The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  EDIE

  1902–4

  I tread the path to remembering and yearn for my days of innocence, when I thought myself no more than a clumsy girl in need of lessons in feminine comportment.

  I was not, am not, mad.

  What I am is worse than lunacy. Gnome is not some half-forgotten nightmare. He is real. Together we make up the oddest creature ever to live.

  If I imagine that this revelation might bring about a rapprochement between Ma and myself I am sorely mistaken. She is as harsh as ever and flat out refuses to speak about our strangeness, as if silence might deny its existence. However, I am a practical lass and reason that truth – however inexplicable – is preferable to a life of shoving down suspicions, of denying what my eyes can see but my mind cannot allow. If I am to be lonely, then at least I shall be free of frightful imaginings.

  The weeks pass following my awakening and, to my surprise, Gnome becomes kind, even pleasant. He takes no more time than his due, nor does he get into scrapes that earn a whipping. He folds my petticoats over the chair so that I no longer need to root around under the bed. He even polishes his boots.

  I should be grateful. But suspicion prickles, like a spider walking up my arm and stirring the hair.

  It takes a minute to locate the loose skirting board behind my bed, a minute more to extract a sock filled with cash. I whistle at the number of coins: more than eight pounds, sovereigns too. I’ll wager my hat not one farthing was obtained by honest means. I dump the lot on the kitchen table and tell Ma she should keep a closer watch on the takings. Not that I get a crumb of thanks. She wears such a curious expression I wonder if she’s in on it. Even Nana looks at me askance. I don’t know why I bother.

  Gnome and I shuttle back and forth, back and forth, his night following my day. The months blur into each other and become years: I do household chores morning and evening and in between I assist Ma and Nana with the smooth running of the beerhouse.

  I cling to the refuge of the library. Every moment I can spare without incurring too many objections, I dash there eager as a child to the arms of a loving parent. I read with a new determination that one day I may turn the page and find myself reflected. I might. If I do not, why, I will nourish my starved mind whilst I search.

  One morning, shortly after my seventeenth birthday, I am seated at the breakfast table, stirring my porridge absent-mindedly and leafing though the newspaper, which is greasy from the chips wrapped in it the previous evening.

  ‘Stop playing with your food like a savage,’ Ma says. ‘Have some manners.’

  ‘Isn’t it too late for such niceties?’ I reply, shovelling in a mouthful of oatmeal. ‘You tell me repeatedly there’s no hope.’

  She sticks out her lower lip. ‘I may have to accept what you are,’ she mutters. ‘But don’t expect a pennyweight more.’

  ‘I can hardly miss what I never possessed,’ I reply, affecting a cavalier air I do not feel.

  I return my attention to the newspaper. A train puffs out a wreath of smoke, advertising trips to Blackpool. The last thing Gnome needs is any encouragement, so I turn the page quickly.

  I’m greeted by a quarter-page illustration of a statue, accompanied by the banner headline: The Sculptures Travel North. The editorial describes a new exhibition of masterworks taken from the Lycian tombs. I’ve no idea where Lycia is, but the sculptures have caused a sensation in London, according to the breathless prose, which is sprinkled with words like apogee, illustrious and astonishing as freely as pepper.

  The journalist expresses disappointment that Manchester is not to be graced with the original carvings, which are far too fragile to venture from the British Museum. We are to satisfy ourselves with plaster casts, although very good ones. My breath will be taken away, I am assured. In particular, he gushes, the Nereid Tomb must be admired.

  Very well, I say to myself. Admire it I will. This moment, to boot. I fold the paper, push myself away from the table and proceed out of the kitchen.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ barks Ma.

  I stand before the hall mirror and adjust my hat. ‘I don’t think I’m going anywhere. I’m off out and that’s the long and the short of it.’

  ‘The sauce! While you are under my roof you will address me with the respect I deserve.’

  ‘Respect!’ I snort. I glare down my nose at her. In addition to existing unwomanly attributes, I’ve added a further span of inches to my height. She is the first to look away. I draw on my gloves and take my time about it.

  ‘You’re running around with suffragettes, aren’t you?’ she fumes.

