The Hiding Place (19 page)

I want to run away. I want my warm flat, my warm yellow kitchen again. This room looks so empty. In my head, it’s full of people, steamy with smoke and cooking smells and talk. Perhaps my
mother had a home help; or maybe the social services have been here and cleared up. I should go through the drawers before the others arrive, sort things out: if there’s something to be
found, I want to find it.

I’m sure it used to be sunny in this room: it
was
lighter in the mornings. I try to recall it, with the chill coming down and the darkness coming down – what it was like, the
day of the wedding.

Something wakes me and I can’t place it; a sound perhaps, a cry. It’s early yet, but I’m excited: I’ve never been a bridesmaid before. My mother is
still asleep and as I slide away from her, she turns herself round towards Luca. I creep downstairs. The air tells me that the back door is open, but there’s an odd smell drifting up, like
iron: a hot tangy heat. Such a wet smell.

The kitchen is full of sunshine, the back door slightly open; it’s like the outside has come in. The taps dazzle over the sink, and the sound is rushing water, spilling from the cold tap,
trapping threads of sunlight in its stream. I can hear birdsong and feel a warm breeze, and everything is Right and Summer, except for that smell.

From the last step of the stairs, I see it all: my father with his hand inside the rabbit. He’s pulling hard on the split fur, tearing the length of the body. The skin slides back on
itself. Underneath, the flesh is purple and shining like rubies.

When he sees it’s only me, he smiles.

Come and look, he says, as if he’s going to do a party trick, produce a coin from my ear, or a rabbit from this bloody skin,

See, the heart.

He glides his hand over the naked head, stops just below the neck. The chest throbs once, twice. The sun sparks on this wetness.

Look, he says, Fresh! I cook a special dish for the marriage! He peels the fur. It squeaks over the thighs, the hind legs. My father takes up his knife and hacks at the feet. He puts the
rabbit’s foot aside, turning it with a slick thumb.

For Good luck, he says, For Celesta.

You’ve got to eat
something
, Dol. There’ll be no food, mind, until after the church! My mother strokes my hair, but the feel of her hand sliding down my head makes me want to
be sick. The rabbit, naked, slippery. It looked like a newborn.

Excitement, I expec’, says Eva, Best not to force her. Hasn’t put
you
off though, has it, Petal? she says, watching Rose scoop up a forkful of food from Celesta’s
plate.

It’ll only go to waste, says Rose, spraying blobs of scrambled egg as she speaks.

Yeah, your waist, says Celesta. She scrapes her chair back with disgust, but that look could be nausea: her face echoes mine with its green, damp tinge. I wonder if it’s because she can
smell the dead rabbit smell. I haven’t told anyone what I saw this morning, not even my mother. She knows though – when Fran gets up from the table to go and feed the rabbit, my mother
stops her.

Come here, You, she says, holding her by the wrist, Let’s try this frock, shall we?

Fran’s grown so tall in the past six months, her old clothes don’t fit her any more. We’ve tried her with Rose’s, but they’re no good; they hang
from Fran’s narrow shoulders like sacking. Eva has donated a frilly yellow summer dress; puff-sleeves, full skirt, layers of petticoats underneath. I think it’s fabulous. Fran is having
none of it.

I’ll look like a banana, she says, pulling away.

I’ll give you banana, my girl, Now stand still!

My mother jerks her round, starts undoing Fran’s shirt.

I can go in my uniform! she cries as my mother lifts it, half-unbuttoned, up Fran’s body.

You bloody can’t!

Fran’s cuffs are still done up. My mother pulls the shirt over Fran’s head; her hair stands high with static, clings to the sides of her face. My mother is pulling
now on the sleeves and all I see is the rabbit with its skin folding back on itself. I’m sick again, quickly. It comes out like it hasn’t got anything to do with me; a river, a rainbow,
a blackness. The lino on my cheek is blue and very cool.

~  ~  ~

In his big draughty bathroom, Pippo is singing a medley.

I eat Antipasta twice just because she is so nice, Celesta Gauci!

slapping at the suds floating like islands on the surface of the water,

Buonasera, Signorina, Buonasera! It’s time to say goodnight to Napoli!

He scrubs his chest, rosy from the hot water, as he goes through his repertoire. Salvatore may not be the best cook in the world, thinks Pippo – not enough salt for
his
liking – but he has a very fine collection of gramophone records. He dips the flannel between his thighs, swirls it in the foam, slaps it up over his neck. The steam smokes off his
body.

