The Hiding Place Read Online Free Page A

the kitchen as the clamour
rises behind her.
    Wash your hands first, Celesta yells, slapping at Rose and Marina as they snatch at the bread. And again, Mam, tell them to wash their hands.
    Wash their hands, says my mother automatically. It’s getting very hot in this kitchen, what with the fire and the heat of my mother’s bad mood. She wedges the back door open with a
chair, sending a blurt of wind racing through the house. The flames in the fireplace swoon in the draught. A door slams upstairs.
    My mother mixes up a bowl of something grey for Luca, rapidly beating milk into powder. Her fury travels down the spoon and into Luca’s dinner. I am breast-fed: I get rage straight from
the source. My mother’s also angry with herself: she needs Carlotta to visit with one of Salvatore’s parcels; some corned-beef pie maybe, or a bit of roast chicken. Her words are thrown
to anyone who will catch them.
    Never thought I’d want to set eyes on her fat face again, she says, thinking of Carlotta as she forces Luca into her high-chair. Celesta laughs, thinks it’s a shocking thing to say
about your kid, even if it’s true.
    And where’s Fran? asks my mother, an afterthought.
    ~
    My father moves from the mirror to the sideboard, stops his breath as he pulls open the drawer. His eyes stay on the doorway, watching the shadows on the kitchen wall while his
hand slides over bills and chits and a soft bundle of knitting. All promises forgotten now, Frankie thinks only of the Race. His fingers trip along the stitches, the sharp point of the needle, and
down to the cool metal surface of the Biscuit Tin. Then his hand inside, and the unmistakeable greasy slip of money beneath his touch. Frankie feels the edges of the notes – not much, enough
– catches them up fast and folds them over, straight into his pocket. It takes five seconds. With his tongue hot on his lip, he pushes the drawer back into place, and starts up his whistling
again.
    Do you hear me, Frankie? Will you see Carlotta? My mother appears at the doorway with one hand on her hip, waving a spoon in the other.
    And where do you think you’re going? She has noticed his smart suit. And the hat.
    Frank?
    An accusation.
    Out, he says.
    ~  ~  ~
    There are eighteen cafes on Bute Street, and my father doesn’t own any of them. Not any more; not since me. My parents argue about whose fault it is. She blames him, he
blames me, and I can’t blame anyone yet. But I will. I’ll lay it all at Joe Medora’s door, when I’m ready.
    Except Joe Medora has so many doors. He owns nearly everything round here: two boarding-houses on the Terrace, and our home, of course; and four cafes on Bute Street – the latest being The
Moonlight.
    My mother has to pass the cafe every day. She’s got herself a job at the bakery next to the timber-yard. It’s a factory more than a bakery, churning out hundreds of thick white
loaves which my mother drags from the ovens with a long metal pallet. She does the nightshift, so whether she’s setting off for work or coming home at dawn, she can’t pass The Moonlight
without noticing that the lights are on and there are people inside. Sometimes, not often, she can smell cooking, and she gets a yearning for one of Salvatore’s almond tarts. She hears music
too, a lonely voice in the early hours; but mostly she hears the jangle of money rolling over and over in Joe Medora’s pocket. She spits a dry curse at the window as she passes.
    ~
    My father takes the same route now, cutting over the street, down the alley, and across The Square. Fran sees his shape approaching from around the broken fence, his head cocked
to one side in the sunshine, and she hides from him. For a second she wonders if he’s come to march her back home for dinner, but Fran senses that there’s something different about him
today. She sees how his hair catches the light, a slice of pure silver dancing on the black, and the hat in his hand beating lightly against