She’s propping up the counter, rubbing elbows with a woman with hair the colour of a ripe banana.
‘Gnome!’ cries Jessie and lurches in my direction. ‘How’s my favourite little man this evening?’
Now would be a very good time to say all the better for seeing you, but my tongue wraps around the words and won’t let them go.
‘Less of the little,’ I grunt, hands in my pockets.
She folds an arm around my shoulder and tugs me so close I smell the gin heavy on her breath. I soak up the embrace like blotting paper.
‘Come on, give us a smile,’ she says, patting my cheek.
I pat her hand away. ‘Suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of tea,’ I mutter, like I don’t care either way.
She gives me a look that’s half-soppy, half-regretful. ‘That’d be nice. Really it would. But I’m off home.’
‘What, already?’
‘Had a couple of toffs pass through, didn’t we?’ The yellow-haired woman brays a laugh that could crack marble. ‘I’m getting an early night. Oh, look at you. You’ve got a face like you’ve found a penny and lost sixpence.’
‘No I haven’t,’ I grumble.
Jessie shakes her parasol and prances away, waggling her backside. I fold my arms and glower. She glances over her shoulder and jerks her head.
‘You stopping there all night?’ she says. ‘Come on.’
I hop to her side and ease into step beside her.
‘Cheer up,’ she trills.
‘Thought you said you were going home,’ I say, hanging on to my scowl.
‘I am. You may escort me.’
‘Don’t see why I should,’ I grunt, without making any attempt to go.
‘Please yourself. I shan’t drag you.’
She sweeps along the pavement and I scurry after. By the time we’ve reached her lodgings and I’ve struggled up the half-dozen flights of stairs to her room, I’m gasping for air. She unlocks the door and pauses. She wears an odd expression, as though she’s changed her mind about granting me entrance.
‘Come in, if you’ve a mind to,’ she says. ‘You’re letting the heat out.’
She flounders into the room and turns up the gas.
I don’t know what I expect, but it is not the disordered scene that unfolds. The room has not been so much touched by a woman’s hand as seized in its grip and throttled. It sags under a burden of drapes, cushions and ornaments all in need of the duster. I wait for her to beg pardon for the mess, but she picks her way through as though it is not there.
I trail after, an intrepid explorer in need of a map. Dominating the room is a vast bed, piled so high with bolsters and quilts the hardiest of mountaineers would balk at scaling it without a length of sturdy rope fastened about his middle. A mirror is propped at one end, draped with red gauze. When I catch a glimpse of myself my cheeks are flushed crimson.
I make my way to the fireplace, discarded crusts crunching underfoot. In the grate are a cracked firedog, three mismatched pokers and a scuttle with such a sizeable hole I wonder how she carries coal without it tumbling out. The mantel is stacked with picture postcards. I pluck one from its place: a portly female clad in nothing but a crown of feathers, grinning as she wraps her heels around her neck and displays the dark gash between her legs. Her eyes look like they’ve been scratched out with a pen nib. Heaviness settles in my privates. I shove the card whence it came and direct my attention elsewhere. A fringed shawl drapes over a chair, sagging under the weight of embroidered flowers. I slip the fabric through my fingers.
‘That’s made of the best Chinese silk, that is,’ says Jessie proudly.
‘It feels like water. Without being wet.’
She chuckles wistfully, a sound quite unlike her habitual cackle. ‘Given me by a mandarin. So entranced was he by my beauty that he gave me twenty-one pearls: one for each toe, one for each finger and one for luck.’
‘Where are they?’
She flutters her fingers. ‘Somewhere.’ She looks around and frowns as though she has suddenly found herself in the room of a stranger. ‘Bugger me. Look at the state of this place. How did it get like this?’
She does not appear to require an answer, so I don’t offer one. I examine the ceiling, as that seems to be the safest course of action. There’s a delta of cracks in the plaster, fanning out in cocoa-coloured tracks. Women are bloody funny creatures. If I agree with her about the chaos, she’ll tear my head off. If I come out with some rot about it not being too bad, she’ll as likely do the same.
