You piece of dirt. When you leave here, you’ll tramp to your broken home on your broken street in your broken boots to eat supper with your broken teeth. I shall hop into a brougham and be whisked away to a grand place you’ll never know.
I hold my smile steady, but it is the greatest weight I’ve ever lifted and near breaks my chin to keep it there. I poke out my tongue and blow a raspberry. His lass sticks her nose in the air.
‘What a low class of person frequents this place,’ she declares.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ drawls the aesthete. ‘Vulgar folk are so fascinating.’
She clings to her limp companion, devouring him with eyes so ravenous you’d think them organs of digestion.
‘No point casting your hook at him, love,’ I shout as they flounce off. ‘Looks like he couldn’t raise a smile.’
‘I can never understand how these chaps have always got a pretty girl in tow,’ grumbles one of my crew.
‘Pretty?’ I sneer. ‘Peaky, more like,’ I say. ‘A skinny ghost in need of a plate of pie and peas.’ They snigger, much cheered by my observation. I shall not let that flaccid flower-boy spoil the evening. ‘As for him, what a wet herring!’
‘Nah,’ interrupts Cyril. ‘Sprat, more like.’
Their attention swings away, towards him.
‘Tiddler,’ I respond, and have them back again.
‘Stickleback,’ he says firmly. ‘Nothing smaller than a stickleback.’
I rack my brains and, in the time it takes, I lose them. Cyril rattles off a list of fishy insults and they laugh like hyenas at his feeble efforts.
‘Oh, stop it, Cyril,’ wheezes one. ‘I’ll piss myself at this rate.’
‘Too late. Already have done,’ guffaws Cyril.
He makes a show of walking in bow-legged circles, kicking make-believe droplets off his clogs. He wears such a pained expression that the whole lot of them lean against each other, cackling. I don’t know why everyone is paying him such mind. He’s not that funny. Besides, Cyril is minced mutton of a name, in my opinion.
I point out an ice-cream cart and stand everyone a twist of hokey-pokey, with much flourishing of my largesse. It’s a race to gobble the stuff before it soaks through the paper, and some of us are more proficient than others. Me, I like the sensation of ice trickling down my fingers. I draw out the eating of it to such a marvellous degree that I make a mess of my shirt from collar to cuffs. Cyril nods at me.
‘You’re going to cop it off your ma,’ he observes.
‘Take the broom to you, she will,’ says another. ‘That stuff’s murder to get out.’
‘You’ll not sit down for a week.’
I shrug and wipe my lips on my sleeve for good measure. ‘My mam does exactly what I tell her,’ I reply with a haughty air. ‘Mam! Scrub my cuffs! That’s what I say.’
‘As heck as like,’ scoffs Cyril.
‘You don’t know my mam. I shall stride in and declare, Mother! I have a job for you! Wash my shirt!’ I hitch my thumbs behind my lapels and puff out my chest.
‘What a windbag you are,’ says Cyril.
‘That’s not the half of it,’ I continue, rather wishing he’d button his lip. ‘Be quick about it! Chop chop!’ I make a pantomime of an old dame, one hand pressed to my back and tugging my forelock. ‘Yes, Gnome!’ I squawk. ‘As fast as ever I can, Gnome!’
They giggle, as much out of nervousness as awe. I do not care if they take me for an empty-headed boy, all hot air and nothing else. I’ll not be outdone by a midget like Cyril. There’s room for only one Caesar and I wear those laurels.
We plough on, avoiding the slip and slide around the cow-heel stall. Drawn like wasps to jam, our promenade carries us past a confectionery stand. I eye the jars of wine gums, slab toffee, liquorice, Pontefract cakes and coltsfoot rock. The ground crunches with sugar. The girl weighing out the sweets has a starved look: chewed-down nails, hair draggled in sticky ringlets.
‘How about a lollipop, miss?’ says Cyril, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek in a suggestive fashion.
I groan and roll my eyes. That’s not how to get a handful of mint balls without paying. Her cheeks flush and she fiddles with the bun on the back of her head, where some tendrils of hair have worked loose.
‘You look sweet,’ I say. That’s the way to do it.
Cyril throws me a pitying look. ‘I’ve got a stick of rock if you fancy a gobble,’ he adds, louder.
