The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  She presses dry lips to my brow. Her chin scratches. I think nothing of it, not till much later. I lie quietly, the warmth of my body soaking into the bed, and fall asleep.

  The next morning, I wake up with not so much as a speck of dirt under my fingernails, nor one tangle in my hair. I regard myself in the mirror. Ugly as always, but miracles are not for the likes of me.

  However, there has been a small miracle of sorts. The previous evening, I came close to extinguishing my life, and stayed my hand. I stumbled, but didn’t fall – not all the way. My mother poured her whole store of bile upon me, all fourteen unlucky years of it. It should have destroyed me. It did not. I have not been vanquished.

  If I can survive that, I say to myself, I can survive anything. Perhaps Nana is right, and I am stronger than I imagine. I may have nowhere to go, nor any hope of escape. Yet I sense a core of steel of which I was not previously aware. Even if Nana cannot – will not – stand up to Ma, affection is affection and I’m not such a fool as to spurn it. Things may not be different in my life, but they are in my heart. I pledge myself to the improvement of both.

  I am to be tested far sooner than expected.

  The Wednesday after, all is as usual in The Comet: the bar full to bursting and a scuffle to stand closest to the fireplace. Ma and I circle each other like warring cats. She plays the cheery landlady, acting as if no cruel words were ever spoken. I move through the crowd, offering pipes from the rack to those who desire them, when one of the customers yells across the din.

  ‘Hey! What’s the weather like up there with you, lass?’

  Every eye swivels in my direction. It is an old joke and one I am well used to. I stretch my lips into a tolerable impersonation of a smile.

  ‘How about a song, Lady Goliath?’ he shouts, clearly not done with me.

  ‘Her? She can’t carry a tune in a bucket,’ quips another toper.

  ‘Shush now, you’ll upset the wee creature. She can’t help having cloth ears.’

  ‘Wee? You blind all of a sudden?’

  There ensues a general bout of mirth at my expense. I pick up a dirty glass.

  ‘Now, let’s have some respect.’

  I throw a grateful glance at whoever has spoken in my defence and find myself eyeball to eyeball with the bane of my existence, copper eyebrows and all. I wasn’t expecting him till tomorrow. He smoothes his hands up and down the front of his waistcoat and tugs at his cuffs. His shirtsleeves are uncrumpled, uncommonly fresh for this late in the day. I wonder how he keeps himself so clean. I’d bite off my own tongue rather than remark upon it.

  ‘Give us a smile,’ he leers, pinching my cheek. ‘Anyone would think you weren’t pleased to see your Uncle Bob.’

  ‘You’re not my uncle,’ I reply as rudely as I can, which is not very.

  ‘I declare. You’ve got a sight more zest these days. Then again, I like a lass with a bit of spunk in her.’ He doffs his cap and rolls his eyes at Ma. ‘What say you, Mrs Latchford?’ he enquires, the soul of civility. ‘A song from the lips of your charming daughter?’

  Ma rams a cloth into the throat of a pint pot and sniffs. ‘As you like it.’

  ‘Positively Shakespearian,’ he titters.

  Ma shrugs and concentrates on pouring a precise measure of porter into the clean glass. The head is thick with cream. He returns his attention to me.

  ‘I wager that you are a nightingale!’ he trills. ‘Furnish us with a song!’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know any songs,’ I mutter, worrying my apron into knots at the prospect of his slippery attentions twice a week rather than once.

  ‘I bet you do,’ says my tormentor cheerfully. ‘Do not disappoint your impatient audience!’

  The room takes up the cry, banging beer pots on the tables and stamping their feet. I am trapped. I wonder what it is about me that makes this scoundrel feel he has the right to pin me to the spot. It’s clear that peace will not be restored until I’ve placated the crowd with a song.

  ‘“Father, O Father, come home to us now,”’ I whisper.

  ‘Speak up, love!’ someone cries.

  ‘Can’t hear you!’

  ‘Put some vim into it.’

  I throw a pleading glance at Ma. She is looking in the opposite direction.

  ‘Go on,’ growls the gingery man. ‘Sing.’

  I place one hand flat against my stomach and hold up the other, pointing a finger at the ceiling. I clear my throat, gabble the verse and scuttle back to the safety of the bar.