She bustles about, scooping up armfuls of gloves, boots, under-petticoats, over-petticoats, stockings and corsets, all of them dangling with ribbons and dingy lace. She casts about for somewhere to stow them, but the tallboy is stuffed. With a resigned shrug of her shoulders, she shoves the whole kit and caboodle under the bed, which is already so chock-a-block I’m surprised its feet aren’t lifted off the floor.
‘That’s better,’ she pants. She straightens up so hastily that she winces. ‘I’m not suited to housework,’ she says. ‘When I’ve got a bit put by I’ll get a maid. See if I don’t.’ There’s an edge to her words, as though she expects me to disagree. When I don’t, she adds, in the same sharp tone, ‘I suppose you’re going to lecture me about my slatternly ways.’
‘Not a bit of it. My mam has a passion for tidying. Pick this up, pick that up, sweep the floor. Drives a fellow mad, so it does.’
She rubs the small of her back and grimaces. ‘You’re lucky you’ve got someone looking out for you.’
‘Me, lucky? She’s an interfering old trout.’
‘Gnome!’ she squawks. ‘You should talk about your mother with more respect.’
She picks up a glove and chucks it at my head. It trails over my shoulder. I throw it back, but she ducks and it disappears behind the dressing table.
‘Missed by a mile!’ she crows. ‘You couldn’t hit a barn door at five paces!’
There is plenty of ammunition at my feet. I grab a petticoat. She catches it, wraps it around her shoulders and sticks out her tongue. I follow it with a hat, another glove, a shawl and a boot. She catches whatever I toss until she is wearing three mismatched pairs of gloves, two hats and goodness knows how many petticoats.
‘Don’t I look grand!’ she sings. ‘Quite the lah-di-dah lady!’ She removes one of the hats and plants it on my head. ‘As for you – what a peach!’
‘Get it off me!’ I tear it away, hurl it to the floor and stamp on it.
‘Watch out!’ she cries. ‘That’s my ruddy hat, that is.’
‘I said get it away!’
‘It’s only a game.’
‘Some bloody game.’
‘There’s no pleasing some folk.’ She sniffs and perches on a padded stool before the dressing-mirror.
‘What are you doing now?’
‘Fixing my hair.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your hair.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ she replies, mouth full of hairpins. ‘Go on, make yourself comfy, if you’re stopping, that is.’
I resist the urge to lecture her about the impossibility of comfort in such a midden and lower myself on to the bed. I’m sure the only reason it doesn’t collapse is the quantity of debris shoved underneath. Jessie tugs her hair, looping bits of it around her finger. She doesn’t seem to be in any haste to turf me out, despite my poor manners. In truth, I’m in no hurry to be anywhere else and it is oddly restful to watch her at her toilet.
My gaze wanders over the bottles and candlesticks strewn across the tabletop and alight on a tiny photograph. It’s been snipped into a circle such as would fit a locket. An infant with a startled expression, face weighed down by a mop of curls. Jessie sees me looking and picks it up. She cradles it in her palm as tenderly as if she held the babe himself.
‘I wore him around my neck,’ she whispers, caressing his face with her thumb. ‘Those were different times. A gold locket wouldn’t last five minutes with these neighbours.’ She
hoists her voice to a shout. ‘Would it now!’ she screams, and stamps on the floor.
There’s a muffled cry of whore! from the room below.
‘Who is he?’ I ask, nodding at the little ’un.
‘Was. Charlie.’
The kid looks bilious. Something in her voice is so naked that I keep my lip buttoned. The air hovers, tight and silent. She slaps the picture face down on the table. ‘Anyhow,’ she says with loud gaiety in her voice. ‘How about a nice chocolate?’
She pulls open the drawer and produces a tin big enough to keep my boots in. The lid is embossed with blowsy roses. I think of my paltry Friday offerings, wrapped in brown paper.
‘You won’t be wanting me to buy you sweets when you have gents buying you fancy stuff like that,’ I mumble.
‘Yours are the best I could ask for.’
‘Don’t tell lies. My stuff’s rubbish. Off the market.’
‘That’s as maybe. But they were given by you.’ That sappy look blossoms in her eyes. ‘You’re my ray of sunshine, you are.’
