The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  I plump for lemonade. I thumb down the marble and take a sip, but am so distracted by my surroundings that it spills on to my blouse.

  ‘You’re as jumpy as a cat on Mischief Night,’ says Guy, drawing out an enormous handkerchief and pressing it to my breasts in a manner that would be unseemly in any other situation. ‘Lord, there’s nothing to you,’ he adds. ‘I’ve felt bigger titties on a budgerigar.’

  ‘Guy!’

  ‘Oh stow it, Edie. Loosen your stays, for tomorrow we die,’ he declares, waving his arm theatrically. ‘Of boredom. Those about to be merry, I salute you.’

  His hair, loosened from its carapace of brilliantine, flops over one eyebrow. I cannot help feeling that I am amongst children who, having escaped a dull lesson with a harsh master, have raced from the school gate to this underground haven and are celebrating their freedom. I stand amongst them as stolid as a fence post. Any moment someone will toss his coat over my head and use me as a hat-stand.

  ‘Why ever do you bother with me, Guy?’ I say. ‘Truly. I am not vying for pitying reassurances.’

  ‘Good, for I shall not give them.’

  I wave my hand. ‘We are surrounded by sparkling individuals. Yet you choose to take the arm of this Aunt Sally. Why?’

  ‘Because you are family,’ he says quite seriously. ‘Family sticks together and strives together.’

  A young man in a butcher’s apron far too big for him thrusts another bottle of beer into Guy’s hand.

  ‘Bless you, darling,’ he says. The lad grins and skips away. ‘We were all new once,’ he continues after a long swig.

  Whatever he means, it strikes a resonant chord. Amongst this odd crowd, I feel more at home than I thought possible. I tilt the lemonade bottle to my lips and this time I do not spill a drop.

  ‘Let me show you to my friends. Come; it would please me.’

  Guy takes my hand and steers me through the crowd, bestowing smiles and embraces every few steps. He introduces me to so many folk along the way that the names and faces blur. Just when I think I can remember no more, Guy taps a finely dressed woman on the shoulder. She turns and I come face-to-face with the enchanting suffragette I saw at All Saints.

  ‘Miss Edie Latchford,’ says Guy. ‘Let me introduce you to Miss Abigail Hargreaves. I am all a-quiver for the two of you to become acquainted. Two of my absolute dearest friends.’

  ‘We have already met,’ says Miss Hargreaves, inclining her head in polite greeting.

  ‘Dash it all,’ says Guy. ‘That’s my entire evening drained of fun. I shall never live down the ignominy. Abigail, you are a ghastly spoilsport.’

  ‘You are too kind, Miss Hargreaves,’ I stutter. ‘We met at a rally, some time ago. I was one of many. Hardly worth the recollection.’

  ‘False modesty does not become you,’ chirps Guy, wagging his finger. ‘You are unforgettable, Edie dear.’

  ‘For once, Guy is correct,’ says Miss Hargreaves with a pleasant smile. ‘I remember the occasion well.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Indeed,’ she replies with every indication of sincerity.

  Guy looks from one of us to the other and rubs his hands. ‘Oh! How I adore being matchmaker.’

  I stare at my boots.

  ‘Guy,’ says Miss Hargreaves. ‘Put a sock in it. You are terrifying the poor girl. Permit us to conduct a conversation in peace. If you insist on hovering, I shall be forced to swat you with my umbrella.’

  ‘Wounded, darling, wounded!’ he cries. He pats his shirt, an expression of mock-terror creeping over his features. After a bout of flapping, he brightens. ‘Ah, there it is. Thought I’d lost the bally thing.’

  ‘I’m surprised you can locate it,’ Miss Hargreaves continues. ‘A proper heartless Harry. Hop it.’

  They smile at each other and I wonder what it feels like to have a friend with whom one can chaff so gaily. She raises her eyebrow and he dances away.

  ‘Off to torment some other poor soul. Now,’ she says, turning kind eyes to me. ‘Let us find a quiet spot.’

  She indicates a vacant barrel under the curve of the vaulted ceiling. We stand, shoulders almost touching. I watch Guy place his arm around a gentleman of burly proportions. They draw closer and their mouths find each other. I do not experience the slightest stirring of disapproval. Observing them feels like the answer to a question I was not aware I’d asked. I sip my lemonade.

  ‘I was not dissembling, Miss Hargreaves,’ I say between gulps. ‘I am truly surprised you recall our meeting.’

  ‘You are a striking creature.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I did not expect to meet you here.’

  ‘I hope you are not disappointed. What brings you to our hidey-hole?’

  ‘Guy invited me.’

  ‘The two of you seem thick as thieves. How do you know him?’

  ‘We work together at the Telegraph Office on Cross Street. He’s a great favourite of the ladies there.’