  ‘If you will parade yourself you deserve everything coming to you,’ says Ma sourly enough to take the polish off a chapel pew.

  ‘I did nothing!’

  ‘Oh, hush your moaning and take this,’ she snaps, shoving a platter of fried bread into my hands.

  ‘But, Ma …’ I whimper. I want to give that man a wide berth for the remainder of the evening. Indeed, for the rest of my life if I can help it.

  ‘Move, girl, or I’ll make you regret it.’

  I squeeze between the tables. I’ve gone less than half a dozen paces when the pest grasps my arm and pulls me between his knees. He eyes the plate and smacks his lips.

  ‘Bringing me a treat, are you?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s for everyone.’

  ‘Such ingratitude!’ he chortles. ‘Is this how you treat your knight in shining armour? I saved you from the rude and churlish ways of this rabble. How about a thank you?’

  ‘I have to take the bread round.’ I take a step backwards, but he hangs on to my arm.

  ‘Go on. Give Uncle Bob first nibble,’ he says, poking me in the stomach.

  I hold the bowl out of reach, but Ma barks my name and I have little choice but to proffer it, however unwillingly. He takes a piece with a dainty gesture and places it between his lips.

  ‘That’s tasty,’ he says, gaze swarming across my breasts.

  I try to wriggle free. He presses his knees together like the jaws of a man-trap.

  ‘Let me go. Everyone else wants a bit.’

  ‘I’ll bet they do.’ He selects another piece of bread and slithers his tongue over it until it glistens with spittle. ‘I’ll bet you’ve got a queue of beaux lining up for what you’ve got.’

  ‘I don’t!’ I try to sound outraged at such an indelicate suggestion, but it comes out as petulance.

  ‘No?’ He swallows the damp morsel with a gulp. ‘Unplucked. How delectable.’ He sucks grease off his fingers and wipes them on his spotless waistcoat. ‘I must check such an assertion.’

  As innocently as a man retrieving a dropped sixpence, he bends to the floor. Hidden by my petticoats, I feel his hand circle my ankle. I start away but am caught in the vice of his thighs. In a leisurely fashion, he draws himself upright and, as he does so, his fingers slide up my calf. I can’t move, can’t speak. He squeezes my knee.

  Our eyes lock. He smiles with tender solicitation, as if it is the most natural thing in the world for a stranger to have his hand up a girl’s skirt. I look at the other customers. They are ogling their glasses and joking with each other as if we are quite invisible. I cast a desperate look at Ma. She is busy washing glasses. I open my mouth to shout for her to come and rescue me.

  The cry shrivels.

  What can I say? What sort of girl allows a man to do such a thing? The shame of it: I imagine every head in the room turning in my direction and seeing what is happening. I will bring ignominy on to Ma’s head. I will cause The Comet to become known as a den of iniquity where such carryings-on take place. Ma’s years of building up a respectable name dashed into smithereens in a moment.

  His hand creeps an inch higher.

  ‘What a pretty thing you are,’ he says, tilting his head to one side. ‘I believe this is going to become my favourite beerhouse from this moment on, if it has you to tempt me so. Wednesday night, Thursday night. Why, every night, I declare.’

  His fingers continue their spider-climb under my skirt until they reach the tops of my stockings. He cares
ses the naked skin of my thigh. My breath bundles in my throat. With all my being I try to say stop. Such a short word, less than a breath, but it falters on my tongue, silenced by the lifetime of lessons drummed into me that children should be seen and not heard, and that good girls do what they’re told.

  I tremble so much that the bread dances in the dish. I dare not slap him away; indeed I cannot, for I’m holding on to the plate and if I let it fall I’ll catch it off Ma. Besides, everyone will look to see what the noise is about and I’ll die of mortification. When I think that I am about to burst, the strangest thing happens. I bend my head until my lips are on a level with his ear. A voice I do not recognise spills out of my mouth, quiet enough for him to hear, but none other.

  ‘Get your filthy paws off me,’ I growl. A confused look shadows his features. His hand freezes but does not withdraw. ‘Right now.’

  A smirk worms its way across his lips.

  ‘Or what, my little pet?’ he leers.

