The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  Copyright

  The Borough Press

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

  Copyright © Rosie Garland 2017

  Jacket illustration © Aitch/The Bridgeman Studio 2017

  Jacket design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

  Rosie Garland asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

  Source ISBN: 9780008166106

  Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008166120

  Version: 2017-04-05

  Dedication

  For Manchester

  and all the wanderers who have found a home

  in this Rainy City

  Epigraph

  All things must change to something new,

  to something strange.

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

  Kéramos

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Manchester: August 1894

  My night brother …

  Part One: Manchester 1897–1904

  Edie: 1897–1899

  Gnome: 1899

  Edie: 1900–1901

  Gnome: 1901

  Edie: 1901–1902

  Gnome: 1902

  Edie: 1902–4

  Gnome: 1904

  Part Two: Manchester 1909–1910

  Edie: March 1909

  Gnome: March 1909

  Edie: March 1909

  Gnome: March–June 1909

  Edie: June–September 1909

  Gnome: September 1909–January 1910

  Edie: January 1910

  Gnome: January 1910

  Abigail

  I am an …

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Rosie Garland

  About the Publisher

  MANCHESTER

  AUGUST 1894

  My night brother is here.

  Halfway between yesterday and tomorrow morning, he shakes my shoulder.

  ‘I’m asleep, Gnome,’ I grunt. ‘Go away.’

  I hug the blanket close. Sounds from the taproom steal through the floorboards: calls for mild and bitter, porter and stout; jokes and merriment to ease the day’s care and pour forgetfulness upon the toil to come. The tide of voices rolls back and forth and swells into shouting. This is brief and all contention settles into a rumbling burr, laced with the toffee scent of malt, breathed-out beer, wet coats and wetter dogs. A bedtime story that rocks me back to sleep.

  ‘“Boys and girls come out to play,”’ he sings. ‘Wake up.’

  ‘Don’t want to,’ I mumble.

  He claps his hands and I taste the tremble of his anticipation.

  ‘Have you forgotten what’s happening tonight?’ he cries. ‘It’s Belle Vue fireworks!’

  He yanks away the blanket and we begin our tug-of-war: me hanging on to one end, him the other. He wins. He always wins, for he bests me in strength as in everything else: bravery, brains, riot and loving kindness. The room swirls awake. One blink and I can make out the rectangle of the window. Two blinks, the door.

  ‘Shake a leg,’ he whispers.

  I sit up and it sets off a yawn so wide it could swallow the mattress. He presses my lips together, shutting me up as tight as the bubbles in a crate of ginger beer.

  ‘Don’t give me that. You’re not tired.’

  I am, but I save my breath. He always gets his own way.

  ‘We can’t go without asking Ma,’ I say.

  ‘She won’t miss us. What she doesn’t see won’t grieve her.’

  ‘But I’m not allowed out in the dark.’

  ‘I’ll get you back before it’s light.’

  ‘But she’ll see us come in.’

  ‘Then we’ll sneak through the window.’

  ‘But she’ll shout.’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But but but! You don’t half whine, Edie. We’re going and that’s that.’

  I yield to the press of his authority. For all my protestations I am thrilled. For two weeks I have been breathless with hoping Ma might take me to the firework show, the street having spoken of little else. Even Miss Pannett’s Sunday School voice brightened when she described last year’s extravaganza. Excitement tingles down my arms, into my legs. I leap from the bed.

  ‘Good,’ he grunts. ‘About time, silly girl.’

  He speaks fondly and I am not hurt by the words. Ma says there’s no money to squander on toys. I have Gnome. Better than a hundred dolls. Wherever I go he holds my hand. I watch him lay the bolster along the mattress and arrange the blanket on top of it.

  ‘It doesn’t look anything like me.’

  ‘Who cares? It’s not like Mam is going to come in and kiss you goodnight, is it?’

  ‘She might,’ I protest, voice as empty as my wishes. If Ma looks in at all, it is a swift open and shut of the door after she’s cleared the bar at closing time.

  ‘And I’m the king of …’ Gnome mutters, fastening me into a pair of britches. He snaps braces over my shoulders to stop them falling down, for they are far too big.

  ‘Why have I got to wear trousers?’ I ask. ‘I’m not a boy.’

  ‘Hush your racket. It’s easier to climb out of windows, and no one will remark upon— Oh, I haven’t got time to explain, you little goose. We must go.’

  He drags me towards the window.

  ‘Wait,’ I say.

  ‘No waiting.’

  ‘Wait!’ I grab a handful of marbles from under the pillow: each one a prize hoarded from the cracked throat of a lemonade bottle. I shove them into my pocket and hear the reassuring clink. ‘They’re lucky,’ I say.

  He sighs. ‘Are you ready? We must go. Now.’

  He rolls up the sash and hauls me on to the sill. I blink at the long climb down the drainpipe.

  ‘I’m afraid, Gnome.’

  ‘It’ll be worth it. Wait and see. Anyhow,’ he adds with a twist. ‘If there’s an ounce of trouble, it’ll be you that gets it in the neck. I’ll be long gone by the time Mam gets her hands on you.’

