The Hiding Place (18 page)

Shut that racket Now! she shouts at Luca, and pointing at Fran, Take that thing outside, you.

My father is wearing his best suit. He is not smiling. His hand goes up, curves itself round the back of my mother’s neck – under the nape where the hair is fine and
soft – and brings it to rest on her collar. His knuckles are white with pressure. I can feel the air being squeezed from her, but I can’t look any more: I can’t look at the
rabbit, or my mother, or my father, or Fran. Soon there will be nowhere safe to put my eyes.

There! Eva says to Celesta, Now you
are
a Picture!

Celesta gets up from the chair in the middle of the room and stretches her arms out. She peers in the mirror above the fireplace, side on, head down, chin up. Then she turns
round, holds up her compact mirror so that she can view the back.

That’s lovely, Eva, she says, You’ve saved the day.

We’ll have to do it again tomorrow, mind! It won’t sit like that all night.

Eva has managed, with Kirbygrips and satin buds, to do what the whole workforce of Panache! couldn’t. Celesta looks like Cinderella in my
Book of Wondrous Tales
. A
princess. Pippo will faint when he sees her.

With her mouth slightly open and her eyes hard, Celesta turns to face my father and mother.

What d’you think? she asks.

My father nods quickly; short, dismissive.

Just like your mother, he says.

It doesn’t sound like a compliment. My mother eases herself from his grip.

Go on, Lady, she says to Fran, Put him back now.

Fran slips her bare feet into her sandals and sidles past my father. His head turns to watch her. He picks up his hat from the table and jams it on his head.

Frank, says my mother, nodding at the rabbit, Remember what I said.

Sure thing, he says, Sure Thing.

~  ~  ~

Salvatore stands in the darkening outhouse, one hand on the broom, the other gripping the door. He’s searched all over; he still hasn’t found the rat. He imagines it
escaped, cowering under the bar, or beneath one of the booths, ready to spring out just when Pippo makes his speech to the men. He opens the door wide, but the light has gone now; he can hardly see
the flagstones under his feet, let alone the rat. Salvatore is relieved; he tells himself he would kill it if he did. Sure thing, he whispers, trying out his courage. Sure Thing, he says again,
suddenly remembering Frankie. That was what he said. Just like last time. As if it were yesterday, Salvatore sees the slow curve of Frankie’s last coin on the polished counter, and a house on
fire, and a hospital ward with a screaming child. Salvatore realizes that Frankie has formulated A Plan. He rests the broom against the spade; they grate together, sliding down the wall and
smashing on the stone floor. In the top room of The Moonlight, the window-blind shifts once and is still. The birds screech in the tree next door. A car backfires on the street.

~  ~  ~

I walk the plank. It’s slippery in the darkness, I can’t keep my balance. I fall off twice into the squelching mud, but no one notices or cares because we’re
all concentrating on Fran and the rabbit hooked up against her chest. She moves slowly in front of me. The rabbit’s eyes glow red over her shoulder. After the plank, there are housebricks for
stepping stones, difficult to see now that we’re at the far end of the garden. The old hutch squats against the wall. I don’t play at this end, not since Rose and Luca locked me in.
There’s straw and paper in there, and sometimes there are babies. I must not interfere with anything.

Stand back, says Rose, I can’t see! She bends down to open the little square door, fumbling with the catch. Luca pulls me out of the way so that the light from the kitchen window shines
down the path. Looking back towards the house, we seem too far away. I can see my mother in the window, moving about in the square of light like an actress on television. It’s the end of May
but it’s cold out here. It’s often cold out here.

Fran eases the rabbit inside the hutch, lifting the back legs gently over the wooden shelf; it scrabbles against this new home, bucking in her arms. Once in, Rose slams the door.

Got a scratch? asks Luca, watching Fran inspect her wrist.

It’s nothing, says Fran, rubbing. She holds up her arm in the faint light, to show us the two red score marks rising on her skin. She’s yet to show us her tattoo.

Bang!

We all turn to face the house. I’m thinking of gas ovens exploding, of
True Crime
and murderous men in hats, but I can hear my mother’s sudden laugh, and Eva
shouting Cheers, Cel! against the dull clunk of mugs being knocked. Eva’s tall frame fills the doorway.

C’mon, kids, she shouts, We’re drinking a toast to your sister!

Forgetting the rabbit and the plank, we run through the slippery mud into the house.