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Is he really heartless?’ I ask.

  ‘Guy? Not a bit of it. Soft as they come. That sharp humour is all for show. A man could snap him like a pencil, if he chose. Some have so chosen.’ She takes a draught of ginger beer. ‘Sweet on him, are you?’

  ‘Me?’ He and his friend are dancing now, cheek pressed to cheek. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Good. Plenty of girls make that mistake.’

  ‘Miss Hargreaves, I am aware – I know about him. About this.’ I indicate the brick arch above my head, the dusty plaster, the huddle of souls. ‘I have not wandered in here after taking a wrong turn in the glove department of Lewis’s.’

  She laughs. ‘Dear Miss Latchford. Taking into account that we find ourselves in a place so far removed from convention, shall we dispense with formality? Do call me Abigail. Would you permit me to call you Edie?’

  ‘With great pleasure.’

  In the comfortable pause two women draw alongside and hail Abigail as an old friend. One wears a skirt split by a deep pleat down the centre which gives it the appearance of broad-legged pantaloons; an unintended comic effect, or so I surmise from her unsmiling demeanour. She clasps her hands behind her back, and presses her lips together with such determination that her mouth is reduced to a line scratched across her face.

  Her companion could not be a greater contrast: a kitten of a girl with a mouth so full and red it appears painted on. Her blouse froths with lace and is nipped in at the middle to show off a diminutive waist. I picture her swaying down the street and every eye – male or female – drawn to her, like a child’s toy on a string. She extends a spotless crochet glove.

  ‘Craythorne. Henrietta Craythorne. And you are?’

  ‘Latchford,’ I say. Her handshake is as limp as bread in milk. ‘Edie Latchford.’

  ‘Ah,’ she purrs. ‘How pretty.’

  Her severe companion snorts and grasps my hand when Miss Craythorne has finished with it.

  ‘Mabel,’ she says, pumping my arm up and down. ‘Glad to meet you. You’re not a Temperance Terror, are you?’ she says, eyeing my cordial.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Damned good thing too. Self-denial. Bloody nonsense. Pass this way but once. Jug of wine, loaf of bread – and thou.’

  ‘In the wilderness,’ I say quietly, picking up the thread.

  Mabel laughs, a brisk sound that snaps like a twig when she is done with it. ‘Ha! My point precisely. This earth. Bloody wilderness. Present company, et cetera. Have a glass of beer.’

  ‘My landlady has the olfactory sense of a bloodhound.’

  She laughs with greater gusto. ‘Drink a beer. Smoke a cigarette after. She’ll give you the Dickens for the latter. Major crime obfuscated by minor misdemeanour. Freedom.’

  ‘Mabel, you are a devious beast,’ says Abigail.

  ‘As accused,’ she replies.

  She rocks backwards and forwards on her heels, grinning mischievously. I reflect how easily
I fell into error. I assumed that her stern attire would betoken stern behaviour. I could not have been more wrong.

  ‘Poor little Edie,’ drawls Miss Craythorne. ‘We must do our utmost to protect you from Mabel’s corrupting ways.’

  ‘You will not find me that easily swayed.’

  I regard the catlike Miss Craythorne. Although her face bears the perfect facsimile of a smile, there is something lacking. The way she looks at Mabel suggests she’d like to consume her, skirt and all. I am proceeding into a new land, one wherein I must tread with great care, as though walking upon eggshells.

  A memory returns with unusual clarity: sitting at the kitchen table and watching Nana pierce an egg with a sewing needle, first one end and then the other. She places her lips to one of the holes and blows the contents into a bowl. She helps me paint the empty shell for Easter; yes, it is for Easter. She scrambles the egg and we share it with a little piece of toast. You see, she says. You can make an omelette without breaking eggs. Everything has its limits, even proverbs.

  ‘Everything has its what now?’ Mabel’s voice brings me back into the room in a galloping rush.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was a fearfully long way off.’

  ‘We should be the ones to apologise,’ hums Miss Craythorne. ‘We fatigue you.’

  ‘Rot,’ says Mabel. ‘Sheathe your claws.’

  ‘Well!’ harrumphs Miss Craythorne.

  ‘Nothing wrong with being a dreamer,’ says Abigail and I am grateful for the warmth in her eyes.

  ‘Feet firmly planted. That’s what a woman needs,’ says Mabel. ‘Never more so than today.’

  Their talk drifts on its current until it tangles in the weeds of Austria, the Balkans, Russia and the rumour of war. People talk of little else, even here. After a while, Miss Craythorne affects tiredness and Mabel squires her away. There is a pause. I wait for Miss Hargreaves to make her own excuses. She drains her bottle. Now, I think, she will go. My spirits droop.

