The Hiding Place (16 page)

That’s enough, she cries, I’ve had e-bloody-nough! It’s done, Frank!

I concentrate on the trembling magpies and kingfishers until I hear the chair scrape back, footsteps, and finally Celesta above us, sobbing through the ceiling.

What he say now, says my father, breathless with rage, What Pippo say about her!

~  ~  ~

Pippo would say he loves her, even though she stood him up. He would say Fate brought them together. He would say her hair, like her love, will grow.

Pippo waited for Celesta. He stood outside the Seguna Bay with his watch sweating in his palm and felt the seconds, and the minutes, and the hours drip away. He thought about how Celesta might
at any moment turn the corner; he would look towards the far end of St Mary’s Street and then look back, his face ready to light up when she appeared. He practised it on strangers. Guests
arriving at the restaurant thought him overly proprietorial, opening the door for them as they went inside. They couldn’t know that Pippo was imagining how he would welcome Celesta this way,
smile, shake her hand, ease her coat from her shoulders and pass it nonchalantly to one of the waiters. He would lead her to the table he’d prepared in a private corner of the restaurant, and
Massimo would serenade them over Champagne. Pippo warned his staff to be on their best behaviour, but as he stood there in the soft night drizzle, he could sense their eyes staring at his back
through the plate-glass window, feel them grinning to each other as they flicked at the tables with their napkins.

While Pippo waited and worried and imagined, Celesta sat in the glow of Markus’s bar-fire, her knees pressed tightly together as his hand fed itself along the hem of her skirt. She pushed
it away: it crawled back. Away and back. All the while, his tongue trying to wedge itself between her clenched teeth, and Celesta slipping sideways along the couch. The bristles of the fabric
pressing into her shoulder; her boots sweating in the fire’s heat; Markus’s fingers zippering against her American Tan tights. The way his face looms close to hers – unfocused,
but the heat so familiar, she cannot stand it. At last, out of breath with her lipstick smeared all over her face, Celesta opens her mouth to him. Bites hard on his bottom lip. A taste of blood.
She flees.

~

Ten o’clock: Pippo decides there must be something wrong. Perhaps Celesta’s had an accident; perhaps her mother is sick again. It doesn’t occur to him –
because Frank Gauci has given his word – that Celesta might just not turn up. Making his way towards our house, Pippo catches sight of a young woman clinging to the ironworks at the town end
of Devil’s Bridge; he switches over to the opposite side of the road, but when he recognizes Celesta he crosses back again. She’s crying. She jumps when she first sees him, then her
shoulders sink and she turns her back. He can’t think of anything to say. He looks down at the puddle of rainwater near her feet.

Celesta, he whispers, thrilling at the sound of her name on his lips, It’s me, Pippo.

I know, she says, dismissive, We met at your wife’s funeral. Remember?

Celesta blows heavily into her handkerchief. She doesn’t want to look at him; after what Markus tried to do, she’d be happy not to look at another man in her whole
life. But staring at her boots simply reminds her. The tears come again. Pippo waits quietly at her side.

We should have met
tonight
, he says, when she’s composed herself, But perhaps your mother is unwell?

Celesta looks at him properly. He’s offering her an excuse.

She’s much better now, thank you.

Pippo smiles shyly at her, his face cast down so that Celesta sees his long eyelashes beneath his thick brows, and the wild sprig of hair standing proud of his head, the broad
shoulders of his rain-soaked suit glittering under the streetlight. He looks harmless. Celesta makes a decision.

Would you like to walk me home? she says, holding out her elbow to be taken.

~  ~  ~

Markus tries hard to make it up to her; he realizes raw meat is not the way to win Celesta’s heart, let alone any other part of her body. Over the next month there follows
a whole Christmas of gifts: a round tin with a cake inside; a small black velvet box—

An engagement ring? asks my shocked mother.

A locket with his hair in it, says a miserable Celesta.

—followed by a Monopoly-sized box of chocolates, some with silver wrappers on; a pair of Dior stockings; and, finally, a wreath.

Is he off his top? my mother cries. She has spent the last five minutes trying to convince Errol, our exhausted postman, that there hasn’t been a death in the family. Celesta studies the
wreath, flipping the card with an air of indifference.

‘From Your One and Only Markus’, my mother reads, over Celesta’s shoulder.

