The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  ‘Much better,’ she declares. ‘Refreshing.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Strutt,’ we reply in chorus.

  Mr Heywood leans into my ear. ‘The lazy blighter stayed forty-six minutes!’ he hisses. ‘He’s never bunked off so fast. I believe we should celebrate. Cat’s away, mice shall play, etcetera.’

  I pull a face and he falls quiet. The next few hours proceed without further incident or amusement and I am annoyed to notice that I miss Mr Heywood’s banter. At the morning break he disappears for five minutes and reappears with a tray of iced lemon buns, enough for one half each. My colleagues fall upon them like starved urchins.

  ‘Halves, Guy?’ pipes Miss Atherton between mouthfuls. ‘Hardly enough to keep body and soul together.’

  She slaps a hand to her bosom and it wobbles beneath her blouse. They are good people and I wish I had their ease with witty camaraderie. I remind myself that friendship is a luxury I am not permitted and certainly not with a talkative gadfly such as Mr Heywood. Not that he is in need of any intimacy I may offer, thronged as he is with acquaintances.

  ‘It’s a trifle,’ he says in answer to the thanks heaped upon him. ‘A mere bagatelle. It pleases me to see you lot wolfing them down. No, I won’t have one myself. What, deprive you? Icing brings me out in pimples and one has to think of one’s complexion. Unlike the great Queen of Egypt, age does wither me.’ He takes a breath and sings, ‘Vaseline loves me, this I know; because the poster tells me so.’

  ‘Mr Heywood,’ says Miss Strutt, cracks audible in her pronunciation of his name.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Strutt. I know. A gentleman shouldn’t use up his wife’s cold cream. Grounds for divorce, I shouldn’t wonder. Cruel and unusual treatment and all that.’

  Miss Strutt sniffs. Mr Heywood always seems able to ascertain how far he can stray on to the thin ice of impudence before falling through into offence. He turns his butterfly attention to me.

  ‘Have half a bun, Miss Latchford, do.’

  ‘I am not hungry,’ I say primly.

  I expect a smart retort about him not being the only one in peril of pimples, but he lowers his voice to a hum meant for my ears.

  ‘That is a pity. It will go to waste.’

  ‘Perhaps we could share it,’ I say, feeling mean-hearted all of a sudden. ‘Hardly enough to nourish a blot upon one’s countenance.’

  He holds my gaze. His eyes are such a pale blue as to be almost clear; his brow high, nose delicate as a girl’s. I feel lumpen beside him. Then again, I feel thus when compared to most individuals. He slices the half-bun. It is topped with a quarter-inch of yellow sugar-icing.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says softly.

  The snowy dough collapses on my tongue. I have a sensation that, like Penelope, I have been enticed into eating the pomegranate seeds that consigned her to Hades.

  ‘I hope you are not planning on imprisoning me in the Underworld for six months,’ I remark.

  His expression shifts as he picks up the thread of my thought. ‘Only an evening or two,’ he says, and smiles. ‘Hades does have the best entertainments, after all.’

  Lunchtime finds us walking through the bevelled-glass doors together.

  ‘We shall have to stop these romantic liaisons, my angel,’ he says, tipping his boater.

  ‘Romantic?’ I scoff. ‘The very idea. I have errands to run.’

  ‘Don’t be a prig. We’ve shared an office for an age. Why not share half an hour?’ He cups my elbow.

  ‘Mr Heywood,’ I say, glancing sternly at his hand.

  It is a withering look, designed to shrivel him to a crisp. He slides his arm through mine, completely unshrivelled.

  ‘You are always in such a tearing rush, Miss Latchford. If one were prone to suspicions, one might hazard that you wish to avoid me.’

  ‘Perhaps I am,’ I reply.

  He clutches his breast. ‘Wounded, Edie!’ he cheeps. ‘I may call you Edie, mayn’t I?’

  ‘You may not, Mr Heywood.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ he rambles. ‘Edie is the prettiest name.’

  We fall into a comfortable stroll. My soul relents. For all his affectation, he is a fellow being, carrying a shield to protect his own secrets and dreams. His differ to mine, undoubtedly. I should make more effort to be kind.

  ‘I believe this is the point I should cry out for the assistance of a policeman,’ I say with greater affability.

