The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  Ma cringes. ‘Bless you, doctor!’

  ‘I am not ill!’ I shout.

  He responds with a high-pitched giggle. ‘Do you think there is hope with this subject, Mr Atkinson?’

  ‘You have yet to disappoint, Dr Zambeco.’

  ‘You are too kind, Mr Atkinson.’

  They exchange looks of cordial amity. In their eyes I am little more than a beetle with a silver pin skewering it to the morocco-topped desk, limbs flailing. I roll my eyes. I’ve no idea what Ma hopes to achieve by forcing me to listen to this flummery, but if she thinks it will change one single solitary thing, she is mistaken. I will sit tight, see this through and go my own sweet way.

  ‘I need no treatment,’ I say. ‘Not from you or anyone else. I am content with who and what I am, sir. However discontented my mother may be.’

  ‘Ah,’ he muses. I expect him to raise his voice, but he remains unruffled. I rather wish he would shout. ‘Contentment,’ he murmurs, clearly enjoying every moment. He shifts his attention from my disobedient scowl to my mother. ‘Are you content, dear lady?’

  Ma shakes her head.

  ‘I thought as much.’ He gazes at the ceiling. ‘Contentment is such a subjective state of being, so open to interpretation, is it not?’

  ‘Er …’ Ma replies, unable to follow his meanderings. ‘You advertised,’ she stutters, blinking. ‘In your advertisement … I can’t pay …’ She stares at the floor. ‘I wouldn’t dream of – What I mean, sir, is that if you can understand my situation, sir, what with my husband away, sir …’

  The muscles of her throat are as taut as piano strings. He lets her ramble, wearing the smirk of someone amused by the wriggling of lower life forms. When he decides that Ma has humiliated herself sufficiently, he holds up his hand.

  ‘Madam, madam!’ he says. ‘Do not distress yourself so. I assure you that I am a man of science. A seeker of truth. Scientific minds have other forms of satisfaction than lucre.’

  ‘Lucre?’

  ‘Monetary recompense, dear madam. I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  A coil of doubt twists in my gut. ‘Ma?’ I begin, but am interrupted.

  ‘So. We are agreed,’ he says.

  ‘We are most certainly not,’ I declare.

  At this juncture, several things happen at once. I step away from the desk and towards the door. With the oiled grace of a boxer, Mr Atkinson slides across the carpet and blocks my path. Dr Zambeco springs out of his seat and proceeds to perform the strangest pantomime, sweeping his head from left to right whilst pointing at his eyes. The irises are huge, slate-grey; they hold me in their thrall. I exert every scrap of my will but feel myself succumbing to their mesmerising influence. It is Mr Atkinson who breaks the spell with an unpleasant chuckle. I shake off the sticky feeling.

  ‘A worthy subject,’ purrs the doctor. ‘Most suggestible.’

  ‘That’s all very well for you to say,’ chirps Ma. ‘I can suggest till the cows come home but she doesn’t pay me a blind bit of attention.’

  Dr Zambeco flutters his fingers dismissively, but he doesn’t know my mother. She presses her lips into a petulant line.

  ‘Well, I can’t do a thing with her,’ she grunts, determined to have her say.

  It is the last straw. ‘I’ve had enough of this interview,’ I say. ‘Talk until kingdom come, if it pleases you. Send me home with a sackful of pills. I shan’t take one. I’ll pitch the lot into the canal.’

  ‘Pills?’ whinnies Dr Zambeco. ‘How delectably antiquated. I have no nasty physick for that equine constitution of yours. I am no savage creature who peddles eye of newt and toe of frog. Dear me, no. Sit, sit,’ he says, gesturing me to a chair.

  I take it, without knowing why.

  ‘It is all quite scientific, my dear. Nothing to worry your little head over. Don’t you ache to be happy?’

  ‘I am happy.’

  ‘Are you? You entered this room angry and disordered, did you not?’

  It is true: I am furious. But I don’t trust where this is heading. ‘Your questions are rhetorical, sir.’

  ‘Does it not pique your interest by even the smallest fraction to learn that I can bestow lasting happiness in the space of minutes?’

  I stick out my chin. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘She does not believe me, Mr Atkinson,’ guffaws the doctor.

