The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  ‘Uncle.’ I press my ear to the slow thump of his heart. ‘Don’t go,’ I say, whispering the disloyal words. ‘I wish you were my pa.’

  If he hears, he shows no sign. The weight of his hand alights on the crown of my head and warmth seeps into my scalp, as though a night-cap has been laid there. ‘Shush now, my pet,’ he purrs.

  Very gently, unnoticeably to begin with, he rocks backwards and forwards, cradling me in the safe sweep of his arm. It is a feather-light embrace, more precious than all the shillings in the till on a Saturday night. I steel myself not to cry. I am a grown-up girl. Besides, if I begin, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.

  ‘Don’t worry, Uncle,’ I breathe, and manage to make the words sound level. ‘I’m happy.’

  It is not a lie. I am happy when he is in the house.

  ‘I love you too, Edie,’ he replies. ‘Don’t you forget it.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Be brave. Chin up.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  The room sweetens with the scent of baking pastry. He drifts into sleep, head tipped back, mouth agape. I devour him with my eyes, as though by some trick of memory I can gorge myself on this moment and keep it forever; as though, by sheer force of childish possessiveness, I can hold him here.

  Perhaps it is guilt at wanting him to stay that makes me do it. Perhaps it is curiosity. Perhaps I want to plumb the mystery of Ma’s monthly troubles and discover what transforms her into a hermit. Perhaps Ma’s sobriety is a lie and she spends three days as a dancer in a high-kicking line of women with frothy petticoats. Perhaps it is something for which I have no word.

  I slip from my uncle’s lap. He does not stir. His breath wheezes in and out, halfway to a snore. I pour a cup of tea and stir in an extra spoonful of sugar. Nana is always praising its powers. By taking a cup to my slumbering mother I shall prove I care for her.

  I tiptoe up the stairs with such a pounding of the heart, I think it will pop out of my mouth. The cup shivers on its saucer in a sympathetic rhythm. I pause at the stairhead. Ma’s door presents a blank face. I try the handle and nothing happens. I am surprised by how relieved I feel. I can slink downstairs, climb back on to my uncle’s knee and chide myself for disobedience. He can drink the tea.

  But the catch is merely stiff. I twist it fully and the chamber releases with a clank. The door swings open, hinges shrieking. The curtains block out the sunlight but I can make out the mound of Ma’s body upon the bed, bundled up beneath the quilt. The noise is sure to have woken her. She does not move.

  ‘Ma?’ I whisper. ‘Here’s a lovely cup of tea.’ I hold my offering at arm’s length as if its perfume might steal into her nostrils and tempt her awake. ‘It’s nice and hot. Just as you like it.’

  Nothing. My hand trembles. The china clinks.

  ‘Ma?’ I say, louder.

  Outside, the rag and bone man yells rag a’ bo’aah! loud enough to rouse a bear from hibernation. Ma does not budge.

  ‘Ma!’ I cry.

  I run to her bedside. There is not so much as the gentlest snore to be heard, not a breath. I’m seized with panic. Have women’s problems been the death of her? Hard on the heels of fear dawns the thought that if she is dead, Uncle Arthur can stay forever. I will be happy. I shove it away but it is too late: it is the worst thought I’ve ever had. Everything Ma says is true. She does know me better than I know myself. I am a horrible child.

  ‘Ma?’ I quaver. ‘Please don’t be dead. I love you.’ I try to sound sincere, but quail with the knowledge that she’ll know I’m lying. ‘I don’t want you to die!’ I wail.

  She does not answer. I don’t deserve to have a mother. I don’t deserve anything. I reach out and grasp her shoulder. It is pliable to the touch. Hardly like bone.

  ‘Ma?’ I ask, withdrawing my hand.

  There is no reply. I prod her with a timid finger. She gives way as though her body is the consistency of rag pudding. Some awful change has been wrought upon her. The ailments at which she hints so darkly are so ferocious they have rendered her boneless. Crazed with misery and terror, I shake her – hard. Something breaks off under the blankets. I freeze. The room is ghastly with silence.

  ‘Ma!’ I shriek. ‘I’ve killed you!’