  ‘Surely you cannot deny a chap as inconsequential as myself the pleasure of being seen in your fair company for the space of thirty minutes.’

  ‘I am hardly fair, Mr Heywood. I overtop you by three inches.’

  ‘Two.’ He looks me square in the face. ‘Besides, there are plenty who would find you handsome.’

  He speaks with such unexpected sincerity that it takes the wind out of my sails.

  ‘Well,’ I say. ‘Mr Heywood, you are the very end.’

  ‘I am relieved. My reputation would be in tatters if I steered too close to the shores of sensible behaviour. And please, call me Guy.’ We head through the lunchtime crowds towards the corner of Market Street. ‘Now. You simply must tell me all about yourself.’

  ‘I certainly must not.’

  He cocks an eyebrow. ‘No matter. I have already surmised a fair deal through close observation, dear girl.’ My fears surface, vile as eels. ‘Oh, good Lord,’ he exclaims. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Here. Sit, sit.’

  ‘That is not necessary,’ I wheeze.

  ‘It is, it is. I’m most fearfully sorry. I have this awful habit of offending those with whom I wish to become acquainted.’

  ‘It is nothing.’ I cling to his arm more tightly than is entirely becoming.

  ‘Let us engage in less perilous intercourse. Look, here is a display of gloves. Young females have a particular passion for gloves.’

  ‘So I have heard,’ I gasp.

  He pats my hand. Mercifully, he does not press me for explanations. He points at the lowering sky. ‘Now, let us take the clouds,’ he says. ‘There are plenty of them in this fine city. Just think: if a man could throw a hook skywards, drag them down and spin them into cloud-cloth, we should have a new industry with which to take over the world, or at least a new corner of it.’

  ‘You are very entertaining, Mr Heywood,’ I say, gathering my breath. ‘Though it escapes me why you choose my company.’

  ‘Because we would make good friends, would we not?’

  ‘I hardly think one stroll along Market Street warrants such an assertion.’

  ‘Pish and tosh. We are clearly destined to be close as bugs in a rug. Now that I have enticed you from your enchanted tower, perhaps I can persuade you to spend an evening in my company. I do hope you have no dragons. I am no use at fending off fearsome beasts. You will have to do the fending.’ He gives me a sidelong glance. ‘Yes, you would look rather fine with spear and shield. A veritable Penthesilea. I know a cohort of Amazons who would be delighted to meet you.’

  ‘Good heavens, Mr Heywood. Where do you come up with such nonsense? You have an inexhaustible supply.’

  ‘Guy, please.’

  ‘Very well, Guy,’ I say. ‘I tolerate your antics all day, for I am paid to do so. But you seem mightily confident that I should want to spend my leisure time in your company, not to mention a Tuesday evening.’

  ‘But it is precisely what you do wish to do, isn’t it?’

  I could pretend to mishear. But hear I do and, gallingly, he speaks the truth. Whatever my declarations to the contrary, I ache for friendship closer than the watery acquaintance I have with Gertrude and Edna. My spiky nature is that of the hedgehog, a need for protection rather than a desire for loneliness. I ask myself how many years I am prepared to live with this unhappiness, afraid to turn my face to the sun of companionship. Perhaps fate has thrown Guy into my path. Perhaps it is time to seize the day.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, with an impulsiveness that scares and excites me. ‘Yes, I should like that.’

  ‘You woul
d?’ he says, sounding so startled I wonder if he’s been pulling my leg and doesn’t want to spend the evening with me at all. I cringe that I have shown myself to be so needy. But he beams from ear to ear: a true smile, not the foppish lip-curling employed at the office. ‘How marvellous! We shall have a grand time. There’s a sparkle about you today, my dear. One shudders to admit it, but oft-times I’ve deemed you a wet lettuce. I’m delighted to be proved wrong.’

  ‘I shall take that as a compliment,’ I say dryly.

  ‘And so you should. I shall meet you by the statue of Cromwell at eight o’clock. Don’t wear your best shoes,’ he adds mischievously.

  There is a pause.

  He looks up at the clock above Lewis’s. ‘Time flies like an arrow. We have exhausted our half-hour and must now return.’