  ‘No,’ I reply wearily. It is not the first time she’s accused me of this and I am sure it won’t be the last. ‘I am visiting the Museum.’ I slide notebook and pencil into my bag and swing it over one shoulder.

  ‘Liar!’ she squawks. ‘A child of mine, cavorting with those awful women. The very thought!’

  ‘I said Museum, Mother,’ I say dryly. ‘But now you pique my interest. Perhaps I shall attend a rally after all.’

  ‘How dare you talk so rudely to your elders and betters!’

  ‘Elders, yes,’ I drawl.

  Her face flushes to the roots of her hair. ‘Go, then! Jump in the canal! Earn a few bob on Minshull Street if any bloke is blind enough to fancy your ugly mug. I wash my hands of you.’

  ‘Thank you for your kind solicitations, Mother dear.’

  ‘Get out!’ she screams.

  ‘My pleasure. It is what I have been trying to do this past half-hour.’

  The library is my first and dearest love, my primer and encyclopaedia. Over the years I have cast my net wider, venturing through the portals of both the Art Gallery and the Museum. Variety is the spice of life: I visited the library yesterday, and today will be the turn of the Museum.

  I may not be one of the fortunate young ladies attending Owen’s College, but I stride through the arched doorway with head held as high. I hasten past stuffed beasts; butterflies spreading metallic wings; gigantic shells and twinkling gems; axe-heads spread in a dun-coloured rainbow; strings of antique necklaces, cold without the throats that wore them two thousand years ago.

  At last I enter the classical gallery and read the accompanying notice. The Nereid Monument: sculptured tomb from Xanthos in classical period Lycia. 390–380 BC. Excavated by Sir Charles Fellows, 1844. The scrubbed white plaster lacks the grandeur of marble, but I am not complaining. The sculptures are spectacular.

  A cavalcade of naked youths gallop the length of the wall, gripping the flanks of their mounts between their knees. I marvel at the artful hand that teased marble into flesh. Thighs bulge, faces grimace; horses flick their hooves, toss their heads and flare their nostrils in such a lifelike way I half see the steam of their breath. I have the strangest notion that if I lay my hand on the wall, I will feel the pulse of ancient hearts.

  I draw out my notebook and pencil and begin to sketch one of the warriors. His right arm is thrown forward in a gesture that could be a salute or a challenge. I study the muscles, endeavouring to translate my observations to paper. It is not too bad for a first attempt, but the fingers leave a lot to be desired. I jot a few notes and make two more sketches of a leg and a sandalled foot before walking on.

  I reach a portion of the frieze where the cavalry are involved in a skirmish with a group of standing warriors. My eye is drawn to a kneeling man who is putting up a valiant fight despite being unfairly matched against the Greek horse that rears over his head. I feel rather sorry for him.

  The sculptor has bent the stone to his will in a manner that is nothing short of astonishing. The short tunic is so delicately carved that it appears soaked with sweat. My gaze wanders to the spot at the fork of his thighs. The linen sticks to the flesh beneath, accentuating a tumescence that is undoubtedly masculine. It’s nothing I haven’t observed in myself, budding and blossoming out of my own groin when I am undergoing the change into Gnome.

  I realise I am staring. I glance ar
ound to see if anyone has noticed such brazen behaviour. Two young gentlemen lounge on a nearby bench, conversing in low murmurs. One flourishes a hand in the direction of the wall, waving it to and fro as though conducting a symphony for the benefit of his companion. I am quite overlooked and resume my observation. To make it less obvious, I move sideways a couple of steps. From my new vantage point the light falls upon the warrior slantwise.

  He has breasts.

  I blink, but they do not disappear. Despite what is evident below his belt, two small yet unmistakeable mounds push out his chlamys. It has to be a trick of the light. I step back to view the sculpture face-on yet can still pick out the feminine curves, albeit less clearly.

  I am fixed to the spot as surely as if the soles of my boots have been slathered with glue. Here is a man who is also a woman. A woman who is also a man. He – or she – calls out to me, clear across the millennia. I lived, I breathed. I was as you are.