  ‘She does not, sir.’

  Once again, I experience the sensation that my presence is of no consequence and that he could just as easily conduct this conversation with a brick wall. There being little point in responding further, I hold my tongue. I hope it might make him hold his own.

  ‘Now. You will remove your clothing.’

  ‘I will do no such thing,’ I snort. ‘You are not going to examine me.’

  ‘Correct!’ he chirps. ‘Nothing is further from my mind. I am going to beautify you. A brief intervention. A simple operation.’

  ‘Operation?’ I say.

  The word hangs in the air, cold as a sheet pegged out in winter. I glance at Ma. She is staring at a space slightly to the left of the doctor’s shoulder.

  ‘A mere bagatelle,’ he replies. ‘No need for even a drachm of chloroform. Bring the body to heel and correct behaviour will follow. All speak of my success. It has been reported in the most prestigious of journals.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  He turns and addresses my mother. ‘Curb the physical traits that mark a subject as anything other than woman. There is the briefest instant of discomfort, I warrant. But afterward, what bliss suffuses the mind and frame of the patient! I beseech you, madam: set a moment of pain against a lifetime of misery and debilitation. I wager I can guess which you would select as the preferred path for the remainder of your daughter’s life.’

  Ma sucks her teeth.

  ‘Why are you talking to her?’ I roar. I cling to my skirts, holding them tightly across my knees. ‘You will not touch me. You are a charlatan.’

  ‘I don’t need to gaze up your skirts, young lady,’ he murmurs. ‘I know what I would find.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I do not need to look. No amateurish fumbling. I can tell you without doubt that I should find the clitoris somewhat enlarged. Oh, madam, consider the danger of tribadism …’ His words trail off. ‘The labia minora will be much beautified by trimming them’ – he clicks his fingers – ‘away.’

  I swallow heavily. I understand less than half of the long-winded words he employs, but know enough to be terrified. ‘Trimming?’ I whisper.

  ‘You will comply. Your mother demands it. I demand it. No one has disobeyed me to date, nor do I envisage that state of affairs changing today.’

  I glare at Ma. ‘You’d have this done to your own daughter?’

  ‘For your own good,’ she chants, eyes glassy.

  Dr Zambeco throws a languid glance at Mr Atkinson, blocking the way out like a pungent Cerberus. My heart hammers; sweat trickles down my ribs and soaks my blouse. I have to get away from these fiends. If I must dissemble and play the hapless damsel to buy myself some time, so be it.

  I make a big show of directing my attention at an inner door, set in the wall behind the desk. I stare at it intently for a full two seconds before looking away, furtively, as though discovered in something. The doctor laughs, as I hoped he might.

  ‘Observe, Mr Atkinson! How feeble and transparent are the mental faculties of females. The subject seeks a way to escape, without realising that the door at which she gazes so hopefully leads into a cupboard. Perhaps we should permit her to examine it.’

  Mr Atkinson giggles. ‘Once again, your observations are most instructive, sir.’

  The doctor claps his hands. ‘Enough of this sport. There is more than enough here for the Lancet. You,’ he growls at me. ‘Take off your clothes.’

  I sigh, and pray it sounds submissive. ‘You have me, sir,’ I say. His eyes glitter. ‘May I be permitted to undress myself behind a screen?’ I enquire, looking a
t the rug.

  There is a wet sound, of moistened lips smacking gently.

  ‘There is no need for such bashfulness,’ he says. ‘We are medical men.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I say.

  I begin to unbutton my collar. Their attention does not wander from the hesitant action of my fingers.

  ‘Note the coquettish behaviour,’ says the doctor with the slightest catch in his voice. He clears his throat. ‘They cannot help themselves. Just as noted by Professor Baker.’

  ‘I could not agree more,’ answers Mr Atkinson, a little croakily.

  I pause. ‘Sir,’ I breathe huskily. ‘May I retain my stays, and remove only my skirt and petticoats?’

  ‘No, you may not. Everything. Undergarments also. It is your lower portions which are of interest to me.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I will do exactly as you wish,’ I say. I glance upwards through my eyelashes. There is a spot of pink upon each of his cheeks, as though someone has pinched them hard. ‘May I stand, sir, to make my task easier?’

