The Hiding Place (29 page)

Will you come to the funeral, Louis? I asked.

He looked blank. So this, too, was something Celesta wasn’t sharing.

Our mamma’s – your gran’s – funeral. It’s tomorrow.

Aw no, he said, Aw no.

He turned his head sideways, like a pigeon eyeing a crumb. He was deciding.

I’m going, he said, We’ll all go.

And he linked his arm through mine.

Nearly there,
Aunty
, he said, grinning again, Wasn’t so terrible, was it?

~

I made him leave me at the top of the street. He was reluctant, kept turning round as I waved him away, shrugging his shoulders in hopeful challenge.

You sure? he shouted, You sure now? I’m useful, me! Good in a crisis!

Celesta wouldn’t want him in the house. And I didn’t know how Rose would react.

~  ~  ~

She is kneeling in the centre of the room, surrounded by bin-bags and baby clothes, shoes and coat-hangers in two sloping mounds. It looks like a jumble sale. From under the
bed, only the grey paws of her dog are visible; he lies as bored as a corpse. Rose looks up at me – her eyes are guilty, embarrassed, as if I’ve caught her in some terrible act. She
smells of sweat and there’s a black crease running down her forehead. She has the face of a child.

I’ve been sorting all afternoon, she says, inspecting her hands. She holds both palms out to show me; her fingertips are sleek with newsprint.

It’s mostly rubbish. I’ll put it out for the binmen.

I’ve been to see Eva, I say, And I’ve met Celesta and her boys.

She’s mad, her, Rose mutters.

I don’t know who she means.

Did you know Dad was wanted for murder? I ask. I’m level with her now. She won’t escape this time.

Oh aye, she says, sliding a knot of clothes back into the bag, And rape an’ pillage and daylight robbery. Have I missed anything? Do let me know – leaning close to me, her voice high
in mimicry – And I’ll put it on my list.

I’m not joking, Rose.

No. You’re gullible. Believe anything, you would.

She sits back on her haunches. The sunlight has sunk away; her face is blue in the gloom.

People get blamed for all sorts – Laddered your tights? –
that’s
the Gaucis’ fault – Break a fingernail? –
blame
the Gaucis! He did a lot of bad
things, Dol, she says, raking up the mass of belts and hangers from the floor, He beat the living daylights out of us, he left us without a penny and he just fucked off. That’s the worst
crime there is, if you ask me.

She stuffs the clothes into the bags, grabbing handfuls, pressing her weight on them.

You don’t
need
to go looking for what he did, Dol. It’s right here, she says.

She gathers the plastic bag and ties a knot in the top.

Or haven’t you discovered that yet – Sherlock?

And then she tells me about finding his belt. This is all she is prepared to share. I can’t remember it, but something turns in my stomach as she talks. Slippery, wet.

Anyway, I thought you might want these. Or shall I bin the lot?

A pile of photographs is heaped across the lino. I bend over to study them: pictures of Celesta as a child, countless men in suits, the smiling faces of women; and a portrait of
four small children sitting upright on a couch. Our names have been written in biro above our heads: Rose, Luca, Fran, Dol, with corresponding arrows.

So she wouldn’t forget, probably, says Rose.

It’s Fran I want to see; leaning into me with her arm round my shoulder and her eyes lit up, the slight blur of a blink. One thin wisp of hair is stuck at the corner of
her mouth, which is open, about to say something. I can’t remember what it was. A joke perhaps, to make me smile for the camera.

My mother’s handbag lies open on the floor next to Rose. Out of its mouth spill other stories: a faded newspaper picture of two men; a child’s rosary tarnished with age; a worn
wooden dice. Nothing is revealed to me. Old recipe cards of meals I’ve never tasted, Christmas cards from people I never knew. Nothing more of Fran.

Here, Rose says, bending over the pile, There’s a good one of you.

The cream paper backing shows through where the surface is cracked; the edges are round with the wear of constant holding. Two small children. The older one wears a button-up
plastic raincoat with a white trim, the collar skewed at the neck, as if she’s dressed herself or been forced into it in a hurry. Even though the photograph is black and white, you can tell
her hair is red – it flies up off her head like a firestorm. She carries a patent-leather bag slung diagonally across her chest, she grips the strap, stares venomously at the lens. She looks
like a bus conductor:
Give me the correct fare,
or else
.