He ponders the business of the drinks, remembering the stickiness of the bottle, the gummy feel of the label as he poured himself a soda. Shame, he thinks. As if he, Pippo Seguna, wouldn’t
notice the difference! Two-bit crooks!

Pippo frowns into his bathwater, recalling the embarrassment of Frank Gauci kissing all the guests.

Peasant! says Pippo, so loudly that his mother, spooning another egg onto Paolo’s plate, looks up in surprise. Then Pippo’s clipped English gives way entirely,

Ti Amo, Celesta! he shouts, Mia Regina!

Paolo pauses, looks enquiringly at his mother.

A queen, eh? he whispers across the table.

She throws her head back in a silent laugh.

~  ~  ~

Rose and Luca are congratulating me. This is unheard of. They’re sitting on either side of the bed, taking turns to wipe my face with the cloth. It smells of Domestos.
They talk like spies on a mission.

Well done, Dol, says Rose, Good tactic!

First rate! shouts Luca into my ear, The commander would be proud of you!

Apparently, I fainted, which prevented my mother from seeing Fran’s tattoos. This is a good thing, or as Rose says in her strangled voice,

Top Hole, DSG! Sterling work!

I don’t want to faint again, if that’s what she means. It was like being turned inside out – which I must not think about. I do what my mother does when she
wants to avoid things: I start to hum. Eva appears in the bedroom doorway with Fran behind her. She takes her hand and pulls her into view. Fran is wearing Eva’s yellow dress with a white
cardigan over the top. It’s one of Celesta’s, silky, with a pattern of tiny roses round the neck.

We know everything, Eva says, looking at all of us, Don’t we, Fran?

Fran nods, glum.

And we’re not going to say a word to
anyone
until afterwards. Especially not your mother. Right?

We all nod. I’m feeling much better now I think that Fran knows about the rabbit, and Eva about the tattoos. Soon there will be no more secrets.

~  ~  ~

Pippo stands at the altar. He turns his head left and right, raises his hand half-heartedly when he spots a familiar face. A bee knocks against the swathe of flowers before him;
he sees a sharpness of gold; a prism of stained glass purling across the marble floor. Behind him, people cough and whisper. Someone blows into their handkerchief. Pippo looks round again, catches
Salvatore wiping his face. Paolo closes one eye and grins.

Your hat, whispers Pippo from the corner of his mouth. Paolo snatches his hat off and runs a bony hand across his thinning hair, tilting his head a little to the right.

Mary takes her place just in time to see this gesture. For a moment, she thinks she recognizes him. She forgets to genuflect, looking across at Pippo’s side of the church to see if anyone
has noticed. Mrs Seguna smiles grimly at her from under her black mantilla.

Fuck it, says Mary under her breath, almost sliding out of the pew and starting all over again. But the organ staggers like a bagpipe, searching the air for a tune, and Celesta wanders ghostly
up the aisle.

Bride and Groom.
Pippo with his cow’s lick of hair on end, Celesta with a flower tipping gently out of hers, so that her hands are caught in mid-air, trying to fix
it. Eva calls this picture ‘I surrender’.

Immediate Family.
Mary and Frankie, Celesta and Pippo, Mrs Seguna and Paolo in a straight line. Salvatore is just behind them, edging his broad face into the frame. They
are all squinting. The grass at Celesta’s feet holds the shadow of the photographer; it falls long and thin and black.

Bridesmaids.
Luca has one hand clawed at the neck of her dress – it’s the only way she can breathe – and the other one pinching my arm, so I’m not
smiling. My mouth looks like a hole’s been jabbed through the picture. Fran stands, arms folded, with Rose bent double in front of her: she’s doing her impersonation of Quasimodo. You
can’t hear the bells in this picture, but they’re ringing.

The Best Man Kisses the Bride.
Paolo with his hat back on, the brim tipped forward to keep the sun out of his eyes. Behind him, in a far corner of the churchyard, another
man is handing something to Frankie. They’re frozen in laughter, arms out cuffing each other like a boxing still.

The Rings.
Mary doesn’t see this one until it’s too late. Frankie stands between Celesta and Pippo, holding their hands together in the cup of his palm.
Celesta’s ring is heavy and yellow; Pippo’s is plain, a thin hoop belonging to his father. He knows the feel of it. And Frankie’s ring – a noose of gold with its ruby knot
at the centre – is back on the little finger of his left hand.

~  ~  ~

Salvatore sits at the far end of the table with Carlotta to his right, Rose to his left. Then there’s Luca and Fran, and opposite them, two boys I don’t know.
I’m at the other end between Eva and Martineau. It’s all wrong, this formation, and Carlotta gets more and more furious as Eva rearranges the place settings.