  I hurl myself on to her prone form, hugging her so fiercely the headboard rattles. The cup of tea spills across the eiderdown. I must clean it right away or it will stain. I tear away the covers, revealing Ma’s body. Except it is not Ma’s body. I blink. It has to be, I tell myself. But, however many times I squeeze my eyes shut and open them, the truth is incontrovertible. Laid along the length of the mattress is a line of cushions.

  My mind reels. Where has she gone?

  I race downstairs to tell Uncle Arthur the terrible news. He nods in the chair, blanketed in the scent of baking. If I wake him, this moment will shatter as surely as if I threw a bucket of stones upon it. I dread what he may say: that Ma is a dancer in the halls, does make a spectacle of herself in a skirt of feathers and nothing else.

  But that’s not what I truly fear. I don’t know why, but somehow I’ll be the one to blame for Ma’s absence. After all, I’m the one Ma never kisses. I’m the one Ma won’t hug. If Ma goes away for three days, it’s bound to be because of me.

  I can’t bear the thought of Uncle Arthur’s face changing from love to coldness; can’t bear the thought that today’s hug may be the last. I tiptoe to my room, and do not speak a word: not to him, not to Nana, not even to the picture of Papa. If I don’t tell, no one will know what I’ve discovered. If I pretend hard enough, maybe I can convince myself it didn’t happen. Even if it’s a lie, I’d rather have a happy lie than the agonising truth.

  Two days later, Ma is in the kitchen when I come downstairs for breakfast. I run to her and bury my face into her apron.

  ‘Don’t cling,’ she snaps. ‘You’re not a baby. I can’t move for your mithering.’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ I moan.

  ‘In bed.’

  I squeeze harder. She walks peg-leg across the kitchen, dragging me with her. I’m so relieved to see her that any determination to keep my secret disappears into thin air.

  ‘No you weren’t.’

  She grinds to a halt and grasps my shoulders. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I brought you a cup of tea,’ I mumble. ‘You weren’t there.’

  Her features twist. She looks like a dog backed into a corner. ‘I told you never to disturb me!’ she roars, giving me a furious shake. ‘Spying on me, were you?’

  ‘I was scared you’d gone forever!’

  ‘Scared?’ Her eyes shift from cornered to crafty. ‘Yes, of course I’d gone. I can’t stand being around you with your infernal snivelling and pawing.’

  ‘Ma!’ I wail.

  ‘Don’t you come crying to me. All you had to do was give me three days’ peace. You’ve brought this on yourself.’

  This is the secret Ma and Nana argue about. I should have guessed it. I am so unlovable my own mother has to escape from me each month. This is why she is always angry. I deserve it. I must do. Ma would never lie. Of all the tasks I set myself, it was to make Ma love me. I have failed.

  GNOME

  1899

  Every night it’s the same.

  I come to, gasping, and I’m off that bed like it’s on fire. I squint at the mirror but won’t be convinced till I’ve run my hands the long and the short of what I see: head, fingers, knees and toes, ballocks and bumhole. It’s only then I can breathe easy. I’m in one piece, all twelve fine upstanding years of me.

  It’s a crying shame to cover such a splendid specimen but I can’t go outdoors in my birthday suit and that’s a fact. Nor shall I wear out this night in self-admiration when there’s adventure to be had. The moon doth shine as bright as day, et cetera, and I have merriment to attend to. A lad of my mettle can perish of cloistering cling and playlessness.

  I drag my britches from underneath the mattress where they’ve been pressed a treat and t
uck my hair under my cap. With my shirt half-buttoned I’m raring to be gone, but there’s no point in doing so without a penny in my pocket. I tiptoe downstairs quieter than the mice worrying the walls and dig my hand into the sugar bowl on the mantel. If Mam will insist on stowing thruppences in such an obvious place it’s her funeral if half go missing.

  I avoid the front door. The shunt and rattle of those bolts are enough to wake the dead and I’d get what for. Out of the bedroom window is my way, the best way. I creep back up without a squeak and pound the corner of the sash: three sharp punches and it slides up, wide enough to stick out my head. My left arm follows, then the right and to round it off I wriggle my hips clear. Watch a cat ooze under a door and you’ll know how it’s done.

  I am free.

  I swing off the ledge, ripping the seat of my trousers. I’ve no time to attend to such inconsequential matters. Mam will fix it. Down the fall-pipe, hit the ground and I run, savouring that first rush of delight, heady as a pint of best bitter downed in a single gulp.

