The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  ‘I’ll not press you,’ she replies. ‘Whatever it was, it’ll keep an hour. I shall not make you live through the retelling until you’re good and ready.’

  I nod my gratitude. By some alchemy, a damp towel is produced and she wipes my face clean.

  ‘So,’ she says after I’ve eaten a portion of potato and bacon and have washed it down with another cup of tea.

  ‘It’s Ma,’ I whisper.

  Word by halting word, I speak the awful truth. She listens without interruption. When I am done, she pulls me to her breast and rocks me as if I am still a little girl. I offer no resistance. She hugs me so close I’m afraid I’ll burst with love. No. Something fiercer than love. I draw my knees to my chin and weep again. When I am done, she wipes my nose on her apron.

  ‘We must talk,’ she says. ‘This state of affairs has gone on long enough. You are plenty old enough. In fact, you should have been told from the start. That is my guilt and mine alone for going along with your ma’s wishes.’

  ‘Nana?’ I sniff.

  ‘You have burned with questions. It is to my eternal shame that I have not answered them. I shall make amends, as best I can.’ She shakes herself. ‘This family is unlike any other. But it is not a curse, as your mother would have it, nor is any of it your fault. Whatever you have been told.’

  I nod. Not because I understand, but because I’m desperate for her to continue and fear that if I so much as cough, she’ll stop.

  ‘You have had strange dreams all your life, have you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re frightened of your own shadow.’

  That’s it, I say to myself. I have a shadow and I am terrified.

  ‘What you call nightmares are no such thing. They are half-memories.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Not of what. Of whom.’

  Ice inches down my spine. Without knowing how, his name springs to my lips. ‘Gnome?’ I say.

  ‘Yes, Gnome, Herbert. Whatever he calls himself.’

  ‘I thought he was all in my head. A nightmare.’

  Memories rush in with such force my head spins and I slide to the floor. She lays her hand upon my shoulder and secures me with its anchor.

  ‘He’s no dream. You must have seen it happen.’

  ‘Seen what?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘The change, Edie.’ She waggles her fingers in the direction of my private parts.

  I flush crimson. ‘I never look – down there. God is watching. He’d see me – looking. It is dirty. Ma says.’

  ‘Your ma needs a good …’ she growls, and presses her lips together as if holding in something dangerous. Her fingers comb moist hair off my forehead. She smiles and is tender once more. ‘He is real. He is half of you.’

  ‘You mean I look more like a boy than I do a girl?’ I ask. ‘I know. Ma reminds me every day.’

  ‘That’s not it at all,’ she says. ‘The two of you share one body.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ I say, half-laughing.

  ‘It is, my love. You by day and he by night.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It wasn’t always that way. When you were young, you were as restless and happy as …’ Her voice drifts into a wistful silence. Fireworks shimmer between my ears. Gnome and I dancing so close, there was no need for … There was neither …

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head free of sparks.

  ‘Your ma put paid to that,’ she sighs. ‘Stamped it down. I should’ve stood up to her.’

  ‘No!’ I say, louder. ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Today of all days, I would not lie to you. Your ma and I are the same.’

  ‘Stop it!’ I cry, and slap my hands over my ears.

  Her words trickle through my fingers. ‘Of course, we have our own arrangements. Your Uncle Arthur – well, he is your ma’s other half. Not that he gets a fair share,’ she mutters.

  ‘That can’t be right,’ I say. ‘Uncle Arthur is the best – the kindest – He’s got nothing to do with Ma!’I struggle free of her embrace, dash up the stairs, dive into my room and slam the door behind me. I pace the floor in a turmoil. In an hour, The Comet will be full of drinkers. If Nana is to be believed, I am as distant from those men and women as the moon from the earth. I can’t believe her. It is impossible.

  Granted, I am an unfeminine girl, with a big nose and bigger feet.

  People take me for a boy in dim light.

  What does that signify? Nothing.

  Nana is exaggerating.

  But to choose such a cruel falsehood.

  This can’t be the answer I’ve sought so long. It is too monstrous.

  I stagger across the rug, footing as unsure as a drunkard too far gone in his cups. Nausea rises, inch by sickening inch, and I am compelled to lie down, as if commanded.