~  ~  ~

The Moonlight is thick with men in suits: Bonni Ferrugia, big in timber; Mario Cordona, tipped as favourite for the next Lord Mayor; the O’Connell twins, head and
shoulders above the rest. They’re really smart, they wear silk cravats instead of ties. Only Lou Peruzzi, known all over Cardiff as Mr Metal, is casually dressed. Salvatore knows Cordona by
his picture in the
Western Mail
, but he doesn’t recognize Peruzzi. When he sees him saunter up to the bar and help himself to two glasses of Champagne, he intervenes, gripping the
little man’s arm above the frayed cuff of his shirt and levering it back down on the counter. He removes the glass from his hand, puts it back on the tray.

One is enough, eh? says Salvatore smartly. He searches the room for Frankie – he’ll throw this bum out as soon as he gets the nod. Peruzzi stares at him, astonished.

This is Lou Peruzzi you talk to! he says, pointing a thumb at his own chest. Salvatore looks down at the man; his collar’s askew and the middle button is missing off his shirt. His vest
pokes off-white through the gap.

Ah, Lou, says Frankie, suddenly appearing at his side, Take another Champagne! My friend Salvatore – we need a talk!

He smiles politely as he moves among the guests, but Salvatore feels a rage rising like steam off Frankie’s back. He follows him through the kitchen and out into the
yard. Frankie slams the door.

You crazy! he shouts, Peruzzi is important man!

A slob! shouts Salvatore back, outraged at the thought of Peruzzi’s grimy fingers on his food, See how much he drink!

Who cares? Me – I don’t care! Let him drink!

But the money, Frank. Champagne—

Frankie turns his head away as if to spit, then puts both his hands up close to Salvatore’s face. He speaks very slowly, as if he’s addressing a child.

Just – give them – the drinks, he says quietly, For me, Salvatore. Just serve!

Frankie turns away, shrugging inside his suit as he closes the door.

Salvatore gazes up at the mess of stars. They look like punch-holes in the night. The way Frankie speaks to him! He stands at the back door, letting the anger ripple through him until he is
breathing normally again. At the kitchen window, he sees the crowd part as Pippo ambles through the gap. Frankie greets his future son-in-law in a swift embrace. Salvatore thinks it is a sacrifice
for Frankie, to give his beautiful daughter to this man. It’s important, he thinks, softening, An important time – for all the family.

~  ~  ~

Rose drinks the water down in one long draught then uses her petticoat to dry the glass. She upends it on to the floor just beside the bed.

What you doing? asks Luca, tunnelling her nose with her finger.

We’re going to have a seance, says Fran, We do it all the time in the Home.

No we’re not, says Rose, bending down low, We’re going to listen!

We all listen. You don’t really need any equipment to hear Eva – Foghorn, my mother calls her – but the other voices are a muddle, indistinct. Rose makes a
noise like Dr Reynolds does when he listens to my chest.

Ah, she goes, Ah, Uhh.

Let me hear! cries Luca, bouncing off the bed. She crouches down and puts her ear to the glass, her eyes staring up at us. The blood rushes to her face. She raises her eyebrows.

What they saying? I whisper.

Shh!

Let me!

I want to listen too, but Luca puts the glass behind her back.

They said – she stops to think, her eyes going sideways now to get it right – Eva said, ‘Cel, you have to do a sexy with Pippo!’

Luca lets out a raucous scream, falling back on the bed; Rose slaps her thigh with mirth. This is obviously a funny thing. Only Fran is unimpressed.

You have to have
sex
, she says quietly, That’s what she’d have said.

I s’pose you do that in The Home as well? sneers Rose.

Some of them do, yeah. I do other stuff.

Like tattoos? asks Luca innocently.

Yeah, says Fran, taking the bait.

~  ~  ~

Salvatore leans on the counter and sips his Advocaat. The room is densely crowded now with lots of people he doesn’t know. Beautiful, fresh-faced girls with their hair
piled up high and their coral-coloured mouths, hanging on to a man or to each other. Sometimes he pours drinks for them, smiling shyly with his tongue stuck in his head, or he passes round a plate
of food, moving his way slowly among the pastel scents and cigar smoke. Pippo Seguna is wedged in the corner, his head cocked at an angle as he tries to read the label on a gramophone record.
Frankie leans against the booth, talking; his hands make circles and close, emphatic chops in the space in front of him. He is having a conversation with someone Salvatore doesn’t recognize.
Salvatore is struck by the other man; the way he listens to Frankie, nodding, a slight smile now and then. His face is full of concentration, but his look is sidelong, fixed on the door marked
Private. He wears a suit with stripes in it which glint every time he moves. This man cannot stay still; he repeatedly touches his hair, a nervous, agitated swipe across his head. Pippo, standing
just behind the man, mirrors this gesture. Salvatore realizes that they are brothers.