  A familiar feeling swirls in my chest, sick and uncomfortable. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Stop asking daft questions and get down this damned pipe.’

  I am silenced by the coarse word and obey. He shows me where to put my feet and fingers. My knees grind iron; rust stains my hands. We jump to the privy roof, which rattles beneath our feet, but holds steady. Then it’s only a short drop to the ground and we melt into the dark of the yard. Through the gate we scuttle, over the chipped cobbles of the back alley and on to the street.

  Gnome gallops ahead full tilt, wind lifting his curls, whooping lo
ud as Buffalo Bill and all his Indians. I tumble after, puffing and panting with the effort of keeping up. He laughs between my hurtling breaths.

  ‘You should come out and play more often, Edie,’ he teases. ‘It’ll build you up strong and healthy.’

  ‘I am going fast as I can, Gnome,’ I wheeze. ‘Ma says I should behave as befits a young lady.’

  ‘Mam says this, Mam says that. Mam says rot,’ he says dangerously, waiting for my shocked reaction. When it doesn’t come, he grins. ‘That’s more like it. Who cares what she thinks.’ He giggles. ‘I suppose you are doing well. For a girl.’

  I pinch his skinny ribs and he squeals with laughter. We leap puddles dark as porter, hopscotch from lamplit pool to lamplit pool of light, my hand in his and his in mine. The faster I run, the easier it becomes. I flap my arms, imagining them wings. I could run forever.

  Gnome sings the praises of Belle Vue. What a fairyland it is: more fantastical than any I could dream up in a month of Sundays. He spins stories of Maharajah the elephant, Consul the intelligent chimpanzee, the crocodiles with gnashing jaws, the pythons that can squeeze the life out of a man. I’d be frightened out of my wits if I were not so over the moon.

  We are not alone in our exhilaration. The closer we draw to our destination the busier the streets. Hyde Road is so thick with wagons and omnibuses that not one of them can advance more than an inch at a time. We weave through the throng, Gnome guiding us with his skilful feet and eyes.

  ‘We’re here,’ he announces at last.

  The entrance gate looms above our heads. Through its arch I spy an avenue lined with trees radiant with electric lights. It’s only as we stand there gawping that I remember there’s not so much as a halfpenny in my pocket. I grind the marbles and wish for a miracle.

  ‘Watch and learn,’ says Gnome and taps his nose.

  He saunters across the road and I have little option but to follow, dodging carts and charabancs. We head for a roadside stall selling tea and fried potatoes. He slaps his grubby palms upon the counter.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he chirps, and tugs the peak of his cap. ‘The chaps in the lion house have a fearsome thirst on them and have sent me to fetch their tea.’

  ‘Hah. Sharples again, is it?’ growls the stallholder, who is a veritable mountain of a man. ‘He’s a cheeky sod, sending a lad your age to do his work.’

  ‘I’m eight next birthday, sir!’ says Gnome, cheerfully.

  ‘Are you now?’ replies the man. He hefts an enormous steel teapot and pours steaming liquid into four mugs, each bigger than our milk jug at home. He thumps them on to a tin tray and shoves it across the counter. The mugs jiggle perilously. ‘Mind you don’t spill them!’

  ‘Not me, sir. Thank you, sir!’ Gnome cheeps.

  ‘Tell him he owes me sixpence!’ yells the tea-man as we carry the tray away.

  Gnome strides to the front of the line, chin up. I try to close my ears to the complaints of cheeky lad, there’s a queue here you know and hug his side, close as his shirt. At the turnstile, a fellow in a dark blue uniform plants his hand in front of Gnome’s face and we teeter to a halt.

  ‘Watch it!’ cries Gnome. ‘I almost spilled this tea!’

  The gatekeeper chews his moustache. ‘A shilling after five o’clock,’ he grunts.

  ‘And if I don’t get these to Mr Sharples at the lion enclosure in less than two minutes, he’ll take more than a shilling out of my arse,’ says Gnome, so loudly that the man behind us expels a cry of disgust.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaims the gent. ‘That’s hardly the sort of language ladies should hear.’ His wife and children cluster at his coat-tails, scowling.

  The ticket inspector raises his hat. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, sir! We offer our apologies that you have been so incommodicated. I do hope this won’t spoil your enjoyment of this evening’s entertainment.’

  The gentleman is already bustling his brood forwards.

  ‘Far more interested in getting a good view of the fireworks than any real argument,’ murmurs Gnome in my ear.

  The gatekeeper glares at us and jerks his thumb into the park. ‘Shift it, you little blighter. Now. And don’t think I won’t be having a word with Fred Ruddy Sharples about the class of lad he gets to do his fetching and carrying these days.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ cries Gnome smartly. ‘I’ll be sure and let him know!’ We click through the turnstile and melt into the crowd. As soon as we are out of sight, Gnome plonks the tray on to the ground and passes me one of the mugs. ‘Go on. Get that down you. It’ll warm your cockles.’

  The tea is strong, hot and deliciously sweet.

  ‘It’s the best thing I ever drank,’ I breathe.

  ‘That’s the ticket. Hits the very spot,’ says Gnome. He takes a slurp himself and lets out a satisfied belch.

