The hiding place, p.24
The Hiding Place, page 24
~
Something is wrong with Martineau’s story. He stares down at his drink, mouth open, trying to find his way back into the tale. He rehearses the words silently over his lips.
It was a miracle to find you – he points his finger at me – Don’t forget this. It was lucky.
He stretches his hand out flat on the counter, showing me the lifeline, and another, parallel track, across the palm. Two lifelines.
Lucky for you? I ask, unconvinced by this display. But he hasn’t finished his story. He’s telling me this so that I’ll store it up for later. For when I’ve heard the rest.
~
He puts the biscuit tin on the counter; the spotlight in the ceiling turns the metal into silver. Frankie’s hat sits left of the bar, so Martineau knows he’s up there with Joe. He checks the money he has collected, sorting out the notes and coins and jewellery and making a careful tally, and all the while his hands are shaking. He’s working out a way to tell Frankie about the fire. Already, he’s considering the possibilities; Ilya did it for spite, or Joe did it, someone else he doesn’t know – or no one else. Martineau does not feel sorry for Frankie. After seeing what Mary has to do, he would like to kill him. He pours himself a drink, drains the glass, pours another. He notices that the cuffs of his shirt are a good two inches shy of his wrists, and that they are grimed with soot; the hairs here are singed into little black stubs. Martineau is reminded of the woman’s coat – what was her name? Eva! – and how he had been tempted to touch it. Turning his palm over at the memory, he finds the gash, swollen and specked with grit. He licks a brandy tongue along the wound.
He will have to wait a whole month before Eva contacts him.
~
They’ve gone doolally over at that house, she says, Someone should be checking on them.
She sits in the booth, drains her second glass of rum, pulls the hem of her skirt over her knees. It rides up just the same whenever she leans towards him. He can smell her perfume and he loves it. His lack of words invite her near. Come closer in, the silence says.
You’re a family friend, aren’t you?
Martineau doesn’t answer. He feels as though he is. He lowers his voice so that he won’t be overheard,
Salvatore’s wife goes over, he says, She looks after them.
That Carlotta? Another fruitcake, Eva says, They’ll lose those kids if they’re not careful. The state of the place!
She won’t stay for another drink, but as she gets up to leave, Eva turns and touches his arm.
See you soon, she says.
Martineau will pay the Gaucis a visit.
~
The state of the place. No one answers when he knocks, so Martineau slips round the corner and in through the busted back door. The yard is strewn with pieces of timber; some new and pale, others charred black. He sees the long handsaw resting on a makeshift bench, a nest of gleaming nails in a crush of paper. The last time he was here, it was Mary standing there, holding her baby and howling at the sky. Now it’s Frankie, his shirt off, his body sweating in the cold air. He is building a cage.
What’s it for? Martineau asks.
For rabbits, says Frankie.
It’s big, says Martineau, trying to draw him out.
For rabbits, insists Frankie.
He wanders up and down the track of mud, picking over the scorched scraps and talking rapidly in his own language. Martineau knows Maltese, but not this ribbon of words from deep in Frankie’s throat. He watches as the other man nails one strip of timber on top of the other. There is no method, despite the appearance of busyness. Frankie’s knuckles are split with hammering. A skeleton is taking shape: on the front of the cage Frankie has positioned an oblong doorframe, the hole covered with a grille of wire. The edges sit proud of the roof, sharp as spears. Frankie bends them flat with the heel of his hand.
How is Mary? asks Martineau, How is the baby?
Frankie purses his lips. The mess of dialect spills out of him,
Il demone, Martineau. Sinistra. Sinistra. La Diavola.
Inside the house, Martineau finds Rose and Fran and Luca still in their nightclothes. They sit one behind the other on the stairs, like sentries. Luca is on the lowest step. She cuddles her knees and blinks up at him.
You can’t come in, says Rose, her voice like water, It’s cursed.
Fear ripples off them like a heat haze. Fran starts to wail,
We can’t let anyone in, Mister, she says, We’re cursed, we are. We got a hex!