  My mind reels. I search the card for enlightenment. Mounted Greeks victorious against a barbarian race, as yet unidentified. Possibly Thracians. Nothing to explain what is in front of me. My cheeks burn. If I can see this, so can everyone else. I peer around, expecting gaping mouths, pointing fingers, a riot of denunciation and disapproval. The gallery is serene and orderly, the only tumult that which rages in my breast.

  I take up my notebook, hoping to act the part of a student of art about her legitimate business. I begin with the shoulders, then the neck; the upraised forearm. I imagine my own muscles as firm as those of this man-woman. I am his sister. I too am preparing myself for battle against enemy forces who will crush me if they discover my alien strangeness.

  My warrior – I dare to call him mine – comes to life beneath my pencil. I never sketched so well. Some agency guides my hand and despite my trembling the line is true and unwavering. This sculpture is the first and only thing I’ve seen that comes close to a representation of myself.

  I am not alone.

  I yearn to dash up to every matron, every gentleman, haul them across the neatly blocked parquet to my warrior and cry: Look! The Greeks understood! I am no singular freak of nature! I exist!

  I do no such thing. I stow pencil and notepad, take a deep breath and proceed out of the gallery in as composed a manner as I can manage. The only sign of my mental and spiritual turmoil is that I clutch my bag to my chest more tightly than usual.

  I totter down the steps of the Museum, trip and crack my knee. My nerves are so disordered it’d be just like Gnome to shove me aside and leap into the breach. Mercifully, I am spared that ignominy and I weave along the street, barely conscious whither I am headed.

  I know I am different. I know that difference is profound. Nana says there’s not a soul to match us. Maybe she is wrong. If people like me existed thousands of years ago, why not today, this very minute, somewhere on the face of the earth? We could be passing each other on Oxford Road. The notion is intoxicating.

  I tumble onwards and scowl. All very well to entertain phantasies, but they are of little practical worth. Far better to bend my thoughts towards building a safe harbour to withstand the buffeting of life’s storms. I’m stuck with this world and must make the best of it. I must grow strong and not merely in my body. I’ve had enough of doctors to last two lifetimes.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of raised voices. Clustered around All Saints’ Church are trestle tables piled with leaflets, plates, cakes and even a tea-urn. A platform has been set up by the wall and beside it a young lady and an older gentleman wrestle with a banner emblazoned with the legend Votes for Women.

  A woman bustling in the opposite direction brushes against me. ‘Not for the likes of me,’ she mutters, face screwed up with age and hard work. ‘Maybe for you, my pet.’

  She stamps away. Here are the women that Ma rails against: the scourge of society, on a mission to drag it to its knees. Ma would be terribly disappointed. From what I can see, everything is proceeding with the utmost decorum.

  A tolerable proportion of the troupe is comprised of gentlemen, who tip their hats and greet me with civility. I made an assumption that no man would lower himself to the cause of women’s suffrage. Clearly, I was mistaken. I wonder what else I’ve been wrong about. It is a day of having foundations shaken and beliefs challenged, that much is certain.

  To the accompaniment of applause, a small lady clambers on to the podium. She wears a broad-brimmed hat and a sash of white satin edged with green and purple. She eyes the gathering keenly, and begins to speak. With the warp and weft of her words, she cajoles us, she tantalises us, she breaks us down and builds us up again. She weaves a world where women and men stand side by side as comrades in possession of equal humanity. I don’t know whether to weep that it is denied us, or cheer that it is a goal towards which we can strive.

  Perhaps it is the suggestive state in which I find myself, but I am refreshed in a way I never thought to experience. A chord resonates throughout my being, awakening me from slumber of the soul. Perhaps I can find a way to live in this world and not simply exist. Perhaps I no longer need to cower, frightened of my own shadow. Maybe I can shake that Edie off, now.

  The clock strikes three. I ought to return home, but any sense of urgency has receded. It won’t be dark for some hours. Besides, I am far too enraptured to leave. My attention shifts to the young woman holding the banner. She, too, is listening with keen attention. Her chin is uptilted, revealing the column of her throat: the muscles delicate yet firm. A neat bonnet is pinned to a cushion of hazel hair only a philistine would describe as brown.