The baby next to her is crying. It holds both fists in the air like a prizefighter. It takes me a moment to realize that the baby is me. I study the photograph closely. I put it so near to my
eyes that the tiny left hand becomes a blur of off-white, no more than grains on a surface. On the back of the photograph, my mother’s nervy script says,

Luca, age 2, with Dellores, Dorlores, Dolores, 3 wks.

I am crossed out and re-spelt, as if she hadn’t got used to this latest child.

It’s me, I say to Rose.

Aye, she grins,
All
of you.

The ghost pain flexes. I’ve never seen my hand before.

In films, the funeral is always held in a lush cemetery surrounded by trees. And it’s always raining. The camera cuts to a close-up of some leaves, or a blur of tree
trunk, and then pulls back to show a figure in black, standing apart from the other mourners. If this person is a man, he’ll be drawing steadily on a cigarette; if it’s a woman,
she’ll have her hands folded over her midriff and raindrops twinkling on her veil. It occurs to me, sinking into the slow mud track that will lead us to my mother’s grave, that
I’ve never been to a funeral before. It makes me feel lucky.

We follow the priest and the pall-bearers. Their eyes are cast down on the acid yellow pine of the coffin; they hold it straight-armed, low at their sides. Each one has a black tie strung around
the collar of his shirt. Apart from their corporation gloves and their weathered faces, they could be mourners.

My mother’s burial plot is situated on the slope of a hill overlooking a recycling depot: I can just make out the name Peruzzi through the mist. In the distance there’s a dim outline
of a housing estate. The cars on the road below the cemetery wall don’t drive slowly, despite the evidence of death above them and poor visibility in front. There’s a curve at the
bottom with an unexpected set of traffic lights; intermittent sounds of screeching break the silence. On the opposite side of the road is a shanty of flower-stalls. The names are all different but
the flowers are the same. A man in a suit parks on the pavement below and dashes out across the traffic, risking his life to get a last-minute wreath for someone dead. He’s no one I know. I
look around at the headstones; the tended ones have lilies stuck in vases, but mostly the flowers are grey and broken with age. I’m watching for mysterious people hiding in the undergrowth,
but there’s no undergrowth at all here. No one unexpected has arrived.

We are a straggling assortment; me and Rose in a strained mix of dark grey, Mrs Riley looking like the Queen Mother in a coat of painful blueness, a rusting brooch pinned askew on one lapel; and
Celesta, tiny between her two dumbfounded sons. She is immaculately dressed in black, with a broad-brimmed hat that is so big, it’s almost a boast. The long chain of her handbag glitters in
the dull light. Jumbo repeatedly checks his combed-over hair with a tentative hand. The mist concerns him; droplets fall from an even sky. Louis breaks from his mother’s side when he sees me,
moving jerkily over the sloping grass. He reaches the brow of the hill and lights a cigarette, kicking at the sulky turfs with a polished shoe.

Aunty Dol! Are we in trouble or what!

His eyes switch from me to Rose and back again. He bends close to my ear, conspiratorial,

Mamma’s mad. You should’ve come home with me last night. Did I get some flak!

I stayed at the house with Rose, Louis – didn’t you tell her?

I gesture to Rose. It’s clear they know each other, but they don’t speak. Rose scratches nonchalantly at her chin, examining the sky, while Louis stares at the sharp
red point of his cigarette.

Here we go, he says, flicking it away into the grass.

Father Tomelty begins with a pause, searching over our heads for full attention. His mouth stays open. We shuffle, Jumbo coughs nervously, and then we turn and follow the
direction of the priest’s gaze. A woman in a black headscarf and sunglasses. She crabs slowly up the hill, as if she’s being reeled in on his wide, unblinking stare. She clutches one
gloved hand to her breast, puts out the other to me as she reaches the graveside.

My God. That hill is a Killer! she says, in a stage whisper. Someone unexpected
has
arrived: she might be in disguise, but there’s no mistaking Luca.

~

I can’t look at the coffin and I can’t look into that hole. I study the downturned heads of all the people pretending to pray in this moment’s silence for the
soul of Mary Bernadette Gauci née Jessop. Celesta takes shy glances at Luca from under her hat, and Rose grins at her from the opposite side of the grave before the priest catches her eye
and she stops abruptly. Father Tomelty’s voice veers between a shout and a whisper. From behind me comes a sharp whiff of cigarette smoke: the corporation men are standing at what they
consider to be a respectful distance. I’m like them; I don’t feel anything. I’m just waiting for it to be over. I don’t know who is alive now, and who is dead. I think about
my list, tucked neatly in the pocket of my holdall. At least I can tick off Luca.