  We hurry back. I almost run, but am not yet ready for such unruly behaviour. I am to be so, far sooner than expected.

  After supper, a meat stew of questionable origin, I regard myself in the mirror. For the first time in my life, I am about to step out with a young man. I wonder if Mr Heywood regards me as a sweetheart. He did not intimate anything of the sort, but it is quite possible that this is courtship and I am engaging in it without realising. I am enough of an idiot to do so.

  I attack my hair with the brush, endeavouring to tame its bush into something resembling the gleaming sheaf of flax the newspaper advertisement promised. I survey my feelings. I have none, other than a sensation of warm companionship. I am not sure if I want Guy – or any other, for that matter – for a beau. However, I am twenty-two. Perhaps it is time. After all, it is the mark of a woman to have admirers even if she does not precisely want their attention.

  My thoughts circle. He gives no impression of being a cad. On the contrary, I don’t think he’d notice if I dyed my hair green and wore carrots on my hat. He seems – I search for a suitable word – harmless. I wonder if harmless might be just what I need, having had enough disruption to last a lifetime.

  I look at my fist, gripping the handle of the brush so tightly that the knuckles show white against the ebony. A quiver ripples through my being and for one terrible moment I think Gnome is peering over my shoulder. I stick out my tongue at my reflection. I don’t know what’s got into me. I never let myself be tempted into friendship at any previous place of employment. I was the ghost who drifted in and out of my work-mates’ days and did not feel the loss of it, not truly, not until today.

  I finish my toilet hastily, remembering to pin my brooch upon the lapel. There will be no funny business with Gnome, tonight of all nights. I blow myself a kiss in the mirror and dash to the rendezvous so precipitously I am early and have to hide in the cathedral porch for ten minutes. The last thing I want is to stand below Cromwell and draw the attention of unsavoury gentlemen. Mr Heywood arrives one minute after eight.

  ‘You look dashed nice,’ he says. ‘A proper peach.’

  He speaks as one who has rehearsed the best way to open a conversation with a young lady. It is most unlike his habitual flippancy. I slip my arm through his and smile. He turns the brim of his boater in his fingers.

  ‘I shan’t bite,’ I say, pointing at the nervous working of his hands.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, and places his hat upon his head. ‘The devil take it, Edie. I fear you may hate me after tonight and never speak to me again.’

  ‘What an odd thing to say. Why ever should I do that?’

  ‘Time will tell,’ he mutters. ‘Well then. Unto the breach, dear friends. Best foot forward.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ I say, hoping we may be headed for Lewis’s, for there is a funfair advertised.

  ‘A little place I know. You’ll find it in no Bradshaw’s.’

  ‘Oh,’ I reply, trying not to sound too disappointed.

  His eyes glitter. ‘Jolly good! I knew you’d agree. It’s beastly, of course. But it is secluded, away from the prying eyes of His Majesty’s finest.’

  ‘I do hope you are not leading me into sin,’ I say playfully. ‘If you kiss me, I shall have to hit you with my handbag.’

  ‘Kiss you?’ he says, as though I’ve suggested we jump into the Ship Canal. ‘Why on earth would such an outlandish notion pop into your head?’

  My friskiness evaporates instantly. ‘Don’t you want to?’ I ask. There is self-pity in my voice, which I do not like one bit.

  ‘No, I do not, and you’d best put any of that flapdoodle out of your mind.’ He surveys me at arm’s length. ‘Besides,’ he continues. ‘I didn’t think you were the sort to want such a thing of me.’

  ‘Isn’t it what ladies and gentlemen do?’

  ‘Not this gentleman. I am temperamentally unsuited, you might say.’ He swings his walking stick.

  ‘Clearly I am frightfully ugly,’ I mumble, overcome with mortification. ‘You can say it. Plenty have.’

  ‘You do talk a lot of rot, Edie. Here it is, plain as I can make it. No doubt your mama harangued you with dire warnings of being led astray by wicked men. That won’t happen with me. I do apologise. I am not fearfully interested in girls.’

  ‘You aren’t?’

  ‘No. As for the two of us engaging in spooning,’ he says, raising his eyebrow, ‘I don’t believe you want that for one moment, either.’

  I examine my heart thoroughly. He is right, though I am not entirely sure why. I am humiliated yet thankful at the same time. It is most perplexing.