I promised Mary I’d help Dol cut the meat, Eva shouts down the table, You can’t expect her to manage on her lonesome!

She pushes me back down into the seat opposite Salvatore. He gurns at me, smiles widely, puts his thumbs up in the air and waggles them. Carlotta thumps him on the shoulder.

Basta! she cries, so loudly that the two strange boys stop kicking each other and look at her. They spend most of the time lifting the thick white tablecloth and peering underneath. You’d
think they’d never sat at a table before.

Salvatore has a gesture for everything. The first course arrives – a pink fan of king prawns covered in orange cream – and Salvatore picks one up, dangles it over his plate, frowns
and shakes his head. He holds a conversation with it, bending his ear so that it’s nearly touching the prawn’s big black eye.

Pardon? he says, What you say?

I can’t touch the prawns: you have to break the skin off and I won’t, I won’t remove the skin from anything ever again. Eva waits until Martineau’s
finished his and then offers up mine for him to eat. She cracks open the casing on each one, holding them out to him as if she’s feeding a dog. I think she’s glad Mr Amil wasn’t
invited.

There’s a shout from the kitchen and my father appears, carrying a big metal pot. I know what this is. My heart starts to bang. He leans over my shoulder, spooning some of the stew into my
bowl; globs of oil float like blisters on the surface; chunks of dark flesh cling to the stems of yellow bone. I shoot a warning look at Fran, but she’s already tearing the meat, holding it
dripping to her mouth as her eyes meet mine. I touch the shiny head of a half-submerged potato with the tip of my fork. It slides away from me, sinking beneath the dark red sauce, and I sink after
it.

~

You missed the sweet, Dol, says Celesta. There are two of her; she sharpens into focus, falls together. I’m lying on a sofa behind a big curtain. I don’t know where I am. My
mother’s holding my hand.

Did you save her some, Cel? she asks.

Yeah, no worries! God it’s hot, she says, fanning her fingers in front of her eyes, No wonder she’s out for the count!

She leans over me, rustling like a crisp bag. Celesta is completely transformed. Her white wedding dress is covered in a scatter of green and brown squares. She looks like a
chrysalis; the wing of veil around her head, her red face sweating. As if she’s squeezing herself through an old, cracked membrane.

What’s them? I say, lifting my head from my mother’s lap.

Money! says Celesta, her eyes going wide.

I look closely; the squares are ten shilling notes, one pound notes, five pound notes, pinned to the fabric of her dress. My mother removes a sheaf of them with expert
plucking.

Mam! What you doing?

Got to make room for more, she says happily, rolling the notes up tight in her fist, Go on and have a dance, love. I’m taking Dol out by the river – get some fresh air inside
her.

You can take this an’ all then, says Celesta, her mouth going into a moue. She holds up a bandaged lump of fur, unties it from a drawstring around her waist. It’s the rabbit’s
foot. My mother inspects it.

What d’you reckon, Cel, she says, twirling it in front of her, Old, New, Borrowed or Blue?

Smelly, I’d say.

An’ dead, counters my mother.

They cackle like a pair of witches.

Aye, alright then, says my mother, I don’t expect you’ll need it. But don’t let on to your father, mind!

I won’t tell Paw, says Celesta, sending them both into shrieks of laughter.

My mother undoes the clasp on her handbag and slips the rabbit’s foot inside. I can sense it sitting in the dark at the bottom of her bag, its soft fur flattening as it
nestles against her lipstick, her powder compact, her comb. Rubbing its smell all over.

~

Salvatore is not a drinking man – Advocaat, sometimes, when the sadness comes, or a small glass of beer on holidays – but the food was so salty, and the Champagne so
light, he’s soon quite drunk. He sits on the edge of the stage and watches as the bride and groom do another circuit of the hall, shaking hands and kissing guests. A small boy in a suit races
up to Celesta; she bends down for him to pin the money to her veil. Salvatore looks about for Carlotta – they should give something, and she has the purse – then he catches sight of her
through the crowd of dancers. She’s watching Eva demonstrating the Twist. Eva leans her body forward at an angle, and Salvatore admires the way her waist is nipped in tight, the swing of her
golden sandals in her hand, her red toes inching across the wooden floor. Eva’s so neat, she could dance in a shoebox, but every part of Carlotta is fluid, like water in a bubble: she goes
all to jelly when she Twists. Salvatore likes this too.