  ‘Or what?’ I fill my lungs with cleansing breath, and continue. ‘Pin back your bloody ears and listen. I shall watch you, every moment of every day. I shall bide my time. One night, when you’ve dropped your guard, I’ll take my knife, the one I use for chopping this bread so nice and neat, and I shall slide it between your ribs. And when you fall gasping to the floor I shall unbutton your greasy britches, grab your wizened meat and two veg and saw off the whole damned lot.’

  I straighten up in a leisurely fashion. He draws his hand away from my leg and tucks it into his trouser pocket as if it has been there all evening. Around us, men sip beer. We stare at each other, blankly as strangers do. He swallows heavily, staggers to his feet, stutters an apology and hastens away, leaving tracks in the sawdust. I follow him to the door and watch him scurry down the street. He stops, slings a look over his shoulder and disappears around the corner.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ asks Ma.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know very well who. You scaring off my customers?’ she says.

  I hitch my shoulders lazily. I carry the bread around the room, offering it with a perfect smile. When the plate is empty I return to the bar, where I set it down without so much as a rattle.

  That night I stretch on my bed, staring into the shadows where the wall meets the ceiling. I’ve no idea who planted those words in my mouth. I’ve never spoken like that before. Yet tonight, I did. I answered back. I said no. Maybe this is the strength Nana spoke of.

  GNOME

  1901

  At last. She is standing up for herself. Good thing too. I was beginning to think she was as much use as a dog with one leg. Of course, it took plenty of help from yours truly, but I’m not the boastful sort. Nor have I any desire to squander more brain matter than absolutely necessary upon my sister. There are more important things to worry about.

  Top of the list is just how far Reg and his minions have put the wind up me. The last thing I want to admit is that I’m too scared to go to Shudehill, but facts are facts and I may as well swallow them, thorns and all. I stick close to home, prowling the confines of my neighbourhood. I tell myself I am still King of the Night, even if my kingdom has shrunk to the size of a postage stamp. Tell myself this is better than nothing at all, that I am biding my time before I return to the site of my defeat. No, not defeat. I’m simply a wise general who knows when to advance and when to retreat; when to strengthen home defences before venturing abroad on far-flung campaigns. I tell myself this is consolidation.

  Weeks slide into months, which stretch into a year, and I wonder if I’m fated to spend my life pacing this grimy cage. No lion ever chafed so against his bars, or roared so disconsolately at the injustice of his imprisonment. I can’t go on like this. A lad’s needs are manifold and I itch to stretch my legs.

  First off, this hair will have to go. I let Edie grow it long and look where it’s landed me. This is what happens when you let kindness and consideration get the better of you. A little lad can get away with curls, but I’m fourteen and that’s not little, not by a long chalk. We are growing up. Time to get shot of childish things.

  The scissors swish as curls pile around my ankles. On my head they looked gold, but on the floor they are as tarnished as old leaves. It’s a trick of the candlelight, a trick of the heart that sneaks in and whispers that I am cutting off more than hair. I grit my teeth and finish the job. With each snip, the true Gnome emerges, untrammelled by floppy fussiness. It’s hard to shear a straight line and I look like a badly plucked goose when I’m done, but nothing can be allowed to stand in the way of progress. I feed the dead hair into the mouth of the range and savour the smell of burning.

  The kitchen door swings and in stomps Mam, drawn by the stink. She’s in her nightdress, face wrinkled from the pillow. She blinks a powerful number of times, like it’s hard work to fit me in. I can’t tell if she’s going to chuck a saucepan or take me to her bosom.

  ‘That’ll put the cat amongst the pigeons,’ she says, nodding at my haircut.

  ‘Want me to look like a lass?’

  She chews the inside of her cheek while she tries to work that one out. I break the silence before her eyes pop.

  ‘How about you sit down. Let me make my dear mam a brew.’ I slide the kettle on to the heat. ‘Work your fingers to the bone, don’t you?’

  ‘Hmmph. Someone has noticed,’ she says in a voice that splits down the middle like a bit of kindling. ‘Finally.’

  ‘Not right, is it?’ I pour a cup and stir in a hill of sugar.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good thing I’m here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she mutters, and slurps the best cup of tea this side of the Pennines. ‘No one knows how hard I slog.’

  ‘Except for me.’

  She gawps fondly. ‘Except for you.’

  ‘That Edie, eh?’ I sigh.