  Good, says a voice closer than my own skin. Can’t have you falling over and cracking your noggin on the bedpost. Last thing I want is a black eye.

  It is not my voice, yet springs from within. I recognise it. It is the voice that pulled me out of the snowdrift, that sent the gingery man packing. No. This is ridiculous.

  ‘You are a dream,’ I reply. ‘You have to be.’

  Laughter billows through my innards, as if I’ve swallowed a sparrow.

  Step aside. It’s my turn.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You are a figment of my imagination.’

  I don’t know why I’m answering. Even to think of him is to prove my lunacy. It will be just as Ma foretold: I’ll be carted off and locked up in a sanatorium and live on bread and water while rats nibble my toes.

  Hush your everlasting racket! he chides. It’s enough to make me deaf.

  ‘Gnome?’ I utter the outlaw name, the name I have been terrified to think, let alone speak. ‘Are you real?’

  What a stupid question. It’s clear who has the brains in this godforsaken family.

  ‘Nana told me – about us. I don’t know what to believe.’

  What I can’t believe is that you’re so dim you couldn’t work it out for yourself. Good Lord, Edie. Here I am yattering away and you still doubt? You’re stupider than I thought.

  ‘But Ma says—’

  Baa, baa, black sheep, you are quite the fool, he chants. Yes, Mam, no, Mam, three bags full. I have a sister with lard for brains.

  ‘I’m not your sister. I’m—’

  Shut up! Shove over.

  I watch as my fingers begin to undo my blouse.

  Help me with these dashed buttons. They’re so fiddly. You have wasted half the night with your jabber.

  He pulls it over my head and tosses it into the corner where it collapses in a forlorn heap. I watch, lost for words, as my hands strip me of skirt, undergarments, stockings and all.

  ‘But it’s not dark for an hour.’

  So? This is your final warning, he glowers. My fingers form a vice and tweak my buttock. It’s my turn!

  ‘Ow! Nothing is anyone’s turn. Why am I even talking to you? You’re in my head. Look.’ I flourish a hand, indicating my paltry breasts, the neat bush of hair at the groin. Every inch of its geography is undeniably mine, and female. ‘I’m Edie. I’m a girl.’

  Oh shut up, Edie. You’re as bad as Mam.

  ‘I’m nothing like her!’

  Move over!

  ‘Gnome, stop it. Please.’ I’ve read about earthquakes, and one has begun to thunder in my belly. The mattress shudders and I shudder with it. ‘What’s happening to me? It hurts.’

  We’ve hardly begun, he says. This will be a night to remember. Watch!

  ‘I don’t want to. I won’t.’

  I shut my eyes, but the lids are prised open. My neck twists and I am forced to stare at my naked body. My skin is rippling, like a pot when it comes close to the boil.

  No, I say, my voice muffled.

  ‘Yes,’ he hisses.

  I watch. With each quiver, my breasts shrink. Bit by bit they are swallowed into my ribs until only the nipples show, small and hard as coa
t buttons.

  What are you doing to me? I say. The words ring in my skull.

  ‘You’ve almost gone,’ he leers. ‘Look.’

  A tide sweeps across my stomach to the place between my thighs. The lips swell, fat as mushroom caps, darkening from pink to biscuit brown. Petals of flesh unfold and a soft tip appears between them. I am flooded with warmth as blood dashes from my head to nourish this new growth.

  It’s too much, I whimper. I’ll burst.

  ‘Me,’ he purrs.

  My bones are on fire. The thing between my legs stretches, tearing me inside out. Wrench by agonising wrench it lengthens until it lies athwart my thigh, the length of my thumb. His voice echoes around the room, deep and sonorous.

  ‘You still don’t get it, do you? It’s not your thigh, your thumb. It’s mine.’

  Gnome?

  ‘Ah, the penny’s finally dropped,’ he jeers. ‘Ta da! Here I am. Right. Where are my trousers?’

  Gnome, wait—

  ‘Gnome, wait!’ he lisps.

  Listen. This is important. Ma tried to—

  ‘Make poor ickle Edie take castor oil? Who cares? I don’t.’