She stands close; she smells of fresh Chanel and chewing gum. Luca’s lipstick is flame red against the parchment of her skin. Suddenly she nudges me, so brief and quick it could be
accidental. I take a sidelong glance; she whispers from the corner of her mouth –

Sunday School—

and fixes her eyes on Rose.

~

Sunday School with Father Stoke, who had one leg shorter than the other from getting polio as a child, and whom Rose christened Father Slope the minute she noticed the way he
walked. The gobs of chewed-up bible clinging to the back of his cassock; his eyes swimming like giant fish behind the thick glass of his spectacles; he gave us milk out of little bottles and
sandwiches filled with beef paste. But we had to pray before we could eat. He’d put us in two facing lines, standing just like we are now over the grave of my mother, our stomachs rumbling in
anticipation as he addressed the Almighty Father.

Dear God in Heaven,

Yes? a little voice would cry, as if it came from the ceiling. And he would look up, amazed. It was Rose’s trick. He always fell for it.

~

Luca nudges me again, and this time I catch the almost imperceptible nod of her head. Mrs Riley is finding it difficult to keep awake. Her eyelids droop, her head wilts on her
neck, almost touching Rose’s shoulder before she catches herself up with a judder and a wide-eyed blink at the priest. Rose has her hands clasped over her stomach, eyes closed, eyebrows
raised to the sky in two pious arches. She reminds me of Friar Tuck. Her bosom heaves under her coat so at first I think she’s weeping; but she opens her eyes and winks broadly at us before
resuming her holy stance. There’s a low snigger in the priest’s pause. He throws a clot of earth on to the lowered box. A muffled Ouch! from below. More earth. Then a pantomime moan.
Father Tomelty crosses himself with a sharp flourish and Luca does the same, pinching her nose with her gloved hand. She turns her head to one side but the laugh still escapes her, ripping through
her like an explosion, meeting Rose’s smothered snorts, and Louis’s and mine. And suddenly we are all laughing, embarrassed and raucous under the cold eyes of the priest, the dank air,
the drops of mist falling from the sky.

~

Luca is the first to bolt; no sooner is the final Amen sounded than she’s careering away on her stiletto heels, raking the mud, fleeing as if the Devil himself were giving
chase. But it’s only Rose, her coat blown open like a bell, who puffs behind her.

Lu, let up a minute! Wait for me!

When she catches Luca, they link arms. Their laughter falls out over the sloping graves and wilting weeds. I feel a jealous exclusion. For a short time, Rose was mine, and there
was a moment at the graveside when Luca put out her hand and I felt I could claim her too. Now they’ve got each other again. Celesta fusses ahead of me, trying to placate the priest;
she’d like to distance herself from all of us, even her boy Louis. He stays at my side. He has a look of mischief about him.

Who’s that then? he says.

Luca.

Oh aye, he says, I’ve heard of her.

We’re standing at the lip of the hill, watching the traffic below. The cars look like toys, all lined up and revving at the lights. The greyness of the day is flat,
peaceful. Louis surveys the scene.

It’s a shock like, seeing everyone again? he asks.

I can’t hide my disappointment.

This isn’t everyone, I say, There are lots of people I won’t be seeing.

Like your dad, he says quietly.

No. Like Fran.

We can try, he says, We can still go and have a look-see. He makes our excuses.

We’re just gonna pop to The Moonli— the restaurant, Mam. Pick up some gin.

Celesta eases herself into the back seat next to Rose and Luca, pinching her coat round her in an unconcealed show of distaste.

We’re off home, Dol, shouts Rose through the window, Bring some snacks, okay?

We watch them leave. Mrs Riley smiles and waves at us from the front seat of Jumbo’s car. They could be a family on an outing. We wave back.

Now Aunty Dol, says Louis, Are you ready?

~  ~  ~

He is appalled that I don’t know where I am. For Louis, the change in the city has been a gradual process, years of roadworks and cordoned-off streets, digging machines
and noise and dust, the stink of tarmac smoking the air. To me, it’s all new, and all the same; identical rows of red-brick terraced houses, their doors open to let out pushchairs,
children’s bikes, cooking smells. Tin Street, Zinc Street, Silver Row. I’m thinking about precious metals as we turn into Platinum Place. Louis pauses here.