‘Ooh,’ says one of the younger boys.
‘Now there’s a thing,’ says another.
‘Hur, hur,’ a third.
‘You buying, or wasting my time?’ the girl trills pertly. ‘No money, no service.’
She serves half an ounce of coloured sugar to an urchin who looks too young to be out, and a quarter-pound of cough candy to a fellow in a leather apron who calls her Maggie.
Cyril makes a snorting noise. ‘Name as plain as her face.’
‘You’ll get nothing if you talk to her like that,’ I say.
‘Who says I want to get my hands on her pear drops?’ He shakes his head. ‘You young ’uns don’t know the first thing—’
‘Young! I’m twice your age.’
‘Nah,’ he says with an appraising glance. ‘You’ll understand when your balls have dropped.’
‘Better than being a short-arse.’
He yawns and stretches his arms. ‘You lot can stay here and spoon with ugly lasses if you want. I’m getting bored.’
He saunters off, shooting a wily grin over his shoulder. His sheep follow, one by one. Maggie watches his cock-of-the-walk strut with something approaching wistfulness. The last lad to desert me tugs my arm.
‘You coming?’
‘I’ll follow when I’m ready,’ I declare.
I’ll be damned if I’ll be a rat trundling after that particular piper. I’ll show him. I’ll get half a pound of humbugs out of Maggie, so I will, and share it with them all, except ruddy Cyril. Then we’ll see what’s what and who’s who. Maggie weighs out an ounce of monkey nuts for a pair of lovebirds. I take off my cap and, hugging it to my chest, furnish her with my nicest smile.
‘What a rude boy,’ I chirp with a virtuous expression that’d shame the angel Gabriel. ‘I wouldn’t address a young lady so.’
‘You still here?’ she says with a glare that could curdle milk.
It’s Cyril she ought to be angry with, not me. Female thinking. It’s got me stumped. I gear up to give her a piece of my mind when my eye is drawn to a lady hovering over the table.
It may have been months and months ago, but I recognise Jessie, the woman who tipped the scales in my favour over that nasty business with Reg. She’s dressed in fusty taffeta and on her feet are velvet slippers trimmed with beads around the toe. They’ll last a couple of weeks, I muse; if she steps into a puddle, a lot less.
I buck up considerably. I draw closer, full to bursting with tales of my new cronies, when I notice how queerly she is behaving. She points at a dish of treacle toffee, yet as soon as Maggie prepares to weigh a portion, she interrupts.
‘No, not that!’ she says. ‘Here now!’
She indicates the sugared almonds, as if they’re what she meant all along. When the jar is lifted for approval she shakes her head.
‘Dear me, no,’ she says. ‘Not the almonds.’
She waggles her fingers in the direction of a canister of humbugs. As she does so, the long tippets of her muff dangle across the table and obscure what she’s doing with her other hand. Calm as you like, she is plucking chocolates from the shelf and sliding them into the side of her skirt, secreting them in what must be a hidden pocket. With a grunt, Maggie hefts the humbugs.
‘No, no!’ pouts Jessie, tossing her head. The flowers on her hat tremble with indignation.
Now she wants the barley sugar. What a pretty glove she wears on her right hand: crimson leather with emerald stitching, bright as a banner. Only a philistine would pay attention to her light-fingered left hand when dis
tracted by the display of the right.
Maggie scowls at this tiresome female who can’t make up her mind. She remains polite, for the customer is always right, even if they spend an age choosing between an ounce of Everton mints and an ounce of liquorice. Jar after jar is proffered, to pretty shakes of the head. All the while, Jessie fills her pocket with steady grace, stealing the sweets as if she has a claim to them.
Finally, she decides upon the treacle toffee, the very thing she started with. While Maggie weighs out two ounces, Jessie extracts pennies from the embroidered purse hanging on her arm. She accepts the twist of paper and inclines her head in thanks before gliding away. She cocks her elbow and turns out her toes, kicking them to each side so that passers-by may glance down and remark on the trimness of her ankles. I follow her along the line of tables and draw up alongside.
‘Give us a toffee, missus,’ I say, just loud enough for her to hear.