  I dance the tightrope of the pavement edge, dash between soot-faced terraces that squat low on their haunches. It matters not what I’m racing from or to; all I know is that I am alive. I am a mucker, a chancer, a chavvy, a cove. I grab life by the neck and squeeze every drop into my cup. If it’s good, I’ll take it by the barrel. If it’s bad I’ll do the same. I take it all: the world and his wife, the moon on a stick and the stars to sprinkle like salt on my potatoes. I hammer on doors for the thundering crash of it. Chuck stones at windows to hear the glass crack and the spluttering interrupted snores of those inside.

  ‘Wake up!’ I cry, windmilling my arms. ‘Life’s too short to spend it sleeping!’

  I am the handspring of time between shut-eye and wake-up, the dream forgotten upon waking, the taste it leaves under the tongue. I am the crust of sleep in the eyes, the grit on the sheet. I am the yawning drag of Monday morning. You can keep the day with all its labour, misery and grime. I am King of the Night. I am Gnome.

  I won’t be here forever. I have plans. Away from cramped windows, tiny doors, squeezed staircases; away from brick and cloud and rain-puddled gutters. I will go west. Not Liverpool, not Ireland – America. There’s a dream of a place: men in broad-brimmed hats and fancy moustaches so long they can wrap them around their thumbs; cornfields that stretch forever with not a fence to bar the way; cattle herds that take a day to rumble by. That’s where I’ll go. See if I don’t. It’s a greater journey than I can make in one night. But a man must have dreams.

  All in good time. Tonight, Shudehill Market will suffice. It’s a fine place for a Saturday night’s entertainment, or any night for that matter. The crowd is as thick as mustard. I spot Russians, Latvians, Italians, Syrians, Egyptians: men with faces dark as a japanned brougham. Their tongue-twister salutations call out to me like the very sirens and I am tugged into their wake.

  I stroll through the jumble of stalls. The air is busy with Manchester aromas, surpassing all the perfumes of Arabia: treacle tarts rub up to meat puddings; tureens of pea soup steam alongside pyramids of oranges so vivid they sting your eyes; buns and barms are hawked cheap by the stale sackful. Butchers bawl their bargains. Despite the reek of meat left standing all day like a tart with no takers, there’s still a pack of ravenous crones haggling over tongue and cow-heel, tripe and heart.

  A pie stall tantalises. I’m hungry enough to eat a horse, which is as well for I bet my berries that’s what’s in them. I slap down tuppence and savour my supper under the stars, or the closest Manchester gets to them. I wolf it so fast a scrap of crust catches and I cough. My feet hiccup, the cobbles fly up to meet me and I sprawl, nose-down in muck and grease and God knows what else.

  A hand grabs the back of my jacket and hauls me upright. I wrap my hands around my head in case he’s of a mind to clout me, but this stranger has come to my rescue.

  ‘Careful, lad,’ he roars. ‘You nearly bought it there.’

  He jerks his head at the wagon thundering past. It shows no sign of having slowed by so much as an inch to avoid crushing me into cag-mag.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, spraying pastry.

  My saviour laughs. ‘Next time, save me a bit of pie.’

  I lick my fingers. What a fine night this is turning out to be. The older lads and lasses pay me no mind, too busy with their rough flirtations. One girl pauses before the chap of her choice, plucks the flower from his buttonhole and bites off half the petals before crushing it back into its tiny hole. His chin hangs in a gawp as she struts away, earrings swaying, swinging her umbrella like a sword. Another pert miss, hat loaded with more fruit than a costermonger’s barrow, swipes the tea mug from her beau and takes a good long draught before returning it, a crescent of scarlet greasing the rim.

  I stick out my chest in the hope of gathering similar attentions. I might, you know. One day. For now, I loiter at the tea-stand, entertained by the music of coarse songs and coarser jokes. I chuckle at the half I understand, laugh louder at the half I do not. Not that it’s only tea in those cups. Tea and a bit will get a fellow a splash from a mysterious jug kept beneath the counter and it certainly isn’t water. I slap down a sixpence, wink knowingly.

  ‘Hop it, short-arse,’ growls my host. ‘It’s not for little boys.’

  ‘Get knotted,’ I retort. ‘I’m fifteen!’

  ‘My arse. When you’re tall enough to see over the counter, then I’ll serve you.’