She wraps her arms around me and pulls me close. I ought to shove her away. The thunder-and-lightning, racket-and-riot Gnome wouldn’t stand for it. I close my eyes so I can’t see him. By and by, Jessie’s hand curves around the top of my head and she starts to hum. I burrow deep into her arms and hang on tight, like I’ll drown if I let go. I mustn’t cry. I push my nose into her breast, soft as a loaf rising, and plug up the tears.
But devilish Gnome won’t leave me be. He sneers at the sight of all this tender tomfoolery. Sickening. Pathetic. I’m a disgrace, a suck-a-thumb with a piss-wet nappy, snivelling for his mam. Some man I’m growing up to be. A man wants more. Gets more. I wriggle out of her clutches.
‘Give us a kiss,’ I say with a leer.
She laughs, leans down and I pucker up for the press of her mouth upon mine. She plants a kiss on my forehead.
‘There you go, you little scamp.’
‘Not like that,’ I say, batting her hands aside. ‘Properly. Like you do with men.’
She laughs. ‘Oh dear. That would never do.’
‘Why not?’
Her face grows serious. ‘Don’t,’ she sighs.
‘You think I’m too young, don’t you? I’m not. I’ve kissed lots of girls.’
‘No you haven’t.’
‘I have!’ I cry, face hot. ‘And if I haven’t, why shouldn’t you be the first?’
‘It wouldn’t be right, Gnome,’ she says kindly and rubs my knee. ‘You’ll understand when you get older.’
‘You sound like my mam.’
‘Exactly.’ She sounds sad, and I have no idea why. ‘That’s my point. Don’t you see?’
‘I don’t see at all. Is it money? It is, isn’t it?’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘I can get money,’ I gabble. ‘Easy. How much do you usually charge?’
‘Stop this.’
‘I’ll give you double.’
‘I said shut it!’ Her face screws up, cheeks bright with rouge and the blood that flares beneath. ‘I don’t want to talk about this a moment longer.’
Wisps of hair have escaped their pins and straggle around her face. Lipstick sticks to her teeth and bleeds into her upper lip. The word ugly wriggles on my tongue. If I say it, that’ll be the end of everything. I’ll never set foot in her room again, never know the thrill of her chatter, the sweetmeats of her secrets. I want to stay, more than I could ever admit. At the same time I want to rip the paint off the walls, tear down the room brick by brick and her in it. Fury rages through me like fire through a sugar warehouse. I can’t stop myself.
‘What is it with you bloody women?’ I scream. ‘You’re like the rest of them! All I ever hear is no you can’t, stop, get your hands off, shut up. You’ll do it with anyone who can haul himself up the stairs and put money down. But not me.’
‘That is enough,’ she says. ‘Go home.’
‘I don’t need you!’ I wail.
I thunder down the rickety stairs. I have to get away. Go and never stop, not till I’ve shaken everything off my skin. My head’s too small for all of the nagging, the no, no, no, the nailing down. I can’t think straight. There’s no room for me any more.
I spot a cart trundling away, climb on unnoticed and burrow between chicken coops. Most are unoccupied and the remaining fowl are quiet, heaped in the cages like cushions turned inside out, feathers on the outside. The cart rocks and rattles, sending me into a drowse.
Women. The sum and total of my life’s ills. Every last one of them: Mam, Grandma, bloody Edie, even Arthur. He’s no better than a woman, the half-baked fruitcake. And now Jessie. How I let myself be mollycoddled I don’t know. No more snuffling in her clutches. I’m not her pet. If I let her touch me again, why, it’ll be like she does with her customers. My stomach gripes at the memory of pushing her away. I drag my sleeve across my face. No. Reg was right. Wet-kneed slapper. Whore. Tart. Cow.
I’ll go wherever this wagon is headed, away from the city. I’ll wake up in Wales and be a farmer’s boy. I could fork a haystack in one go if I put my mind to it. Eggs and bacon for breakfast. Milk warm from the cow. Horses to ride and ride. When Edie sticks her nose in, she’ll be so flummoxed she’ll stick it right back out again, so she will. I’ll never set foot in Manchester, let alone The Comet, ever again.