  My protests are as insignificant as two peas rattling in a tin. This is not madness. I wish it were. Gnome is no dream I can leave on my pillow in the morning. This intense and wayward inner being, this wild and ungovernable creature who has haunted me like a ghost, is no phantasm. All mysteries lead to him.

  I have managed to hold myself together for the past few hours – years, it feels like – but can do so no longer. The stitches holding soul and body together unravel and the fabric of what I call my self rips at the seams. Darkness rushes into the breach. I can’t hold my head above its swirling depths. I can fight against him no longer. I give in, let go and fall into nothing.

  GNOME

  1902

  So the monumental dullard has finally figured it out. It makes not a blind bit of difference. I shall carry on in my own sweet way; take what is rightfully mine. If I’ve set up shop a few hours early, so be it. She can’t stop me.

  Brave words can’t mask my trembling. I cannot shake off the conviction that I’ve escaped from mortal danger by the skin of my pearly whites. I throw off the swaddling blanket and scan the shadows as though there’s an assassin planted there, knife in hand and ready to strike me down. A scrap of gaslight slants through the window and I can see everything is as it should be: the curtains lank and threadbare, the jug in its crack-glazed basin. However, my teeth won’t stop chattering. I want nothing more than to jump out of the window, take to my heels and never return.

  Maybe she did have something to tell me. I can’t see precisely what she’s been up to – I never have been able to – but I must get to the bottom of it. I slip into the crevices between us, catch up on her long slide down.

  ‘What were you trying to tell me?’

  I know what we are, she says, words bubbling in a ticklish stream.

  ‘Yes, yes. That’s not what I asked. What happened today?’

  She sinks away without further answer. It can’t have been anything important. Some female nonsense I’ll be bound; hysterics at the revelation of the completely bloody obvious. Nothing to concern myself over. I wait for my heart to steady, my breath to even out.

  Time to get down to business. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut and I for one don’t blame it. I take the stairs two at a time and am scouting around in search of a morsel when Mam lumbers through the door with a tray of dirty glasses. Her mouth flaps: open and shut, open and shut.

  ‘Oh!’ she says, with a hunted expression. ‘It’s you.’ The words dribble to a halt.

  ‘That’s me, Mam. Large as life and twice as natural.’ I spread my arms. ‘Aren’t you going to give your precious son a hug?’

  She shrinks away and comes up hard against the chair. The glasses rattle. She sits heavily, not taking her eyes off me for a second.

  ‘I’ve got to get these clean,’ she says.

  I grin. She’s on the back foot for some reason and that suits me fine.

  ‘Let me do that,’ I say. ‘No! Don’t you stir a finger.’ I slop water into the sink and dunk the glasses, one by one. Mam watches my every move. ‘Isn’t this nice,’ I say. ‘A mother and her son, enjoying each other’s company.’

  ‘Yes,’ she breathes, shivering like a grubby blancmange.

  I stuff a dishcloth into a wet glass and twist. Breathe on the glass and rub again. Hold it under the gaslight and admire the sparkle.

  ‘You’re – early,’ she gulps.

  ‘Is that such a terrible thing, dearest Mam? You’re acting like you’ve seen the devil himself.’ Her cheeks grow paler. I didn’t think a person could appear so ghastly green and not be dead. I follow the scent of her fright. It reeks of guilt. ‘Or wanted to see.’

  I polish another glass and then wring out the cloth. She glances towards the door.

  ‘I ought to get back. To the bar. It’s time to open up.’

  ‘Don’t you want to be with me, Mam? Don’t you love your special man any more?’

  The arrow strikes. She quails, as though I’ve brained her with a poker. I draw up a stool, plonk myself on to it, take her hand and pat it. She tries to draw away but I hang on.

  ‘Why don’t you tell dear Gnome what’s got into you.’

  ‘Son – Gnome …’

  Inspiration strikes. ‘What’s my nasty sister been doing to my dearest mam, eh?’

  She crumples, clapping a hand across her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean …’ she warbles, the words half drowned by her fingers. ‘You’ve always been the one I wanted!’

  She rocks to and fro, whining oh my, oh Lord and other drivel until I am on the verge of slapping some sense into her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. ‘Everyone blames me! I do the best I can! No one knows how I suffer, no one!’

