The Hiding Place (11 page)

Fran looks as if she’s heading for home, but she isn’t. She follows the canal path, crossing over the road at Patrick Street to avoid the Evanses’ shop; she mustn’t be
seen. She turns left into Opal Street, over the mound of orange earth and thick cord wire that marks the end of Emerald Place and the beginning of Jet Street – it’s due to be brought
down tomorrow. She stands on a pile of rubble and looks about. Seagulls pick over the upturned ground: there are no other witnesses.

~  ~  ~

With the plates stacked in the sink and Billie on the gramophone, Salvatore can relax: the breakfast rush is over, and trade will be slow until midday. He picks up his coffee
cup, puts it on the polished table, and edges into the booth next to the counter. Salvatore thinks about nothing in particular: about the sunlight slicing in through the far window; about what the
weather would be like now in St Paul’s Bay; about Carlotta. It would be nice to go on holiday – they could go home for the Summer Festa if he can save enough money.

He tips a spoonful of brown sugar into the cup; it sits on the froth for a second, turns, sinks softly to the bottom. He feels safe these days; Frankie is steady, and The Moonlight is doing
well: not many fights, no police, no sign of Joe. It’s almost like old times. Salvatore stirs his coffee.

He can’t see the door from the dark corner of his booth, but he hears the yawn of the hinge, a flash of street noise, and the slow shush of footsteps on carpet. Salvatore puts his head
over the leatherette, stands up when he sees the other man; he’s not a regular.

Mr Capanone. How do you do?

Salvatore skirts the low table to shake the outstretched hand. He doesn’t catch the name; the man talks rapidly, his words curling like butter:

Stay, my friend. Stay, he says, waving Salvatore back into the booth,

I’m look for Frank Gauci. He not here? Well, shame! I need a Talk with him!

Salvatore watches as the man turns on his heel, moves around the counter, peers into the kitchen.

Nice place! Good business. Mr Gauci is a Good Business Man.

Salvatore wants to remind this man that
he’s
the partner, not Frankie, but the formal sound of Frankie’s name and the way this big fellow limps around the
cafe makes him nervous. Salvatore sidles past him, cradling the coffee cup against his chest. The man bends down under the counter and hauls up a flagon of soda.

Ah! ‘Low’s Soda’, he reads, and waving the bottle at Salvatore, How much they charge you for this? Salvatore makes to answer, but is drowned out.

‘Low’s Lemonade’, ‘Low’s Ginger Beer’, ‘Low’s Tonic’ . . . My Friend – he carefully places the bottle on the floor at
Salvatore’s feet – It’s all Low’s here! But the price, that’s not Low,

and laughs loudly at his own joke.

Frankie deals with bar stock, says Salvatore, bending to pick up the bottle, If you have some business – Who shall I say call?

The man stares into the distance. He’s thinking of something else.

You know Celesta? The daughter?

Salvatore nods.

She beautiful girl! says the man, Very beautiful.

The man moves around the counter, patting it twice with the flat of his hand.

Ah! I go find him, he says, with a quick smile. He makes to leave, then turns back, searches in the pocket of his jacket. He produces a small white card which he points at Salvatore:

If you see Frank, tell him call on me. This evening is Convenient,

and places the card with a snap on the counter. He saunters back along the carpet and out through the door. Salvatore stares at the lettering on the card:

Now he knows him: Pippo Seguna, drinks merchant, factory owner, restaurateur – and recently widowed.

~  ~  ~

This is the way. Take this first, and put it like that – no! – Like that, that’s right. Now another load on top, uh, there. This one’s a bit too . . . not dry enough,
y’see? S’gotta be dry. Put this one here, yeah. Now you strike this . . . See! And hold it. S’goin. Easy. Watch it, watchit now. There!

Talking to no one, Fran lights her fires.

~  ~  ~

It must be lunchtime – Pippo Seguna’s stomach gurgles as he passes the food shops and cafes that run the length of Bute Street. He pauses at Usman’s
Delicatessen, tempted by the thick scent of salt beef, and puts his face up to the window. There’s a small seating area at the back, but Pippo would have to negotiate the angled tables and
the group of young men cluttering the sandwich rail at the front of the shop. This is not Pippo’s territory, even though his factory is almost on the dock. He wonders if these men might be
his workers. The thought makes him even more reluctant to go inside: they would know
him
, but he wouldn’t be able to recognize a single one of them. Pippo removes his watch from his
fob and clicks it open: twelve o’clock. He could head back into the city, eat at the Seguna Bay and still have time to look for Frank later. He moves away from the window, thinking about his
mother – she’s been angry for over a week, ever since he broached the subject of marrying again.