Wales. That’s halfway to Ireland. I spin rainbows of steamships ploughing the ocean, wings on my heels to fly me to the moon. Then—There’s an almighty jolt as the cart shudders to a halt. As my eyes accustom to the half-light I see that we have drawn up in a vast building. It stinks of chicken droppings.
‘You’ve got a big barn, mister,’ I say.
The driver scowls at me. ‘Big barn? Where the bloody hell do you think you are?’
‘A farm?’
‘Bugger off,’ he cackles. ‘It’s Denmark Street sheds and I’m locking up. Shift yourself, unless you want to dig a tunnel.’
The cart has brought me full circle.
When I get indoors, Grandma is lurking in the kitchen. I try to slink past, but she blocks the way with her arm, hefty as a coal-heaver’s.
‘We must have words, Gnome.’
‘No we mustn’t,’ I hiss through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve had a long night.’
‘This has got to stop.’
‘I’ll stay out as late as I choose.’
‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’
‘Don’t.’
She fills the doorway. I never really noticed how much space she takes up. She’s built like a brick outhouse.
‘I’ve spoken to Edie. I’ve tried to make her see sense and I’ll do the same with you.’
‘No point. I’ll not listen.’
‘You will, my lad.’ She claps her paws on me and holds hard. She’s loving every minute of this torture. ‘You and Edie—’
‘Save your breath. I am not her. Never have been, never will be. I am Gnome. The only thing I’m interested in is how to be a boy all of the time.’
‘That’s impossible and you know it. We are part and parcel of each other.’
I bang my fists on the table to drown out her gibberish. ‘It’s making me sick. She is making me sick. I want a cure. One that’ll take her away for ever.’
‘You sound like your mother. Haven’t you had enough of a scare with what she tried to do?’
I can’t think of a smart retort, and it irks me greatly. It doesn’t take long to find my tongue.
‘I’ll run away.’
‘You’ll have to come back.’ She tosses her head angrily. ‘I am not arguing with you like this, Gnome. Round and round you go. Here it is: listen or don’t listen, it’s all the same to me. You and Edie are closer than hand in glove. You can’t run away from yourself. You must understand. You have to.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You are being very foolish.’
‘That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? Little boy, little fool, little Gnome. I didn’t see
you stepping in and stopping Mam from—’ My throat tightens. ‘You didn’t want to stop her, did you?’
‘Gnome! How can you say such a thing?’
‘It’s true, isn’t it? You love Edie more than me.’
‘I love you equally. There’s no difference.’
‘There is. You love her because she doesn’t mind all of … this.’ I wave my hand up and down my body. ‘Mam is right. She hates what we are. I hate it too. It’s vile. It’s against nature.’
‘Nature is far more adventurous than we credit,’ she replies. ‘You are my special—’
‘I don’t want to be special. I want to be like everyone else.’
‘Gnome—’
‘When I grow up, I want to be able to marry a nice girl and not have to hide from her every time I—’ I spit on the rug. ‘I don’t want to watch her face when she finds out how disgusting I am.’
‘We are not disgusting.’
‘Liar!’ I howl. ‘Where’s your husband, or friends for that matter? Where are Mam’s? You see? We can’t let anyone get close. If that’s not lonely, I don’t know what is.’
‘Listen. Let me explain …’
‘No! I’ve had enough of your half-baked explanations!’
I run upstairs. I don’t need her telling me how to live my life. Share and share alike, my eye. How dare the old ratbag tell me to go halves when she does the opposite? Come to think of it, I don’t think she’s cursed in the same way as Edie and me. She can’t be. I’ve never clapped eyes on any grandfather. I shake my head. I don’t give a tuppenny damn what my blasted family do with their lives. The only way out of this is to get away. No grandmother to sneer and make me feel small and stupid. No Edie sneaking in when my guard is down. No mother to plot against my very existence. It’s time to spread my wings.
I’ll save money, so I will. Ma’s cashbox is ripe for the pillaging. A shilling here, a shilling there. It won’t take long to steal enough for a train. Liverpool, London. When I’m there I shall – My thoughts hiccup to a halt. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I’m clever, me. Smart as a box of monkeys and smarter. I’ll work something out. Things are going to change from this moment onwards.
The Night Brother Page 13