~
There is a pause into which Martineau sighs deeply. This is not a story about a fire.
This here, he says, trying to explain, Your skin here— He puts his open palm an inch from my face, as if to cover it,
Was blown up – full of water. Martineau lifts his glass; a perfect ring of moisture trembles on the counter. He puts his finger on it, opens the circle and drags a smear of liquid in a line towards me. As if he is drawing a map.
The eye closed, and the hair all burnt.
Louis is looking at me. He doesn’t like the telling either now, but we’re both stuck here in The Moonlight, in Martineau’s story.
But you could see that it would heal, it would get better, he says. But this—
He pauses; he can only show me the rest. Martineau pulls his arm up crookedly, bending his hand into his breast. Just like Rose did yesterday morning.
Held like this you see,
The fingers upturned, bent into a claw, his body coiling into itself. It looks like something withering in a blaze. A desperate act of protection.
This is how you were. Frankie thought – Martineau spreads his hand like an offering – A devil had come into his house.
He drains his glass and places it carefully back on the bar. The light on him is opal.
They were afraid, he says.
Then I know.
Afraid of me.
He was a superstitious man, Dolores. He was a stupid man.
~
The telling is finished. I want to ask him more, but there’s a thickness on my tongue, dirt in my mouth. I reach for my glass but it’s empty. I don’t remember drinking it. Louis shifts abruptly off the stool.
Sorry, Mr Tino, we’ve got to get back. We’d better, Dol, he says, avoiding my look, They’ll be missing us.
Martineau follows us through the bar. At the door, he bends his head so that it touches mine.
I’m sorry, he says, gripping me tight and then letting me go.
~ ~ ~
Louis walks with me to the inner harbour. He hugs his body as if he’s cold, but it’s warmer outside than it was in The Moonlight. A sticky breeze frets the surface of the water. He presses a knuckle to the side of his face, chewing agitatedly on his cheek.
He’s upset you, Aunty Dol. Sorry.
He is creased with hurt.
He’s just telling a tale, Louis, I say, Forget it. There are worse things.
We look out over the bay. The Bute East Dock is beautiful, a wash of wide sky split in two by a line of yellow stone. In the distance, the harbour lights glow on. They look like a series of suns. A bird swings across the sky.
I’ll make it up to you, Aunty Dol, he says.
No more searching, Louis. Let’s go home.
He nods in agreement, but there is a look about him: secretive, sly.
Sure, he says, I’ve got some stuff to do first, like. Something I needs to check. I’ll catch you back at the house, okay? He moves quickly, as if he can’t wait to be away from here; perhaps he is more like his mother than he knows.
nineteen
Celesta lets out a cry of dismay.
Where did you go? We’ve been waiting! – she looks over my shoulder into the street – And where the hell is Louis?
I’ve been down the docks. And I’ve seen Martineau— She silences me. She holds her hand like a knife between us. Chops air. Celesta won’t let me pass through the door until she’s said her piece.
I’ve told you, Dolores, I won’t have it. You think you can dig up whatever you like and just swan off again – but we’ve got to live here.
Just when I think her warning is ended, she grabs the sleeve of my coat and pulls me back into the living room. Her teeth are clenched; she would like to take a bite out of me.
I’m serious, she says finally, I Don’t Do Memory Lane. Okay?
Then she turns away, smiles a white, dead-eyed, practised smile. The oldest sister. Perfect hostess.
At last, she says to the packed room, The wanderer returns!
~
An airless kitchen. Luca has positioned herself near the sink where Eva always used to stand, and she makes the same action – knocking her cigarette ash down the plughole with an absent flick of the wrist. She keeps her black scarf wrapped tight around her head, the sunglasses perched above her brow like a second pair of eyes. Close up, Luca looks tired. She has no eyelashes; the rims of her lids are scorched and flaky, her eyebrows painted in two careful brown strokes. She has sealed her lips with a deep red pencil line, as if to stop her thoughts from leaking. This family is good at make-up.
She’s laughing loud as I come through the doorway.