  The humility of my manner puts him off his guard. He nods, leans backwards and stretches out his legs. I stand, very slowly, as if the effort fatigues me. I push the chair to one side and take a discreet step aside, concealing the movement by unfastening my under-chemise and pulling it open to reveal the scant curve of my breasts. I’ve no intention of removing it, but need to make it appear as if I am about to.

  The doctor tips his chair and hoists his heels on to the desk. Mr Atkinson slumps against the door frame, his smirk replaced by something far hungrier. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and as he does so I notice a tenting in his trousers, in the region of the fly. They continue to speak to each other in low murmurs that make my hair stand on end.

  ‘See how she desires treatment. How compliant she is now she knows what we intend.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ gloats Mr Atkinson.

  With a great deal of unnecessary rustling, I pretend to undo my skirt, lowering one of my stockings until it sags around the ankle.

  ‘In this case, excision is the only answer.’

  ‘Cauterisation?’

  ‘Yes. With the iron. Prepare the bed, Mr Atkinson. If you please.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mr Atkinson leaves his post, opens the cupboard and begins to haul out a metal bench, an unwieldy contraption with stirrups at one end and leather cuffs dangling at the other. As he drags it across the carpet, its clawed feet stick fast. Dr Zambeco rolls his eyes and goes to Mr Atkinson’s assistance. Under cover of their exertions, I survey the room. The window is the sort operated with a handle. It is open a fraction.

  ‘Ma,’ I bleat. ‘I’m so shy. Can’t you screen me?’

  She huffs a complaint, but takes up position between myself and the two men, spreading her arms to preserve what she imagines is feminine modesty. It may give me the few seconds I need. It has to. I spring to the window, shove it open and hop on to the sill.

  With a curse I thought reserved for stevedores, Dr Zambeco lunges towards me and crashes into Ma. Both of them sprawl flat on their faces, Ma squawking like a hen. Undeterred, the doctor clambers over the toppled stump of her body and grabs my ankle. I kick like the mule I am accused of being and have the considerable satisfaction of hearing his answering yelp. Mr Atkinson lumbers to his assistance but I’m not hanging around for him to get his paws on my petticoats.

  I peer out of the window. The roadway is thronged with carts. I have one chance. I seize it. Bundling my shawl about my head I leap and, like Icarus, for one glorious moment dance on air.

  By some great good fortune I land, not on the cobbles fifteen feet below, but on a wagon piled with sacks stuffed with vegetables. From the bulging feel of them, cabbages. I promise the angel who has redeemed me that I will henceforth eat cabbage at every meal and write odes praising the life-preserving properties of brassicas of all descriptions.

  I stretch out on the sacks and stare at the sky. I have a suspicion that Dr Zambeco does not indulge in anything as ungainly as pursuit and pray I am proved right. As I wait for my breath to return, for I’ve been badly winded by the tumble, I send up a further prayer that this wagon may transform into a fairy-tale conveyance and carry me to a safe haven far from Manchester. But street by street, mile by mile, the bricks grow grubbier, windows clot with dirt, paint peels, and I know we are approaching the city.

  I experiment with moving my arms and legs. All seems whole, although every one of my bones aches. What a crop of bruises I’m going to have. I imagine the canvas of my skin painted with their garish hues. I button my blouse to the neck, pull up my stockings and wrap my shawl tight. When the wagon halts at the gate of a market, I dismount with a thank you to the driver, who scratches his head with an air of bemusement.

  ‘Where are we?’ I ask.

  ‘Shudehill,’ he snorts. ‘You daft, or something?’

  He lets down the back of the cart and proceeds to unload it. Realising I’ll get no further enlightenment, I look around. I’m not precisely lost, but nor do I know exactly where I am. I’ve never had any call to venture further than the market on Denmark Street, yet this place bears an unusual familiarity. I try to reason that all markets look the same, yet cannot shift the conviction I’ve been here before, many times. This is not possible: the events of the past two hours must have scrambled my brains.