  ‘No,’ I say, slowly. ‘I don’t believe I do. It is more the sensation that I ought to.’

  ‘Quite. How easy it is to be duped by mere convention.’

  ‘Isn’t it the done thing?’

  He squeezes my arm. ‘I’m sure it is. But not for folk like us.’

  ‘Like us?’

  ‘I think you have a good idea what I am talking about.’ I stare at him. He sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘You are jolly foolish. It’s blasted obvious we’re two of a kind.’

  My heart drops into my boots. No one knows what I am. No one, other than Ma and Nana. Unless Gnome has been keeping company with Guy. But Gnome can’t …

  ‘By the look on your face you know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘I know no such thing.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says with surprising tenderness. ‘It is a frightening thing to live with. Always in fear of discovery: some ghastly piece of tittle-tattle that will have you bundled into the back of a police wagon; some regrettable kiss given in a moment of drunken, hopeful abandon, only to find yourself in the gutter with a black eye.’

  I gape. He seems to know.

  ‘But how—’

  He gives me a warm smile. At last it dawns on me what he is talking about and why we are so well suited in his eye. His attraction is for his own sex. I ought to be shocked. I should thrust out an accusing finger and call down the punishment of the Lord for his sinful habits. How can I? More to the point, why would I do that to someone who is, if not the same, then certainly a brother in strangeness?

  He sees me not as a lover but as a sister. I imagine him on one knee, declaring his adoration and sigh at the silly picture it presents. My heart knows the truth: I do not desire him, nor he, me. It is a relief.

  ‘Come,’ he says. ‘Trust me. All will be revealed.’

  We scurry along Deansgate and come to halt at the top of a flight of steps I’d have walked past otherwise. He skips down while I stay precisely where I am.

  ‘Where on earth are you taking me?’ I say in a tone that reminds me uncomfortably of Gertrude. ‘There’s nothing down there but old newspapers.’

  ‘Au contraire, mon petit choux,’ he warbles and proceeds to rap upon the door, a hotchpotch of long and short knocks.

  It looks as if it hasn’t opened in an age, but open it does: a half-inch that unleashes a blade of light into the filthy stairwell. Guy whispers through the slot and the door swings back. I expect the hinges to shriek, but all is oiled silence. He looks up at me.

  ‘Are you going to stay there all night? Sesame
has opened.’

  I pick my way through the rubbish, trailing my skirt in goodness knows what foulness, and step within.

  A long, low-ceilinged room presents itself: narrow and dry, with a smell of long-gone cheeses. In contrast to the entrance, all is swept perfectly clean. At regular intervals are beer barrels set upright for use as tables. Candles upon saucers cast a cheerful glow. The place is crowded with men and women in their day clothes, chattering in low voices. Young chaps weave through the throng, carrying trays of sandwiches.

  ‘What is this place?’ I whisper. ‘I didn’t know it existed.’

  ‘Few do. Skittles by day, mollies by night,’ declares Guy. ‘What fun. Everyone is here, stuffing their faces with supper and remarking on the smart new pair.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Us, you silly goose.’

  ‘Goodness me.’

  ‘Goodness? I hope not. There’s no sport in goodness,’ he quips.

  A slender youth waves a plate of tiny sandwiches under Guy’s nose.

  ‘Angel!’ crows Guy, and pecks the air to each side of the youth’s head. ‘I’m famished. I must have sustenance or expire.’ He slaps a sixpence on to the platter and scoops up a handful. ‘Ham or cheese?’ he asks, holding them in my direction.

  I shake my head politely. Guy swallows his in a mouthful and proceeds to lick crumbs from his fingers, rather noisily.

  ‘Now that I have satisfied the needs of the belly-god, I have a prodigious hunger for gossip. Have you nothing with which to whet my appetite?’

  ‘I am afraid not.’

  ‘I shall not despair of you yet. I see I shall have to provide the entertainment for this evening.’ Another fellow swings by, with a basket of bottles. ‘What have we here. Ambrosia? Nectar drawn from the Fountain of Youth?’

  ‘Beer or lemonade,’ comes the answer.

  ‘Alas and alack,’ Guy sighs. ‘Beer for me. How about you, Edie?’