You used to loathe the poor thing, she’s saying to Rose – You torturer!
so for a moment I think they’re talking about me,
I was not! protests Rose, That Jacksons’ dog was a bloody nuisance. Smelly article, always howling. I like animals, me. Ask Parsnip!
Rose’s dog has positioned his head between Jumbo’s knees; every time he pushes it away, the dog slides it back. Jumbo stares into his teacup looking hot and uncomfortable. The dog, hearing his name at such volume, slinks under the table.
I’m taking it all in; the suffocating body heat; a vague smell of nervous sweat; the windows glazed with condensation. There’s not enough space for anyone else. Rose and Luca, Celesta and Jumbo. And now me. We are too many for this room. I watch them talking, their mouths opening and shutting; Rose laughing, Luca bending to whisper in her ear, Celesta’s eyes narrowed in a permanent, unspoken rage. She’s rapping the tabletop with her long pink fingernails; drumming for Louis.
My mother had to face us, every day, in this room. I try to imagine the five, then six of us to feed, clothe, take care of. Waiting for Frankie to come back, writing her lists and notes and begging letters for something on tick. I’m good at listing too; I’m putting things in order.
Well, we are, aren’t we, Dol?
What? I say, filtering back.
A bunch of heathens, continues Rose.
Celesta is acid,
Speak for yourself.
She pulls the tea-towel off a plate of sandwiches, sniffs dubiously at them before offering one to me,
Poor Mrs Riley! And as for Father Tomelty . . .
It’s Mrs Riley’s red tea-towel. I could say something. I take a sandwich: it’s so thickly buttered, the two triangles of bread slide between my fingers, exposing the smeared ham. When I think no one is looking, I feed it to the dog. Celesta loops the tea-towel over the back of Jumbo’s chair.
Next-Door Rileys, says Rose, D’you remember, Lu?
She takes up a pose, a look of deep concentration, and her voice booms in a perfect impersonation, ‘Della! Where’s the bloody Echo?’ Jumbo looks at her quizzically.
They used it to wipe their bums. Don’t look at me like that – we all did! Even Mrs Airs and Graces over there, Rose says, nodding at Celesta. Celesta lifts a sandwich and takes a tiny bite out of the corner.
If you can manage not to be so crude while we’re eating, Rose.
Too late to mention the tea-towel now.
They used to cut the paper into squares, I say, avoiding Celesta’s grim face. Everyone looks at me. Rose’s mouth falls open with surprise.
How d’you know that? she asks.
Mam used to jump over the fence and steal it from the outhouse. Said it would be good for the rabbit hutch. Warmer.
Silence. I don’t know where I found this memory. Celesta inspects her sandwich, Luca lights another cigarette. Rose lifts the bottle of whisky and unscrews the cap.
Where did I see those glasses, Dol? she says, looking about her.
They’re in the cupboard under the stairs. I ease myself into the gap between the boxes and the bin-bags, stretching across to the narrow shelf and the assortment of dusty glasses. I call out to Rose.
Hang on a sec, I’ll pass them out.
In the corner, the meter blinks its eye. It used to be a dial; the red edge whizzing round at speed, or slow, slow, when the house was dark and quiet. The red edge of the tea-towel as Mrs Riley showed me how she laid my mother out; Eva’s tongue as she licks the cream; the sliver of a ruby. Another deeper red, like bloody pearls dropping into my hand. I’m putting things in order.
~
Standing in front of the cupboard door, my mother calls up the stairs.
Rose? Fran? Then quietly to someone else, They’re not back from school.
She must have forgotten our game. We were playing hide and seek. I’m here, in the cupboard under the stairs.
I’ll count up to a hundred, Dol, you go and hide!
and she kissed my head and turned her back. I heard my mother moving past the cupboard and into the living room, then nothing. That was ages ago. I watched the dial on the meter, waiting for the red edge to return. I counted the numbers as far as I knew, and invented the rest.
Eleventy, twelvty, thirteenty, a hundred!
I thought she would come and find me.
