The Hiding Place Read Online Free PDF Page A

sun has gone, whipped away by the sharp wind, and in its place, a bolt of cloud. It scuds over the top of the wall at the end of the
street, smearing the last of the blue sky with a hard metallic grey. Rose cradles two of Celesta’s tennis balls in the crook of her elbow, dawdles behind the train of pram, Celesta, Marina.
She pauses at the corner, watches her sisters cut sideways down the alley, waits, then turns to the wall next to Number 9.
    Rose throws hard, first one ball, then the other: she catches the first but not the second, which angles off the brick, rebounds against the door of Number 4, and finally deflects with a clud
off the window of Number 1. Home of the Jacksons. It rolls in silence along the pavement and drops into the gutter. Rose stands waiting with her fist wrapped around the other ball and her legs set
to run. She runs.
    ~  ~  ~
    Len the Bookie sits in the cafe with his back to the window: he needn’t bother, no one can see in since the glass got smashed six months ago. The proprietor has mended it
with a rough square of hardboard. He’s written a notice on the side which faces the street:
    M IKEY ’ S B AR
    Open Late For Tea’s Coffee’s Reffershment
    Len’s refreshment, depending on who asks, is a lemonade soda. Mikey has tipped in a thimbleful of something which is supposed to be whisky. The tall beaker sits on the
table in front of him, pale yellow, lethal, a tart froth breaking slowly on the surface. Len leans slightly to one side now to avoid the wind pushing in around the shifting board at the window. He
hears a sudden burst of rain, like horses’ hooves, sputter at his back. He reaches inside his pocket for his notebook.
    Len is not a noticeable man. He’s small and thin as paper, his smooth brown head fringed with remnants of hair. He rests his notebook in his lap: a row of carefully pencilled lines dissect
each page; a series of tiny numbers crawl in steady formation from the tip of his pencil. As he writes, his free hand scratches absently at the bristles on his cheek. He has only two remaining
digits on this hand; forefinger and middle finger. He managed to save his thumb. He used to gamble himself, but now he’s found a safer occupation.
    Never Bet with the Syndicate, my Friend, is his only piece of advice. He gives it with a wave of his carved fist.
    The door of the cafe bangs open and shut.
    Hoy! Lenny! says my father, pinching up the fabric of his trousers as he bends to sit with the man.
    Frankie, says Len. Long time no see.
    ~  ~  ~
    My mother stands on the front doorstep with the Tin in her hands and the lid hanging open like a shout. Martineau is collecting today. Mary shows him that there is no rent to be
had this week. They both stare into the shiny inner; Martineau with his heavy lashes cast down like an apology; my mother’s reflection distorted into a cold silver fury. My mother wishes
Frankie dead. It’s not just rent money: it’s bills and housekeeping and family allowance; it’s debt money; it’s her wages. It’s everything.
    Martineau, soft, holds out his big hands and tries to take it from her, but my mother throws it. It hits the pavement with the sound of an oil-drum being slapped.
    Let’s go inside, Mary, he says, We’ll talk about it. Maybe Joe can wait a week, uh?
    He’ll have to, won’t he? You go and tell him. Tell him to take a running jump.
    ~
    The wind breathes through the swinging back door, circuits the kitchen. One rush of air is all it takes for the single coal to tip out from the fire, falling to rest on the
frayed edge of the runner. It settles: lets out a wisp of smoke, a lick of curling light around the coal, and then a sudden sweep of gorgeous blue. Like the crooked eye of Fran’s marble, the
flame twists in the draught.
    And this same wind moves on to the living room, escapes past my mother at the front of the house, and blows the door shut behind her. She sways on the step, surprised to feel the wood so solid
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