The Hiding Place by Trezza Azzopardi Page A

says. Because she dreams all the time of a rap on the door, of
Marina standing there when she opens it. Marina would be thirteen now, but in my mother’s mind, she’s still only eight, with that front tooth about to go and the buckle of her raincoat
belted a bit too far to the right.
    Frankie no longer thinks about Marina. He is fierce about the rest of us though: it keeps him awake at night. The change in the neighbourhood is inexplicable to him. It starts with a few
boarded-up houses, a friend waving goodbye from the back of an open-top lorry, and suddenly there are fistfights with contractors, lines of children lying on the ground in front of council trucks,
whole families watching as the wrecking-ball swings into their houses. Demolition changes everything: a gypsy encampment mushrooms on the open ground, and gangs of young men stalk the streets,
armed with broom-handles and lengths of chain. Frankie has heard them talking in The Bute, of ‘defending their women folk’, of ‘not having it from these Gyppos, these
Dagos’, and it frightens him.
    He notices new things: a dead puppy lying in the gutter outside our house, with its torn grave of sacking slumped against the wall; the Jackson boys staggering home with a fetter of lead between
them; a permanent film of orange grit on his shoes. Young women collect on the corner to sell salvage from the derelict homes – a dented lampshade, a grill-pan from an abandoned cooker,
cardboard boxes full of clothes. None of it belongs to them, and nobody wants to buy it. They stand there all day, shifting their weight from one leg to another, smoking cigarettes. At night these
same girls call out to Frankie in their flat, chilled voices;
    Wanna Play, Handsome? See anything you like? He passes them in a cautious arc – they are known to him. Despite the darkness and the heavy make-up, Frankie recognizes young Ann Jackson and
her friend Denise: they were at school with Celesta.
    It is this that makes Frankie set his mind on his eldest daughter. He will do what he can for her: the rest of us will have to wait.
    ~  ~  ~
    We Plough the Fields and Scatter, the Good Seed on the Land . . .
    Fran hears the voices rise and fall from inside the Main Hall: with the sun glinting on the long windows and the playground empty, it’s as though the building itself is singing. She stands
near the railings, mouthing under her breath,
    For it is Fed and War-aw-tered, By God Awmighty’s hand!
    She only likes the hymns. When Mr Rees’s voice booms out from the high windows of the Hall – You May Quietly Sit! – she turns away. Fran walks along The Arlies, listening to
the bright splash of water off brick, to the short and long of her footsteps clapping out beside her. Some of the railway arches are deep as tunnels; others are bricked-in, flush with the bridge
itself. Fran counts them, a family of steadily shrinking crescents, with one so small at the end, it might be a dog-kennel: she can see daylight through this. She ducks her head, crawls on her
belly through the moist blackness until she’s out the other side.
    Fran looks as if she’s heading for home, but she isn’t. She follows the canal path, crossing over the road at Patrick Street to avoid the Evanses’ shop; she mustn’t be
seen. She turns left into Opal Street, over the mound of orange earth and thick cord wire that marks the end of Emerald Place and the beginning of Jet Street – it’s due to be brought
down tomorrow. She stands on a pile of rubble and looks about. Seagulls pick over the upturned ground: there are no other witnesses.
    ~  ~  ~
    With the plates stacked in the sink and Billie on the gramophone, Salvatore can relax: the breakfast rush is over, and trade will be slow until midday. He picks up his coffee
cup, puts it on the polished table, and edges into the booth next to the counter. Salvatore thinks about nothing in particular: about the sunlight slicing in through the far window; about what