Now she snaps on the lights, and the red edge starts to spin. I’m going to call out, but there’s a man’s voice. His words are all soft at the edges, as if they’re melting. My father has this same tone when he’s shaving or he’s had a win. But it’s not my father.
Come to me, the man says.
Frankie’ll be back in a minute, says my mother. Her voice is tight.
He laughs at this. I try to see through the crack, but there’s only a bit of my mother’s coat. Cold air tickles the corner of my eye. They’re standing very close and she sighs, a sharp upwards sound like when she pricks her finger. He makes a buried noise, leaning his weight against the cupboard so it goes very dark. He whispers something I can’t understand and laughs again.
Over here, she says, moving him away.
They stop talking for a long time. Then the swishing sighing noise. She mustn’t find me now. When my mother speaks, she’s almost singing.
Will you let me see her? she says softly, Will you?
Running water. Something being moved on the table.
Any time. Any time you like.
You promised, she says.
Yes – we can leave whenever you like.
I can’t.
An argument is starting with this man. Footsteps across the lino, the back door latch.
It’s up to you, he says, It’s easy.
My mother shouts at the darkness, so loudly that the whole street will know,
I can’t! You know I can’t!
It’s cold and quiet. The red edge of the dial comes and goes. I don’t think she’ll ever find me. I unbend my legs and crawl out, and the room is stinging bright, full of her perfume and another smell I don’t know. On the kitchen table is the Toby Jug with two five pound notes curling under it. My mother is in the yard with her hands over her face. It’s as if she’s still counting. I slip past, creep up the stairs; she’ll know where to find me up there.
~
Come out, Dol, let me get them, Rose says quietly from behind.
I can manage.
She puts the glasses on the table: a Babycham glass with a chip in the rim, three dusty tumblers, a schooner sticky with grease. Celesta lifts it up to the light,
Ugh. Needs a wash, she says.
It’s alright this, says Rose, flicking it with her fingernail, Crystal. I’ll have this.
Celesta lets out a gasp of disgust.
You could at least wait until she’s cold.
She’s always been cold, says Rose.
My mother sitting pressed against the hearth with a tissue up her sleeve and her face pink with weeping. This isn’t what Rose means. There’s a shift in everyone’s breathing; time begins to open.
Not cold to you, of course, she continues, Her precious! They wanted you.
Don’t start.
Made sure you were alright, didn’t they? – Rose’s voice is rising – What about us? What about Fran? Celesta stands up.
C’mon, Jumbo, we’re going.
Not nice, says Rose, swilling the sherry glass under the tap, A bit upsetting for you, is it?
Luca puts her hand on Celesta’s shoulder.
Sit down, she says, placating, We could all do with a drink.
You didn’t see, says Rose, turning on us, You didn’t see what he did!
And then a voice.
I saw.
It belongs to me. I am severed in two: here in the kitchen, and there at the end of the garden, watching. It looks like a puppet show; Punch battering Judy to the ground. A quick glance passes between Rose and Luca; a small adjustment, a reckoning. Celesta sits down again.
And I know by their faces they will not yield to this. The moment when it can all be said is pulling away. Years pile up in front of me: the sign on the door saying KEEP OUT. THIS MEANS YOU! and the times when they did things, played games in the street, and went to school together, and I was never allowed to share it. They have never let me in.
Go upstairs now, Dol, and do your puzzle.
To keep me out of my father’s way. It races through my blood, feeling again the soft dusk falling in The Moonlight and Martineau speaking low: they were afraid.
They still are.
Celesta begins to fuss with the glasses, moving Rose aside and rinsing them one by one. She places them on the drainer.
Where’s that Louis? she says in an embarrassed voice, He’s a bugger, he is!
Jumbo reaches into his pocket and pulls out his fob-watch, as if looking at it will make his brother come faster. His round eyes blink slowly at the time.
Nearly half-past four, he says, sounding surprised. Celesta takes this as her cue,
We’ll have one drink and then we’ll be off, she warns, Louis or no Louis.