You’d better tell him about Pippo, my girl.

~

Pippo is also keen. He’s been Walking Out with Celesta, as Eva puts it, every night for two weeks now, always bringing her back to our door, where he bows and kisses her
hand but never imposes on her face. Sometimes he drives her into town to see a show, or out to the Valleys for supper. He’s even doing his own deliveries. Seguna’s Soft Drinks Wagon now
calls every weekday; Pippo parks right outside our door.

You must get through a lot of pop, says Alice Jackson archly.

Just be grateful you don’t have to walk so far for yours, snaps my mother, Or will I ask him to shift up the road again? She waits until the other women have bought their drinks before she
gets her order. These days, we get it all at a discount. We call him Pip the Pop, but not to his face, and never in front of Celesta – not now she’s had time to think it through. In her
dreams, Celesta would go to London, become a model, marry a rock star. Mick Jagger would be nice, but she’d settle for Peter Noon. Celesta knows these are not real choices. She can have
Markus with his creepy hands and his greasy parcels of bacon; or she can have big soft Pippo and all the fizz she can drink. It helps that Pippo has lots of money and a nice house. It helps that
he’s kind. But more than anything, it is my father who helps Celesta choose. She thinks about the thick sting of his rage, his hands on her, his breath hot on her hair. It happens as quickly
as blinking: she will have Pippo. Suddenly, Celesta is fiercely protective. Loyal as a wife.

Aw, Mam, look, she says, holding up the curtain at the front window, Look what he’s gone and done!

Pippo has discovered that Celesta likes Dandelion and Burdock best of all, so he’s had the side of the wagon repainted; a huge dripping heart with a motto inside:
All
Because Selesta Loves D&B!

He’s nothing if not original, says my mother.

Aye, says Eva, deadpan, He isn’t, is he?

He’s spelt it wrong! shouts Rose.

Aw, Love’im! says Celesta, determined to be smitten.

We’re supposed to be bridesmaids. Eva’s made our costumes – she’s very handy with a Singer – but there’s something wrong with the fit: you
could put another one of me inside my dress, but Luca has to be jemmied into hers. Every time she moves, her bodice creaks with the strain. The wedding’s tomorrow. Not much time to sort
things out.

Have you put on weight, love? Eva says, frowning at Luca.

I don’t think she has, Ee, says my mother, turning Luca round and yanking at the seams, Let’s measure again, shall we? Fetch us the sewing-box, Dol.

I put my lolly in my mouth so that I can lift the sewing-box off the sideboard. It’s been pushed to the back, it’s a bit of a stretch and before I can grasp it, the
box slides off and upends itself on the mat. Everything spills out. A troupe of buttons roll away like a
Come Dancing
formation team; the measuring tape yawns across the lino; a stack of
pins sits on the folded cutting from
True Crime
. I don’t want my mother to see it; she’s been much better since Celesta agreed to marry Pippo. She’s started cooking our
dinner again and not burning it, and she hardly ever stands on the back doorstep at night, singing that humming song. Rose says it’s because my father stays at home, so she doesn’t get
the chance. I think she means the chance to run away, but when I say this, Rose just gives me a look.

You are one stupid Crip, she says, She’s waiting for that Joe Medora to come back.

If my mother sees his picture, it might set her off again. I’m reaching over to hide it when she shouts at me,

Quick, Dol, find those buttons!

And hearing Luca creak, she yells:

Stay where you are, You! Don’t Bend!

I crawl under the table and inspect the floor. Balls of dust roll like tumbleweed in the draught of my breath. My mother lifts the
True Crime
article by the edges and
slips the stack of pins back into the sewing-box. She opens the page, folds it again, puts it away.

Any news? asks Eva, her eyes darting at the box. My mother shakes her head.

Not a thing, she sighs.

I can feel Luca listening in the silence. I will her not to ask anything, not to make a sound; it’ll only stop them.

You’d think they’d send a picture – or something!

How long is it now? asks Eva.

It was – when? My mother takes a deep breath in – December, 1960. Some Christmas that was!

Five years, says Eva, her eyebrows high on her forehead.

An’ five months, give or take. And nothing. Nothing! She could be dead.

There’s deep silence, except for the sound in Eva’s throat. Her lips pop open and shut.

