winking at Salvatore. He rubs his hands together. Sticky.

~

In the yard at the rear of The Moonlight, Salvatore pauses. Something is nagging at him. Something Frankie said. He goes over the conversation in his head as he unhooks the hasp
on the outhouse door. Salvatore has stored the food in here, away from Frankie’s hungry gaze, his quick fingers. The odours rise up in flashes of colour; pink meat, brown pastry crust, salt
beef, and the slippery green damp of brick – a palace of smells. So absorbed is Salvatore that he almost doesn’t see the rat. It sits upright on his mound of meat pies – the
muslin lifted daintily back from the corner of the rack – nibbling on an edge of crust. Salvatore snatches the spade propped against the cobwebbed window and smashes it down on the escaping
rat, and the rest of the pies, and the hock of ham which flies at him like a severed limb before bouncing on to the flagstones. Salvatore’s skin prickles with sweat and fear. He forgets what
it was that was bothering him. Leaning heavily on the shank of the spade, he surveys the floor beneath the trestle. All he can see are blobs of aspic, twinkling like diamonds against the dusty
stone.

~  ~  ~

In the six months since Celesta met Pippo on Devil’s Bridge, not a hair on her head has been cut. Now she sits in the window of Panache!, swivelling from side to side in
the plastic chair.

Well, says Veronica, drawing in the air with her comb, I could do a sorta posy.

A what?

Like this, see? she says, lifting the mass of curls and scooping them on top of Celesta’s head.

I could fix it like tha’, see?

A bun, mutters Celesta, I’m not having a bun.

Veronica stares gloomily at Celesta through the mirror. She lets the hair fall.

An’ you can’t cut it? You sure?

Positive.

Celesta studies her reflection as the hair softens around her head. She hasn’t slept, what with the dress fandango and Meek’s not being able to match up her shoes and gloves, and as
she looks into the mirror her eyes glint back like two slivers of jet. I look like a bear, she thinks, a Grizzly. Veronica scratches her own head with the pointed end of her comb.

I dunno then, she says, leaning behind the mirror to look through the window into the arcade, Maybe something with Spring flowers?

Like a May Queen? asks Celesta, inspired.

Something like that, yeah, says Veronica, waving and smiling at someone through the glass, A May Thing.

~  ~  ~

We’re waiting in the long hallway for Fran. The top half of the wall is painted cream, the bottom half chocolate-coloured gloss, with wavy scratches running all the way
along. The windows remind me of school; too high up to see out of but big enough to show you what you’re missing – to let you see the sky. It goes from blue-white to soft grey as we
wait. This place smells like school as well.

Peugh, says my mother, Carbolic.

She’s so nervous, she keeps swapping her handbag from arm to arm. She strokes the side of her face with her knuckles, fiddles with my clothes.

Sit up straight, Dol, she’ll be here in a minute, she says, twitching the collar of my coat. She dances a finger lightly across the scab on my knee.

Don’t pick it, she warns, even though I wasn’t going to. Luca runs up and skids to a fantastic halt on the lino, like an ice-skater.

Where’s our Fran? she moans, swishing her feet from side to side, watching as the pleats on her skirt fan out, It’s
boring
here!

She’ll be along soon, says my mother, Come and sit down. Luca runs to the end of the corridor and slides around the corner. We watch her go, then appear again holding the hand of a tall
woman in a costume.

Aw God, whispers my mother, Sister Anthony.

The nun smiles at us as she hands Luca back.

We found Lucia running up the corridor! she says brightly.

I wasn’t! shouts Luca, I was sliding!

It’s
Luca
, says my mother tartly.

Sister Anthony beams down at Luca, her hands pressed together like an angel.

A boy’s name! she exclaims, How uncommon!

Not so uncommon, Sister
Anthony
, says my mother, clipped.

Sister Anthony passes by, opens a door – filling the corridor with the cries of children – and shuts it again. Quiet. The next time she appears, she’s got hold
of Fran, who’s carrying a little grey suitcase.

Here we are, Mrs
Gorsy
, says Sister Anthony, See you soon, Francesca. Be a good girl!