  ‘I’m a fool to myself,’ she says, and gives me a soppy grin.

  Now that I have her where I want her, I chatter how I barely get a minute to myself; how I’d love to step out; how lads need to stretch their legs or grow into wet nellies. Mam nods and shakes her head by turns.

  ‘Ah,’ I sigh. ‘If only I had thruppence for a bag of sweets.’

  That’s all it takes for her to divvy up a handful of coins. I let her pinch and kiss my cheek, which is worth another handful, till my pockets are freighted with a small king’s ransom.

  ‘All I ever wanted was a good lad like you,’ she snuffles.

  Before she can blub her silly eyes out, I blow her a farewell kiss and take the first tram heading into the city. I’ve better things on which to spend the fare, so I travel in style, hanging on to the bars at the back. Sparks fly as steel grates against steel, fine as any firework show.

  I pull faces through the window. The passengers do their damnedest to ignore me, burying their noses into the evening papers to blot out the scruffy tyke cadging a free ride. I’ve half a mind to squirm through the window and turn cartwheels, but I’d be out on my ear. There’ll be plenty of time for hilarity when I get where I am going, I promise myself. As the tram slows for Shudehill, I leg it into the crowd.

  I make a cautious tour of the aisles, cap pulled down to my chin. I’ve sprouted an inch and I bet I could take Reg on and trounce him good and proper. However, only a fool wastes his vigour on fisticuffs and I’m relieved to find neither hide nor hair of that particular gentleman. I take an invigorating breath and shove my cap to the back of my head.

  This is where I should be: at the centre of things, where my ears din with clatter and clank. To my right, a raggle-taggle band blow trumpets, bang drums, scrape fiddles. To my left, an organ-grinder grinds. Straight ahead, the lads and lasses of the monkey-rank shout and laugh and waltz into taverns arm in arm. I am tugged this way and that, tempted by the barking of tripe-shop owners, fried-fish vendors and oyster-sellers. It’s the bustling, clanging symphony of this city and I love it: the rub of tweed on wool, of silk on serge, and all of it scented with coal dust and
horse-shit and pepper and sweat and oil and electricity.

  I need no penny paper when I have this. Murder, highwaymen and horrors come a poor second to these wonders. I am on the brink of manhood, with a taste for the salty, the savoury, the spicy. I appreciate things my childish self could neither understand nor appreciate.

  Now that I have established the coast is clear, it is time to find some folk to fall in with. I spy a knot of likely fellows at a fried-potato stand, all of them smaller than yours truly. I can read boys faster than my A, my B and my C and this lot are floundering at the periphery of the action, clearly in need of a commanding officer. I saunter to their rescue.

  ‘Hey now!’ I cry. ‘You scrawny little shitwipes. I’ve not seen you in a donkey’s age.’

  Before they have a chance to scratch their verminous noggins and ask who I am, I dead-arm one of the shortest with a sly blow. We share a laugh at his expense, watching him pirouette, piping ow ow over and over and threatening all kinds of punishment he is unlikely to deliver.

  ‘Coo,’ declares one. ‘That’s a jolly jape.’

  ‘You got Cyril good and proper,’ chirps another.

  Cyril rubs his funny bone and shoots me a murderous glance.

  ‘That’s just for starters,’ I say. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’

  I glance about and my eye falls on an effete youth who looks like he’s stepped off the wall of an art gallery. I imagine the picture: Narcissus Clothed, reclining on his elbow and regarding his fat face in the water. On his arm is a girl with skin as pale as that on a tapioca pudding.

  ‘Look at him,’ I jeer, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. ‘Those trousers. So baggy he may as well be wearing a skirt.’

  I wink at my new pals, sneak behind the milksop and punch his elbow. It is so easy that it hardly counts as sport.

  ‘I say!’ he quacks, inspecting the numb limb.

  ‘Pansy!’ I yell. ‘Flapping about like a big girl’s blouse!’

  I wait for his face to fold, the tears to fall. He raises his uninjured hand to shoulder height and for the space of a breath I think he is going to slap me. But he sweeps his fingers under the flowing curtain of his hair, flips it back and stares at me down his long nose. His lips tweak in a half-smile and I hear his thoughts, clear as the cry of a coal-heaver.