What will people think? she cried, when he first suggested it, With Maria still warm in the grave?

Maria has been dead for just one month.

Mamma, it would be slow, he argues, No wedding until Spring – six months is decent! And it would be good – someone to help you with the house . . .

His Mamma doesn’t think so.

Pippo doesn’t want to admit to the other thing; that he would like a Real Wife. After all the years of Maria’s illness, the bedpans and the constant smell of bleach, and the private
nurses with their chewing gum stuck in the corner of their cheeks and their laddered stockings, pressing their indifferent hands against his belly in the dampness of the spare room, Pippo would
like – a wife. Someone pretty and young, who could love him and bear him a son. Celesta fits. He’s only seen her once, and already he’s infatuated with her. That hair coursing
down her back like a wash of velvet; her eyes catching his – just a flicker of lashes – and then turning away; her tiny feet in their patent court shoes! Pippo knows his mother
disapproves of Frank Gauci, but he doesn’t care: he’d be marrying Celesta, not her father.

Pippo moves on in his reverie, unaware of the cut his figure makes along the street. He has a way of walking; leaning forward on the right foot, to the side on the left, so that his body rolls
along the pavement like a newly landed sailor. Behind his back, children copy this sloping stroll. Pippo the Hippo! they shout. When he turns round, they face the other way, their shoulders heaving
with mirth. Pippo has learned to take no notice.

At Domino’s Resto, he decides to call it a day: Frank is not an easy man to find, and Pippo’s really hungry now. He sidles into a chair near the door, summoning the waitress by
waving the plastic menu. Pippo runs his hand along the centre crease, collecting grit and crumbs and cigarette ash on the tip of his finger. He inspects it closely; he won’t be using these at
the Seguna Bay – not hygienic. While he waits for his order, he looks around. Len the Bookie, on his way out, catches his eye.

Mr Seguna! says Len with a grin, Checking out the competition, then?

Pippo smiles tightly and looks down at the menu. Then a thought occurs to him:

Lenny, he says, pulling on the man’s sleeve as he passes,

You seen Mr Gauci?

Len looks blank, shifts his arm away.

You mean Frankie? Frankie Gauci?

Pippo nods, trying not to look at Len’s hacked fingers.

Never see him, mate, says Len, feeling that look of repulsion sweep over him, and sending it straight back, We don’t do business these days.

He shows his top teeth in a grin, and waves goodbye to Pippo.

This is a good thing, thinks Pippo, worrying about what his mother will say when he tells her he’s arranged a meeting: Frank has stopped gambling. She will approve of that.

Len squints into the sunlight, and laughs, and thinks, No, I don’t do any business with Frankie these day – and haven’t since Joe Coral opened his betting office right next
door to The Moonlight. But I won’t tell you that, you dupe.

Word is out that Pippo is looking to marry again, and he’ll bet his nose that the fat man has his eye on young Celesta. Len studies the form: Odds that she’ll have him? Looking at
her, and looking at him, any sane person wouldn’t give it an outside chance, A Hundred to One. Unless of course, you know Frankie, and then it’s Odds-On Favourite. Now, there’s an
interesting bet, thinks Len.

~  ~  ~

We’re making a pie, my mother and me. I’m in charge of the filling, which is blackberry jam with bits of cooking apple cut into slices. I eat one when she’s
not looking, and the taste is so bitter it shrivels my tongue. She laughs when she sees my face.

That’ll teach you, monkey! Wait ’til they’re sugared, now. I love this; I love being here in the kitchen with just my mother and no one else. She gives me the bag of sugar, and
the first spoonful goes straight into my mouth.

Just think about Roy Jackson’s teeth, my mother says. Roy hasn’t got any teeth, just a row of brown stubs, like iron filings, top and bottom. My mother swears it’s because all
he ever eats is sugar butties.

And his eye! I shout, because Roy has only got one eye now. This is important for me. I’m curious about people who used to have two of something and then end up with only one. My mother
looks at me darkly:

Don’t mention Roy’s eye in this house, my girl, she goes.

Why not?

Because it’s not nice.