She looks down her nose. ‘In your dreams. Hop it, you little twerp.’
‘Give us one of those chocolates, then.’
‘What chocolates?’ she says with a dangerous tilt of her eyebrow.
I slide closer and pat her skirt, which crackles with something very like brown paper. She must’ve lined the pocket.
‘That’s clever,’ I say. ‘So they don’t melt.’
‘Shut up,’ she hisses.
‘You must have quarter of a pound in there,’ I continue. ‘You won’t miss one.’ I jerk my chin in the direction of the confectionery stand. ‘Maggie will, though. Sooner or later. Specially if I tell her.’
She looks me up and down, swinging her purse on its chain. ‘You’re a cheeky toad. I’ll give you one and no more. Not here, though.’
‘Course not,’ I say with a grin. ‘I’ll stand you a cup of tea. Fair exchange is no robbery.’
She brays laughter. ‘Charmed, sir. Quite charmed.’
I crook my elbow. She laughs again, gently this time, and places her scarlet glove upon my arm. As we proceed through the market hall I have the odd sensation of being a tugboat pulled up alongside a freighter. I spot Cyril and the lads, treat them to a roguish wink and am gratified to see their silly mouths flop open as they get an eyeful. I may only come to her shoulder, but I’m in the company of the finest lass in Shudehill and that trumps anything that Cyril can muster. No one’s ever going to get the jump on me again. Never. And certainly not a worm like him.
At the tea-stand I order two cups and slap down sixpence, chest puffed up with pride. The tea-man leans across the counter and fills up our mugs.
‘Got yourself a new bully, Jessie?’ he says with a chuckle.
She barks a quick, businesslike laugh. ‘Him? He’s my bonny lad.’
She puts her arm around me and squeezes. I don’t push her away; not this time. It’s over as fast as a sneeze, so it’s not like anyone notices. She shovels spoonful after spoonful of sugar into her cup.
‘You’ll suffocate that tea,’ I say.
She takes an enthusiastic slurp. ‘The cup that cheers,’ she declares. ‘Well, now. A gently brought-up lady such as myself ought to be formally introduced to a gentleman before she takes tea with him, don’t you think?’
‘Indubitably,’ I reply, warming to the theme. ‘Yet I see no appropriate soul upon whom I may call to accomplish such a task. Should I go? Must we part so soon?’
‘That would be a pity,’ she sighs.
With her index finger she taps her chest, as though sounding out the heart beneath the bodice. There’s a light in her eye that suggests she’s used to playing games, but rarely of this sort. I raise my cap.
‘You have forgotten. We are already acquainted, fair damsel.’
‘We are?’ She looks me up and down, appraising me as keenly as she would a fur coat for moth-holes.
‘You came to my aid, many moons ago, when I was sore affrighted and in need of succour.’
‘Oh my Lord. You’re that Little Lord Fauntleroy. You’ve had your hair cut. Aww, what a crying shame. I liked those curls.’
‘Get away,’ I grunt, but not harshly. I am having too much fun to be out of sorts. ‘May I make so bold as to effect my own introduction?’
‘How presumptuous,’ she says with a grin, fanning her cheek with her glove. ‘See my maidenly blushes.’ Her face is unruffled.
‘Madam, miss, my lady,’ I say, doffing my cap. ‘I am your humble servant, Gnome.’
‘What sort of a name is that?’
‘Mine, and none other.’
She laughs. It is a surprisingly delicate sound.
‘Gnome it is. Charmed, Sir Gnome. And I am Jessie.’
‘I know. It is my absolute favourite name for a lady. Now give me a ruddy sweet.’
‘All in good time.’
‘Now’s a good time.’
She sets down her cup. ‘You’re a caution, that’s for sure.’
‘Sure as eggs is eggs.’ She offers the bag of toffee and I shake my head. ‘Not so fast. Don’t give me second best. Chocolate, we said.’
‘Chocolate, you said.’
‘Chocolate!’
She rolls her eyes, slips a hand into the concealed pocket and draws out a paper bag. I make a grab for it but she holds it out of reach.
‘Now, now,’ she chides. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you how to behave?’
‘What mother?’