You’ve seen
him
, though, she says, He’s been round here. My mother looks at her.

Has he? she says, so it sounds like a challenge, and then slyly, How d’you know that?

Eva waves a hand in the air.

Take no notice of me, Mary. It’s your business. Anyway, she says at last, Your Marina’s probably leading the life of Riley!

Like Next-Door Riley? asks Luca.

Never you mind, snaps my mother – then suddenly noticing me – Dolores! What are you doing with that lolly? You’ll be ruined!

She’ll be just fine, says Eva soothingly. She stretches the measuring tape along the length of Luca’s body, You’ll see, Mary, it’ll all be just fine!

~  ~  ~

Salvatore watches Frankie intently. Frankie the Manager is just like Frankie the Partner – bossy, extravagant, full of deals and schemes – except, these days,
Frankie doesn’t worry about profit.

It’s Joe’s Business, he laughs, when The Moonlight is empty and takings are low, Not
my
Business, habib!

Salvatore doesn’t join in at these times: it’s half
his
business, too. But he gave in when Frankie suggested they hold the Men’s Party at The Moonlight.
After all, they are old friends. As long as Joe didn’t find out; as long as Frankie paid for the drinks. But Frankie
never
wants to pay. He rinses out the empty Seguna’s drinks
bottles and lines them up on the counter.

Pippo gonna know, you know, Salvatore says.

Frankie takes the funnel and up-ends it into the neck of the first bottle.

Pass it, he says, nodding at the flagon of Low’s Soda, He won’t. It taste all the same, this.

Frankie fills each bottle in turn with the cheaper substitute, wiping them down with his tea-towel before wrapping it around his hand and screwing the caps up tight. When he
finishes the Soda, he starts on the Lemonade. He’ll do the same with the Pale Ale too. Frankie has to pay for the party tonight, and the wedding reception at the Seguna Bay tomorrow. So much
for having a tycoon in the family. Since the marriage has been agreed, discount has gradually stopped; now Pippo charges business rates for everything. Frankie shouldn’t care – he has a
steady income – but he’s also got a plan. Once a week, he follows Salvatore up the wooden stairs to the top room where he is paid his wage. The amount Frankie gets hasn’t altered
in five years, but it isn’t this that hurts him. Following Salvatore up the stairs! And then waiting outside until he’s called, as if he’s casual labour, a nobody. He
doesn’t understand what Salvatore, in his simplicity, does: that Frankie should be grateful to have this job at all. Frankie sees only the mean way Salvatore has of bending at the safe, his
arm crooked around the metal door like a child hiding a drawing. Over time, Salvatore relaxes his regime, and Frankie is able to notice other things: the sound of the top drawer opening before
Salvatore calls him in; the chime of a key; the way the wedge of bank notes inside the safe grows and vanishes; grows again, and vanishes. He makes a careful study of this cycle. This week, the
safe is full of money. Everything is in order. He looks at his friend Salvatore, and almost starts to feel sorry. But Salvatore, enjoying the sight of Frankie at work, shifts on to his other elbow,
and starts again:

I can tell, me, Salvatore boasts, If
I
can tell . . .

He lets his words hang in the air, shaking his head in mock warning. Frankie flashes him a hot look. Shut up, it says.

You finished making the food for tonight? asks Frankie, knowing this change of subject will give Salvatore something else to lament.

When Salvatore heard that the wedding was definite, he made a special trip to the Seguna Bay, declared to Pippo that he would be honoured to prepare the wedding lunch. Pippo refused him.

You are not family, Salvatore, he admonished when pressed, Frank may bring a dish to the restaurant if he would like. But my
chef
will cook the wedding lunch.

Salvatore’s cheeks burned scarlet.

Not family! he cursed under his breath,
Your
chef – he’s not family!

But Pippo simply smiled as he showed him to the door.

~

Now Salvatore is fired again by the insult.

It’s tradition, Frankie, he cries, You should have insist! The family of the bride make the food!

The Segunas make the profit, says Frankie slyly, lighting a cigarette. The smoke rises, then buckles as he waves his hand in the air. He leans across the row of sticky bottles. Confidential.

Habib, this man is not like us. He’s city Maltese – a ‘Business Man’, says Frankie, mocking Pippo’s clipped tone, He want us to
pay
.