I don’t know which eye isn’t nice – the one that’s there, or the one that’s gone – but I can tell by her face that she won’t explain.
Her mouth goes all tight and her lips disappear. It doesn’t last long. My mother prefers to talk about the Jacksons than do stories or nursery rhymes. She uses them as a lesson against
everything, as if
we
are the perfect family. Ann, the oldest girl, is Nothing But A Slut, the boys are known as Those Wastrels, and Mrs Jackson was Born Daft, Got Worse. My mother is kind
about Mr Jackson, though.

That Arthur! she says, He’s A Good Sort Poor Devil Married To That Divvy. Sometimes she talks to me like this for hours, but today she is singing:

Got Myself A Crying Talking Sleeping Walking Living Doll!

which I think is a song about me.

I don’t cry! I shout, desperate to join in.

No, you don’t, she says, and looks at me as if she’s just realized the truth,

No, Dol, you know, you never do. She wipes a tea-towel over the table to get rid of the crumbs, dusts the surface with flour, and she’s just lifting the dough from the bowl when
there’s a knock on the door.

Get that for us, Dol, she says, scraping the sticky mass from her fingers. I reach up to turn the door-handle, and there’s PC Mitchell and Fran standing on the pavement: he’s got his
hand on the back of her neck; she’s twisting like a fish.

Get off, she yells, Get off!

She runs past me and straight into my mother’s arms.

Er – Mrs Gauci, he says with a little cough, This is the third time . . .

She was on an errand, says my mother quickly. She tips Fran’s face up, wipes away a smear of soot with her thumb, wraps both arms around Fran’s head.

We found these on her, he says, holding out a box of England’s Glory matches.

How else d’you expect me to light the gas? says my mother, snatching them from him, Will I rub two sticks together?

She looks down at Fran – a hard, knowing look.

Have you got my change, Love? she says, Or has he robbed that too?

PC Mitchell turns away, smiles at the road, looks back at my mother: his eyes are soft now.

It’s dangerous on that waste ground, Mary. She could get hurt.

Aye, I know, says my mother, shutting the door, Thanks, Doug.

~

My mother’s given up on our pie: she sits Fran on the sofa, pulls up a chair next to her, and carefully places the box of matches on the armrest between them. It is
extremely quiet: as if to remind us of what this is all about, the coals hiss in the grate, and a bright flame plays along the bed of slack. I want to sneak off, but I know I won’t be allowed
to escape this moment: I’m part of it – I’m proof.

What were you doing? asks my mother. Fran picks at the plastic edging on the lip of the armrest. Her hair hangs like a caul over her face.

How many times do I have to tell you? They’ll lock you up!

I didn’t do it, says Fran at last.

They’ll put you away, Fran . . . Didn’t
do
what?

I didn’t do nothing!

My mother pulls me, jerks me bodily so that I’m inches from my sister: our shoes scuff each other. Fran keeps her eyes fixed on the lip of the armrest: she’s still
picking, her fingers working busily now at a loose piece of plastic, and she won’t look up. We both know what’s coming.

Look at Dolores, Fran. Look at Her! See? See what fire can do?

My mother snatches my arm up high: she holds the knot of my fist between us like a dog’s bone.

I didn’t do it, says Fran, in a burst of weeping, so that my mother bends her head over hers and rocks her, and all I can see is a mess of hair: they’ve got the same mud-brown hair.
I stand between Fran and the hearth like a fireguard.

I know you didn’t, love, says my mother, I know.

~  ~  ~

There are two cups on the bar, then three. Salvatore pours the coffee automatically, just for something to do, while Frankie ponders the news: he lifts the fresh cup to his
mouth, gulps at the coffee until he’s drained it. Frankie is acquainted with Pippo Seguna; he’s aware of all the businessmen in his part of town – especially if they’re
doing good trade. And Pippo Seguna is doing extremely good trade. So what if he didn’t get an invitation to Maria Seguna’s funeral? He went anyway. He took Mary and Celesta, and sent a
large wreath in the shape of a crucifix to the Seguna home. He recalls feeling uncomfortable at the way Pippo stared at the three of them; he recalls also shaking the man’s hand – it
was soft and damp, like pork fat. But until now he hasn’t dreamed that Pippo might have been looking at Celesta all the while. The knowledge gives him heartburn. Frankie puts a hand to his
chest as Salvatore talks, asks him to repeat it, asks him what sort of tone Pippo had, how did he look, how long did he stay, until Salvatore has told the story five times and has even begun to
invent a few details, he’s so bored with the telling. Frankie rubs at the burning itch in his breastbone: it’s a jealous pain.