She is, says my mother.

I know, says the nun, smiling again.

It’s awkward for a minute. My mother isn’t standing up or going anywhere, she’s sitting with her palms turned out, as if she’s testing for rain. Luca studies the
scuff-marks she’s just made on the lino and I watch her do it. It’s like we’ve forgotten where to put our eyes.

You fit? says my mother to Fran, which means, is she ready to go. Fran nods. My mother takes the suitcase.

What sort of size is this supposed to be? she says, holding it at arm’s length and frowning.

It’s called a vanity case, says Fran shyly.

Ah. That’s good. They teach you lots here then, says my mother.

She pushes open the big door and we duck under her arm, out into the fresh air. My mother walks in front with Fran; they don’t touch but they bump against each other as
they make their way up the drive. Fran’s only just eleven but she’s nearly as tall as my mother. And thin. She’s wearing the Home’s uniform; brown blazer, brown skirt, tan
stockings. The hem on the skirt has come down, and Fran stops now and then to scratch the back of her leg where the thread is tickling. Her hair is in two plaits.

She looks like the Four Marys, whispers Luca to me.

What, all of them? I ask.

Luca pushes me so hard I lose my balance and fall on to the gravel. Now my other knee will be scabbed.

No, stupid! Luca exhales loudly, Mary Cotter – the ugly one!

All the way home, on the bus and down the road to our street, I worry about what Rose and Celesta will say. It’s true, Fran doesn’t look like one of us any more. She
looks strange. Even my mother talks to her politely, as if she’s a neighbour’s child. I think it’s because she’s still angry with Fran over the fire and all the trouble, but
when we reach the front door my mother lifts her off the pavement and squashes her tight against her chest.

Lovely to have you home, she says, My Little Angel!

~

From the brow of the hill, Frankie sees the bus pull into the kerb. He shifts the box under his other arm, feels the tipping weight inside and the scuffling against his chest.
He watches as the four figures make their way towards Hodge’s Row; that unmistakeable gesture Mary has – stopping dead in the road while she waves the children across – and then
he sees us, he sees Fran, and he starts to run for home.

~  ~  ~

Salvatore’s top lip glistens with sweat. His hands are moist as he carries the racks of food from the outhouse, along the narrow passage, then sideways through the back
door into The Moonlight. He uncovers the pies and slides them on to a silver tray, holding the rack down at his side as he arranges and rearranges them into a neat pile, nudging them into position
with the tip of his finger. Then back out into the night air for the salvaged hock of ham. It looks fine, coated again in fresh breadcrumbs. Salvatore picks off some imaginary sawdust, eyeing the
spread of food on the long counter: cuts of meat in various shades of pink, spicy sausages, cool slips of cucumber in a bowl of vinegar, blistering chillies on a plate. Frankie said, Why bother
with all of this, just make a few sandwiches – but Salvatore is proud. Salvatore is angry. He wants to show Pippo how well he can cook. This is Men’s food. There are no sweet things
here, nothing dainty, apart from the little almond biscotti he made to go with the Vin Santo. They’re Mary’s favourite. He looks at them now, fanned out golden against the white lace
doyley. He’ll save some for her. Salvatore fetches a linen napkin and counts out one, two – five – biscotti for Mary, placing them carefully in the palm of his hand before
transferring them on to the cloth. He casts about for somewhere secure to put them. Not back in the outhouse – he’s been on guard all day, he can’t stand there all night as well.
He has an inspired thought: he’ll put them in the safe in Joe Medora’s office! No rats in there.

~  ~  ~

Celesta won’t come down, says Rose as she opens the front door, She says the wedding’s off and her hair’s a mess. Fran! she yells suddenly, pushing past my mother to get a
better look.

What now, groans my mother. She moves to the foot of the stairs and shouts.

Celesta – your sister’s here! Frank? Frank!

He’s gone to the market, says Rose, hands on hips. Fran wanders over to the mantelpiece, picks up the Communion photograph of Celesta.

What’s wrong with her hair?

Pippo don’t want her to cut it, says Rose, So she went to Panache! to have it – she searches for the word – Twiddled.