  I’ve a few inches to go. In this world you need to choose your battles, so I screw up the sodden bit of newspaper that held my pie and bounce it off the head of the nearest urchin. He spins about with a glare fit to take the head off a glass of porter, takes one look at the size of me and changes his mind. He rubs his noggin, contenting himself with a scowl. Not that I intend him any harm: it is exuberance, not meanness of the heart.

  I’m still ravenous. Coins clink a reminder: Don’t let us go to waste! I splash out on an ounce of cinder toffee. The taste spirits me away to a place of fireworks, a sweet yet bitter recollection and one I do not wish to have in my head. I spit out the muck and the memory with it, shove the remainder into the hands of the little lad. He unwraps the bag, stares at it in disbelief.

  ‘Take it,’ I grunt. ‘No catch.’

  He eyes me like I’m a god come down to earth with a fistful of miracles. In search of fresh diversion I walk on, my adoring acolyte dogging my shadow. Beggars clot shop doorways, hands outstretched, eyes as empty as winter windows. Women gaudy with rouge gear up for a night of horizontal wrestling. Carts are lined up beneath their lanterns, the drovers supping quarts of four-ale. Halfway along the wall, a puppet booth has been set up, ringed by a brood of grubby nose-pickers. Punch is battering Judy against a painted backdrop of pots and pans.

  That’s the way to do it, quacks Punch.

  I elbow my pipsqueak friend and point at Punch’s beaky nose. ‘See that hooter?’ I say. ‘It’s where he stores his sausages.’

  I wait for him to laugh. His mouth hangs open, catching moths, still unable to believe that I gave him an ounce of toffee free, gratis and for nothing. My talents are sorely wasted on some fellows. The play proceeds with the usual thrashing and squawking of blue murder. Judy sprawls on the counter, staring at me with wooden eyes as Punch belabours her.

  Take that you shitty-arsed cow! he screeches, employing words not in the regular repertoire. Here’s another, shit-faced old bag.

  My little pal tugs my sleeve. His lower lip is trembling. I take a moment to survey the sea of small children. Every last one of them is quivering on the verge of tears. I can’t spot a single mother. They’ve all deserted their babes to go in search of a bottle of stout. It seems I have been left in charge of this ragged army. What a fine general I shall be. I rub my hands, take a deep breath and echo the puppeteer.

  ‘Shitty-arsed cow!’ I yell.

  No one threatens to wash out my mouth with soap. The carters chuckle at my impertinence. I nudge my companion encouragingly. He combs g
rubby fingers through his hair so that it stands up in an exclamation mark, eyes wide with the realisation that no one’s about to thump better manners into him either.

  ‘Shitty-arsed cow,’ he whispers all in a rush, in case time runs out on insolence and he is called to account.

  The little ’uns screw their heads around from the marionettes and gawk at us.

  ‘Go on,’ I say, thumbing my lapels. ‘You can shout as loud as you like.’

  One girl shakes her head. She fusses with the hem of her pinafore, revealing stockings going weak at the knees. We don’t need her. The rest take my lead, in cautious disbelief at first, then louder, till the whole cats’ chorus are yowling: Shitty-arsed cow, shitty-arsed cow. I am their bandleader, stamping out the rhythm of the words as we parade in a circle. Some bang invisible drums, some clash cymbals, some thrust trombones out and in and out again, all to the tune of shitty-arsed cow, shitty-arsed cow. I am so swept up in the cavalcade that my devotee has to tug my sleeve three times before I take notice.

  ‘Look,’ he says, pointing.

  ‘What? Don’t stop now. We are having such larks.’ I holler shitty-arsed cow for good measure.

  ‘No, look,’ he repeats.

  The puppets have been joined by their master, a scrawny man with a nose the shape and size of a King Edward’s, face curdled with bile. He rams Judy face down on to the shelf at the front of the booth and thrashes her with such force that plaster brains tumble like rice.

  ‘Turd! Turd!’ he shrieks, spittle flying from drawn-back lips.

  ‘Turd,’ I snicker. ‘He said turd.’

  Judy slumps, arms drooping over the cloth. Punch’s red coat hangs in shreds, the whole of his hump and half his knobbled cap broken away. The backdrop tangles around the puppeteer’s arm but he continues to whack the puppets against each other, screaming obscenity after obscenity.