  ‘You’re a marvel, Gnome,’ I say, in awe of my cunning brother. ‘I didn’t know a person could do anything half so sharp.’

  ‘Here’s the thing. If you act confidently, folk believe what they see and hear. Act nervous, like you don’t belong in a place, and you’ll stand out like a sore thumb.’

  I take a long draught of tea. ‘I wish I were a boy, Gnome. I’d be as smart as you. And I wouldn’t have to stay at home with Ma and Nana.’

  He shoots me a look. The light is not good, so it may be anger, it may be fear, it may be something else.

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense. You’re not dim, so don’t act it.’

  ‘I don’t mind being stupid. With you at my side, nothing can hurt me.’

  ‘You don’t know what’s around the corner,’ he sighs.

  ‘I do,’ I say. ‘You are.’

  ‘Oh, Edie,’ he says. ‘We can’t live this way forever.’ He lays a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. ‘We’re growing up. Jack and Jill have to come down the hill sooner or later.’ He heaves a sigh at my uncomprehending stare. ‘You don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, do you?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I don’t mean it nastily,’ he says, smiling again. ‘It’s just – ach. You’ll understand one day.’

  He drains his mug and shoves it under a bush, tray and all.

  ‘Shouldn’t we take them—’

  ‘Shush. We’ll collect them later,’ he says.

  I know he isn’t telling the truth. He doesn’t care for the cups now he has finished with them.

  Gnome drags me past the animal enclosures and their rank scent of dung, meat and straw. I hear the grumblings of beasts who’ll get no sleep tonight. It is hardly like night-time. Everywhere we walk, lights banish the dusk. At the Monkey House, he bows his legs and hobbles from side to side, scratching his armpits, funnelling his lips and hooting. At the elephant house he swings his arm like a trunk, and trumpets; at the bear pit he growls; at the kangaroo house he hops. I can’t catch my breath for laughing.

  ‘Who needs the zoo when you have me?’ he says.

  He pushes on and I scramble in his wake. If I lost him in this strange place it would be awful. I’d be lost forever.

  ‘Stop worrying, little sister. It’s not possible,’ he whispers, as though he has heard my thoughts.

  I don’t know how he can murmur in my ear and yet still be bounding ahead, but I’m far too excited to give it much thought. Besides, he is Gnome and he can do anything. He pauses at a confectioner’s stand, produces a penny from his conjurer’s store and buys a bag of cinder toffee. As we scoff it, we press on towards the Firework Lake.

  ‘There won’t be anywhere left to sit at this rate,’ he grunts between mouthfuls. ‘It’s your fault for being so slow out of bed.’

  ‘I can’t go any faster.’ I feel the tight clumping of tears in my chest.

  ‘Don’t cry! Not when we’re so close.’ His voice is so desperate that it swipes aside my plunge into self-pity. How funny he sounds. He is never usually so nice. ‘I’ve always been nice to you, you ungrateful little brute,’ he grumbles, although I can tell that he is relieved. ‘Now, please let us
hurry.’

  A wooden scaffold has been constructed on the dancing platform, high as the Town Hall if not higher. Gnome tugs me underneath, into a jungle of posts and cross-beams. He slips between them as nimbly as one of the apes he so recently imitated, starts to climb and I clamber after, up the ranks of seats until he is satisfied with our vantage point. We squeeze through the thicket of skirts and trousers.

  ‘I say!’ exclaims a chap as we struggle between the legs of his brown-and-yellow tweed britches. ‘Whatever are you doing down there!’

  Gnome tips his cap. ‘Bless you, sir!’ he cries. ‘Thought I was going to get squashed flat!’ I pause to curtsey my thanks but he drags me down the walkway. ‘He smelled of mothballs,’ he hisses, and I giggle.

  At the end of the bench are a spooning couple.

  Gnome smiles angelically. In his politest voice he says, ‘If you’d be so kind,’ and they shuffle aside. There’s only the tiniest squeeze of a space but we manage to fit somehow.

  ‘You’re getting fat. What’s Mam feeding you, bricks?’

  We laugh. No one ticks us off for making a noise. Indeed, we can hardly be heard over the commotion: shuffling of feet, rustling of petticoats, crunching of pork scratchings and gossiping about how grand the display was last time and how it can’t possibly be as good tonight. I’m so a-jangle I’m going to burst.

  ‘Stop wriggling,’ he snaps. ‘If you don’t calm down I’ll shove you under the bench and you’ll see nothing.’

  I am shocked into stone by the awful threat. My lip wobbles. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ he sighs. ‘I don’t mean it. Shush. The show is about to start.’

  Expectation ripples through the both of us. A trumpet blares and a hundred suns shine forth, illuminating a new world. There is a gasp from the entire company. Even Gnome lets out a whistle. Cries of wonder rumble in my ears: Huzzah! Bravo! Best ever! Heels stamp, so thunderous the planks shake. Before us stretches a strange city towering with castles, parapets and battlements. Not Manchester, but a fairyland better and brighter than any of the stories told by Nana when Ma spares her to sit with me.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I whisper. ‘Where are we?’ I shrink into Gnome and he laughs.