Salvatore! cries Frankie, noticing him, Come meet Paolo. Salvatore shakes the man’s hand. It is damp. He doesn’t like him at all.

~  ~  ~

Fran uncovers her left arm first. From the crease of her elbow to an inch above her wrist runs a long thick scar, a blue-white strike against the sallow brown of her skin.
Intersecting the wound is a shorter slash, trailing down at one side: the two lines form a pale blue crucifix. The wound is puckered like a burn from repeated scraping. Fran lets Luca run her
finger along it before she hooks up the other sleeve. This time the tattoo is inky; bits of blue leak out from the lettering. FRAN, it says.

Bernard did that for me, with India-Ink.

He your boyfriend? asks Rose, her eyes fixed on the letters.

Yeah, says Fran, But don’t tell Mamma.

Why not? I say.

Fran pulls her sleeves down and folds her arms,

She wouldn’t like it, she says, He’s a Half-Caste.

~  ~  ~

Frankie drags the girl through the crowd, gripping her hand tight as she bumps and trips behind him, right up to the counter and Salvatore.

Sal, he shouts, Say hello to Rita!

Salvatore looks at her. She is plump and dark with a fine down of hair covering her bare arms. A gold locket at her throat.

Gina, she says, hurt, I’m
Gina
.

Give her a drink, says Frankie, ignoring her.

Salvatore smiles kindly as she holds out her glass to him. They are always Rita, or Sophia, or Gina. The girls change but the names don’t.

I’d like some champagne, she says.

Salvatore bends down behind the bar and fetches up another bottle, so he doesn’t see Paolo moving quickly across the room. Salvatore unwraps the foil, twists off the wire,
eases out the cork, and pours. The foam shoots up the glass. He loves the effect this has on the girls, the tiny shiver of panic on their faces as the bubbles flash to the rim, the way they close
their eyes for that first sip. Salvatore is watching this. He isn’t watching the door marked Private as it opens and shuts.

It takes a minute for Paolo to find the key to the safe. Another minute, his pockets full of money and his mouth full of biscotti, and he is back at Frankie’s side. Frankie is laughing
now, his eyes on Salvatore as all four raise their glasses in a toast. He doesn’t need to look at Paolo to know: now, he can do business with Joe.

~  ~  ~

I lie awake waiting for my mother to come up. I can’t sleep until I’ve asked her about half-caste. Because that’s what
we
are: that’s what they
call us at school. I can’t see why my mother wouldn’t like Fran’s boyfriend if he’s just the same as us. I try to concentrate on Half and Whole, but through the bedroom wall
I can hear Rose talking to Celesta. She must be telling her about Fran’s tattoos and her boyfriend, because every now and then Celesta goes, Oh my God! and, Wait ’til Mam finds out!
Then it’s quiet, just Luca grunting in her sleep and a strange mumbling sound from Fran. I know this noise – it’s like Carlotta, telling her rosary. It makes me very tired to hear
it.

amulet

The kitchen doesn’t get the light in the evenings. I’d forgotten. My way downstairs seems shorter too, a few quick steps, a right turn, the final three steps with
the last one wider than the rest. You could sit here, on the bottom step. I try it now. It feels awkward, cold; there’s a draught blowing down from upstairs. I haven’t checked the other
bedrooms properly. Perhaps there’s a window open, or a pane smashed. It feels wrong to sit on this step, my back exposed to the chill. Nothing to lean against. The door shutting off the
upstairs has been removed. That’s what the difference is: you used to be able to rest your back on the closed door. The hinges have gone, leaving two shallow depressions top and bottom of the
frame. I put my hand on the one nearest me. It’s been painted over. Beneath my fingers, the solid drips of gloss feel like a message in Braille. I wonder if my mother painted it. The idea of
shutting off the stairs, hiding up from down, it appeals to me now.