She gives me a careful look, unscrews the mouth of the bag and with great reluctance hands one to me. I snatch it before she can change her mind and cram it into my mouth. Syrup laced with cherry liqueur oozes down my chin.
I shove out my hand. ‘Go on,’ I say stickily. ‘Give us another.’
‘Not on your life!’ she says. ‘I’m not wasting high-class confectionery on the likes of you. That went straight down without touching the sides.’
‘So?’
‘There are some things in life best served by taking your time.’
‘Like what?’
She leans on her fist and grins. ‘No, I don’t think you’re ready.’
‘I am!’
‘Really?’
‘Really!’ I cry.
‘Be a good boy, then.’ I nod furiously. She waggles her fingers like a magician, dips into the bag and draws out another chocolate. She waves it a tantalising inch in front of my mouth, little finger cocked. ‘Open wide.’ I stretch my lips to their fullest extent. She pops the confection inside. ‘Slow down. No chewing.’
‘How can I eat it without chewing?’ I mumble.
‘Leave it on your tongue. And wait. And if needs be, you wait a bit blinking longer.’ She pauses, and stares at me dramatically. I hold still. ‘Wait,’ she says. The chocolate softens. ‘Wait.’
I obey. The centre dissolves, flooding my mouth with violets. It is the most delicious thing I ever tasted.
‘Oh, Jessie,’ I say.
She tips back her head and guffaws. There’s a band of dirt around her throat, but it’s the prettiest throat I’ve ever set eyes on.
‘Didn’t I tell you? You can take your angels and your harps and you can stick them. If there’s no chocolate in heaven then I’m stopping here.’ She drains her mug and slaps it on the counter. ‘I’m off,’ she declares. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Sir Gnome.’
I scamper to her side. ‘Wait,’ I gasp. ‘Let me walk you home. Go on.’
‘Home? I should cocoa. I’ve got work to do.’
‘Oh.’
Her gaze dances across my face, soft as feathers. ‘Penny for them?’ she says, peering down at me.
‘Nothing important,’ I mutter. A brainwave strikes. I turn out the contents of my pockets. The fortune glistens. ‘I’ll give you all of it. You don’t need to work.’
She stretches her hand across the space between us. I think she’s going to take the coins, but she runs her forefinger along the line of my cheek with a leisure that intimates she has all night to execute the gesture.
‘Bonny lad,’ she murmurs.
While I’m gulping air,
she bids me a ladylike adieu and swirls away.
I sway home, head swimming like a chap with five pints of mild in him. I reflect on my new friends and it strikes me that of them all, the only name of which I am sure is Cyril. I push aside the uneasy thought and return to Jessie, a far more cheering proposition. There’s a sparkle in my chest that wasn’t there before. My shoulders prickle as though wings are budding, on the brink of breaking free. I’m growing into a man, so I am. What other reason could she have for supping tea with me?
There’s a commotion up ahead and I fly in its direction, like iron shavings to a magnet. I’m not the only one taking an interest and have to wriggle through a thicket of bodies to get to the front. The new tram-tracks at St Mary’s Gate have barely been laid a month and there’s already some idiot got his boot wedged in them.
‘Get me out!’ he crows, half-laughing, half-yelling, in that way of intoxicated folk who get themselves into a pickle.
It takes a minute, but I could hardly forget that face. He has a smear of hair on his upper lip that makes him look like he’s kissed a coal scuttle. He lies athwart the ruts, stuck fast.
‘Good evening, Reg,’ I say.
‘What? Who?’ he blurts, eyes lumbering back and forth in their sockets.
To him, I’m just another fellow. He can’t even be bothered to remember those he has tortured.
‘Help me,’ he says, slurring the words. ‘I can’t lie here all night.’
‘No, you can’t. That’s true enough,’ I reply, sucking my teeth philosophically.
Reg tugs at his trouser cuff, but all this achieves is to drag the wool up to his knee, revealing his calf. He looks rather comical with one leg bare. I start to whistle.
Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John,
Went to bed with his trousers on;
One sock off and one sock on,
Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John.
Folk continue to gather. There’s a lot of oohing and aahing from bumpkins fresh up from Marple as they try to haul him out. They may be skilled at dragging sheep out of streams, but in the city they fail.
The Night Brother Page 8