  I cannot take my eyes off her: the determined set of her jaw, the fine blades of her cheekbones, the soft mouth. A mouth that blooms like a rose. Good heavens, I chide myself. What claptrap. I’ve stopped to hear the speech, which is rousing enough to inspire even the most leaden of creatures. I am not here to gawp at handsome women.

  Despite the ticking-off, my gaze is disobedient and insists on returning to the object of its desire. I note the line of her jacket, tailored to show off a slender waist. Lavender wool trimmed with emerald velvet, buttons of a matching hue sparkling like gems. I am too far away to see the colour of her eyes, but fancy works its magic and I imagine them to be green also.

  I give myself a good shake and return my attention to the speaker, who has come to the end of her address and is fielding questions. She is so diminutive of frame that I fear how she’ll fare in this rough neighbourhood. However, she has an inexhaustible store of good-humoured retorts and I am stunned by the ease with which she counters her detractors with a clever quip here and an adroit comment there. I hear more than one fellow tell the hecklers to pipe down or else get a punch on the nose.

  All too soon she is done. I want to preserve the enchantment of this afternoon for as long as possible so I dawdle, picking up pamphlets one after another and flicking through the pages. Someone tugs my sleeve and I turn to find the young lady I was admiring.

  ‘Mrs Tuke is a wonderful speaker, is she not?’ she says.

  ‘She? Oh! Yes,’ I say, fudging the words. ‘I apologise for my inarticulate reply. I believe I am still held in her spell.’

  ‘I can tell!’ Her eyes rove over me in a frank fashion I should find unnerving. I do not. She smiles, as though pleased with what she has observed.

  ‘The words she speaks and the passion with which she speaks them are like draughts of cool water,’ I say, surprised at the vigour of my response. ‘Balm to my parched soul.’

  My gabbling ought to send her packing, but she continues to regard me with friendly interest.

  ‘I do hope you’ll take tea,’ she says. ‘Man cannot live by speeches alone, and a cup helps the words go down.’ She takes my elbow, steers me towards the tea-urn and pours a cup. ‘Enough sugar?’

  I take a sip. It is so fortifying I wonder if it is laced with a stimulant more invigorating than tea leaves.

  ‘I believe I may be able to scrounge up a biscuit,’ she adds. ‘Now. Where are t
hey hiding themselves?’

  She lifts up a pile of leaflets, then another and another, until she gives a little shout of victory and seizes a plate.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ I bluster. ‘You are too kind. I should go.’

  I have no idea why I’m behaving as though I’ve never set eyes on a biscuit in my life. However, she is not put off by my gauche manners.

  ‘You’re quite safe,’ she says, pushing the plate in my direction. ‘I didn’t bake them; Hilda did.’

  She tilts her head in the direction of another young woman, who I presume to be Hilda. She is at the far end of the table, speaking in an animated fashion to a chap in a tweed jacket.

  ‘Go on, do. It would please me,’ she says with such hopeful intensity I have the feeling there is no choice in the matter.

  I select one of the biscuits and take a ladylike nibble. I’ve not had a bite since breakfast and it is manna from heaven. I try to eat slowly, but it’s gone in a trice.

  ‘Have another,’ she says. I shake my head, overcome with mortification that my hunger is so apparent. ‘It’d be a kindness,’ she continues in her enchanting voice. ‘No one’s ever finished one before. Hilda’s talents do not lie in the kitchen. And I am far worse.’

  I take another biscuit and drain a second cup of the ambrosial tea. To wash down our burned offerings, as she puts it. After four biscuits have been devoured and a third cup of tea refused, she hands me a broadsheet entitled The New Crusade.

  ‘Do take it. It’s very good.’ She smiles. ‘Unlike the biscuits.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say, and pause. Although the cover price is a mere sixpence, it is out of my reach. I do not think it is possible to feel more embarrassed. ‘I mean, I should like to, but …’

  ‘You need not feel obliged to pay,’ she says lightly.

  ‘But I wish to.’

  ‘Sixpence is a suggestion. A voluntary donation, if you will.’

  ‘I’m not a beggar,’ I snap.

  I think she’ll respond to my sharpness as nonchalantly as she does everything else, but her face falls.