Oh, says Fran, running her hand over the brass bell.

Where’s Bambi? she says, looking around the room for the glazed fawn.

Don’t ask, says Rose, then tells her, Dadda broke it.

Ah, says Fran. Rose grins at her.

What’s in your case then? she says, clicking the locks.

Fran opens the lid. Inside there are two pairs of knickers, a vest, a balled-up pair of white socks, a Gideon’s Bible, a cream card with a prayer on it in tiny writing,
and a rosary.

What’s this, says Luca, putting it over her head, A necklace?

It’s called a rosary, says Fran, digging in the little pocket sewn into the lid.

Look, Rose, says Luca, a Rosie!

It’s for praying with, says Fran, Don’t let Dadda see it.

Luca tucks the rosary down the neck of her sweater just as my father appears in the doorway. He puts the big box down on the floor and stands there, looking at Fran. His arms
open for her, but she’s welded to the lino. We’ve all stopped breathing.

A cough from my mother. She’s standing in the kitchen doorway.

You going to give your Dad a hug? she asks. Fran steps around the box and presents herself. She turns her head when he bends to kiss her; her eyes are dead as stones.

Have you brought Fran a present? Luca says, staring at the box. She twists her fingers, dying to open it. My mother gives my father a look. He looks back, shrugs.

No, this is for tomorrow, my mother says, trying to get past Rose so that she can take the box away. She bends to lift it, pauses at the sound of scratching.

Aw, Frank, not alive! she says.

He shrugs again, and before he can stop her Luca pulls up the flap and peers inside. I know what’s in there with the darkness. I wish it wasn’t that; Please let it
be a Something Else, God, I say quietly. Luca bends back the other flap; a small black and white head pokes out.

Look, Fran! Dadda’s bought you a rabbit! she cries.

~  ~  ~

The car is rented, anonymous. The driver wears a suit of grey flannel with thick white stripes woven through it; showy, fashionable, slightly cheap. He slows down as he passes
the shopfronts of the old town and the Seamen’s Mission. Only the bars are open at this time.

Nice to be back? he asks.

Joe Medora doesn’t reply to this.

Surprise him, he says, Tell him I will do business.

Paolo swings the car past The Moonlight and parks around the first corner.

Not coming in for the party?

Joe holds out his hand for the keys. Either Paolo is very stupid or he’s playing games with him.

This is business, says Joe emphatically, I’m doing business. With Frankie.

Paolo slips out from behind the wheel, walks with a bright clip towards the end of the street. He can feel Joe’s eyes watching him through the windscreen.

No, no, Boss, he says under his breath,
I’m
doing business with Frankie.

~  ~  ~

Sitting with her skirt up over her knees, Fran warms her legs in front of the fire. She’s taken off her stockings for my mother to mend, so I can see the bare flesh of her
shins, laced with a sheen of long thin stripes. Fran cradles the rabbit in her lap, stroking the soft white belly and the woolly pads of its feet. It lies there with its head turned to one side,
eyes closed, perfectly still. She’s never had her own rabbit before, not one that was really
hers
: the others – the ones that used to live in the hutch in the garden – they
don’t count. She doesn’t like to think of them, so instead Fran goes through all the things she could feed it. She could go to the Evanses’ shop and ask them to save all their old
veg. Then she remembers that the shop is burnt down, and that she will have to go back to The Priory. Reverend Mother won’t let her have the rabbit there; maybe even the big boys would be
cruel to it like they were with that cat one time. She will have to leave it here.

He’s enjoying that, says Eva, her mouth riddled with hairpins. She’s prodding the side of Celesta’s head, tilting it sideways, but her eyes are on Fran.

What you gonna call him, then?

Joey, says Fran, curling her fingers round the paws.

Celesta lets out a loud yelp as Eva, jolted, digs a hairpin into her scalp.

Sorry, love, she says. She clears her throat, What about Fluffy? she offers, Or Flopsy?

Joey Joey Joey! cries Luca, bouncing on the chair, so that my mother comes and stands in the doorway. My father appears behind her.