  I loiter at the gate. I’ll have no peace until I prove one way or the other if I’m mistaken. I slip through the carts and pedestrians and enter the hall. It is much like Denmark Street market, save far bigger and a great deal noisier. I can barely move for the squeeze of bodies. Gangs of lads small and not so small are making a general nuisance of themselves, dashing back and forth and stealing from the stalls. One lass weighing out toffees shoots me a dirty look before wrinkling her brow in confusion, otherwise no one pays me any mind.

  I close my eyes and see a ghost of myself strolling these aisles, hands in his pockets. This dream-self laughs as we gallop between the stalls, creating mayhem. My senses, already reeling, stutter afresh. We? Who is this imagined self whom I recollect so easily, who feels so real? Perhaps I am as barmy as Ma says.

  I am overcome with a wave of nausea so intense I have to grasp the nearest table to prevent myself from falling. My thighs tremble; my heart shudders in and out of rhythm. I swallow a mouthful of bile as I remember what those doctors – I shake my head wildly, causing a stab of discomfort in my ribs – what those brutes planned for me. What Ma was going to let them do. My fancy conjures up the stink of hot iron. No wonder I feel as though I’m going mad.

  I consider my options. Home is no longer safe, if indeed it ever was. Being yelled at is one thing, the events of this morning another. How can a mother do such a terrible thing? However, all I’m doing is delaying the inevitable return. There is nowhere to go but The Comet.

  I wrap my shawl around my head, hug the wall and keep my eyes down. I walk carefully, so as not to exacerbate the ache in my bones, but not so slowly as to make no progress. As I trudge, it strikes me that I am adopting the gait and bearing of every other female on the street. We scuttle like rats, as if we have no right to breathe the outdoor air. I’ve walked these streets a hundred times and never before remarked upon it. My mind aches with the effort of thinking, so I let it drift into blankness.

  I enter through the back gate. I close the door carefully as if it is made not of solid wood but of tissue paper. My grandmother is in the kitchen, stuffing tobacco into a pipe. I fold my shawl over the back of the chair and stare at the room as a stranger might. The chairs crouch around the table. A pair of boots click their heels before the hearth, which is stacked with fresh wood, ready to catch fire as soon as a hand sets a vesta to the kindling. On the kitchen table sit three large potatoes and a package of brown paper. By the smell of it, bacon. I tuck my hands into my armpits and shiver.

  ‘Where’s Ma?’ I stutter.

  ‘I thought she was with you,’ says Nana, concentrating on the pipe. She tamps the
bowl with a broad, capable thumb. I shake my head, stiffly.

  ‘I’m putting the kettle on,’ she says. ‘You look like you could do with a brew.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She lights a spill from the range and sucks the pipe-stem until the flame catches. A stone is stuck in my throat. I am unable to swallow it down. My eyes water, salty.

  ‘Sit down, girl. Before you fall down.’

  I obey. A cup of tea is held before me. I stare at it in a daze. Nana shakes it and the rattle startles me awake.

  ‘It’s good and sweet.’

  She sounds a great way off. I raise my hand and take the saucer with the curious sensation that I am observing another person do so. I lift the cup to my lips and take a sip. It is hot, almost too hot. The heat draws me back to the room. Something in my chest is twisting. I can’t be crying, for I’m making no sound, but my lap is spotted with tears.

  A slice of bread and dripping appears before me. Nana’s forefinger and thumb grip the plate, but are unconnected to any person called grandmother. It might be a floating plate conjured up by a magician. I take a mouthful and immediately begin to choke. A hand massages my back, patting firmly until the crust dislodges, pops out of my mouth and lands on my knee. I stare at it, marked with the half-crescent of my teeth.

  ‘Just drink the tea, Edie.’ That is definitely my grandmother’s voice, deep and calming. An Atlantic ocean of a voice.

  Great sobs burst out of my breast as I weep for the girl I was, for the girl I wanted to be, for the pain of every humiliation dealt out by Ma: for every time she’s told me I am wrong, or sick, a perversion of nature, a sin, a punishment. I weep for what almost happened today, for what Ma wanted to have done.

  Nana does not tell me to shush. Her hand rests light between my shoulder blades. My face is sticky, as is my hair. The short curls hang in rats’ tails in front of my nose.

  ‘Now,’ I hear her say. ‘When you’re able, we’ll have something to eat.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’