  She rocks backwards and forwards. Idiot she may be, but I’ve never seen her so out of her meagre wits. Something has prompted this caterwauling. Whatever it is, it’s giving me a prize bellyache. The cellar door opens and Grandma stomps into the kitchen, dragging a loaded coal scuttle.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ she grunts. ‘Thanks for all the help.’

  ‘That’s a fine way to greet your grandson,’ I say primly. I rub my hands together in an encouraging fashion. ‘Now you’re here, how about a nice bit of supper?’

  ‘You want to eat, fix it yourself. We’ve work to be getting on with. Unless you want to lend one of your idle hands? No. I didn’t think so.’

  ‘Charming.’

  She proceeds to make a pot of tea, without asking if anyone else wants to join her. She pours a cup and adds three spoonfuls of sugar, tinkling the spoon as she stirs. She observes me in that odd way of hers that lies between humour and pity.

  ‘You’re before time,’ she muses, taking a slurp of the steaming brew. ‘I wondered if Edie would get scared off after what your mother tried to do.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Mam makes a strangled sound. Grandma rolls her eyes and gulps more tea.

  ‘The two of you are better than a star turn at the Hippodrome. Her and her flannel and you gormless enough to swallow it.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Your mother took you to the doctor, didn’t she?’

  ‘I’ve been no such place,’ I declare.

  Mam presses her hands over her ears and starts to low like a cow.

  ‘You can lay off the histrionics,’ barks my grandmother. ‘I know you can hear me.’ She leans over the table and deals my mother a hefty crack across the chops. The smack rings out like a gunshot. ‘You’ve got lard for brains, Cissy. What do you think would’ve happened to Gnome if that butcher had got his way?’

  Mam clutches her face, lower lip wobbling. ‘I—’

  ‘You didn’t think, did you? You’d have lost the lad forever, as like as not.’

  ‘No,’ whispers Mam. She lo
oks as if she’s been hit with a shovel. ‘It wouldn’t …’

  ‘What are you two witches talking about?’ I cry.

  ‘You’re luckier than you have any idea,’ Grandma continues, looking at me. ‘Your loving mother was of a mind to get you fixed. Like you would a bullock.’ My chin drops to the table. ‘She would have done it too. If Edie – you, that is – hadn’t jumped out of the window. She cares about you more than you know.’

  I stand up so quickly the stool goes flying. ‘No! I don’t believe you!’

  ‘It hardly matters whether you believe it or not. It happened.’

  I turn on my mother, cowering in the chair.

  ‘Gnome,’ she whimpers. ‘My beloved boy.’

  ‘Bloody women,’ I spit. ‘You can’t be trusted.’ I make for the door but Grandma lays a hand on my sleeve. ‘You and all,’ I snap. ‘Conniving harpies, every last one of you.’ To my surprise, her face cracks in a smile. ‘I’m glad I amuse you. What’s so funny?’

  ‘You haven’t got the brains you were born with. You’re as much a woman as the rest of us. Gnome, Edie, both, neither …’

  ‘I’m not!’ I roar.

  She throws her hands in the air. ‘For goodness’ sake. I don’t know who’s worse, you or your mother. I’ve had enough of this. If I could leave …’ She slumps, as though someone has pulled out the rug from under her anger. ‘Gnome,’ she sighs. ‘I entreat you. This is no game. You and Edie must come to a better arrangement before—’

  ‘Stop telling me what to do! Edie this, Edie that. You’re not the only one who is sick to the back teeth of this sodding family. Don’t you think I’d be shot of you if I could? Don’t you think I’d jump on the first train away?’

  My words trail off. She is too old to change her ways. I am not. Instead of arguing the toss I take to my heels and do precisely what I want. Which is to go to the only place that feels like home.

  I head for the tea-stand in the hope of finding Jessie. She’s the only one who understands, the only one who listens. Every Friday night I’ve been buying her a quarter-pound of chocolates, regular as clockwork. Clever as she is, thieving will get a body into trouble and I’ll not have that. I don’t care how many saucy glances she bestows on older fellows, or that our promenades are cut short when one of them falls into step beside us and mutters in her ear. It’s me she talks with. Me she walks with.