  ‘Do you still visit the Museum?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, surprised that she remembers.

  ‘And the Art Gallery?’

  ‘Oh! I have a passion for the place,’ I say, louder than I wish, and blush.

  ‘I do, also. Would you care to accompany me one afternoon?’

  I gape. ‘Me?’

  ‘Unless you are too busy.’

  I see shyness writ upon her features. How self-absorbed to regard myself the only creature on this earth to feel timidity.

  ‘I should love to,’ I say. ‘Next Saturday afternoon? I finish work at one o’clock.’

  ‘Saturday. Perfect. I shall be there.’

  She leans forwards, brushes her mouth against the side of my face, turns and moves away. I watch her elegant departure, heart pounding. The thought of spending more time in her company stirs a maelstrom of contradictory sensations. Guy appears at my side.

  ‘Did you enjoy your dance?’ I say.

  ‘Hugely,’ he beams. ‘Decent cove. A jobber on the Guardian. Sets type. Good with his hands.’ He giggles. ‘Less about me. You look like the cat that got the cream.’

  ‘Maybe I have,’ I reply.

  ‘I knew it!’ he crows. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’

  I sigh. ‘It’s late. I really ought to go.’

  ‘Darling, I beseech you. Five minutes more. There’s always a song at this hour.’

  As if on cue, there is a squeaking of barrels and chairs being shoved aside at the far end of the tunnel. Heralded by applause, half a dozen lads and lasses parade into the space.

  ‘My babies!’ breathes Guy. ‘Forgive me. I become unbearably maternal when it comes to these dear creatures. It is too discomfiting for words.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me,’ I whisper back. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t know a motherly sentiment if I tripped over it in broad daylight.’

  He opens his mouth to contradict me. We are shushed as the song commences, a jingoistic piece of fluff about Toppling the Turban of Tarquin the Terrible Turk. It is currently the rage and I’ve seen it performed on one of my evenings with Gertrude and Edna, the only observable difference being that tonight women wear the tin hats and army fatigues and the Turkish parts are taken by pretty lads titivated to the nines in ballooning trousers, wafting veils and dollops of greasepaint.

  We join in the chorus. It is of necessity a cappella, but our lusty clapping means that one barely remarks on the lack of orchestral accompaniment. To saucy shrieks and whistles, the youths scamper in confused circles, waggling their hands and squealing, pursued by the soldiers who prod their backsides with wooden rifles. One by one, turbans are knocked off like coconuts at a shy, to such a hullabaloo I can hardly hear myself think.

  All is exuberance and high spirits, until a particularly rowdy shriek is followed by silence and the pounding of footsteps. Candles are blown out, bottles crash to my right and left.

  ‘No!’ growls Guy. ‘A raid? Here? Tonight?’

  Without a word, each pair of women detaches one from the other, each pair of men. In a slow but deliberate waltz they take fresh partners of the opposite sex. Guy clings to my arm as if I have taken on the properties of a life raft. Boots stamp.

  A deep voice roars: ‘Get back, you swine!’

  Guy and I are shoved against the wall by a brace of policemen. One of them waves a lantern in front of my nose.

  ‘Here’s two,’ he quacks. ‘One’s dressed like a tart.’

  It takes far longer than it ought for me to realise I’ve been taken for a man. My heart sinks to my boots. The policeman sticks his face close to mine. His breath is old and sick, his teeth clogged with what looks like china clay. I turn aside. He grasps my chin.

  ‘You’re a pretty one. Paddy-whack, paddy-whack, I’d give this dog a bone,’ he says, tilting my face and examining me. ‘Smooth as a baby’s arse. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-two,’ I say.

  ‘And not a shadow of a beard? You look more like a girl.’

  ‘I am a girl!’ I exclaim. The ardour of my declaration arrests his fumbling.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am a woman,’ I insist, imploring any listening deity to make me look more feminine than ever before.

  His companion, who has been watching the proceedings, chortles. ‘It is and all. Can’t you tell the difference? You’ve been in this job too long, my old mate.’

  ‘Get away with you,’ says my interrogator. ‘It’s a nancy like the rest of these shit-stabbers. Aren’t you?’ he growls.

  Guy clears his throat. ‘This is my fiancée, Miss Latchford,’ he says in a voice deep as a mineshaft. I’d no idea he could appear so broad and muscular.

  ‘You calling him miss? You disgust me, you filthy bugger.’

  ‘Unhand her this instant,’ Guy declares. His hand on mine trembles.

  ‘I have never been so offended in all my life,’ I twitter in a ladylike fashion.

  The policeman hesitates. ‘You …?’ he splutters.

  ‘Yes! If I’m a boy, what are these?’

  I cup my meagre breasts, pushing them out to their furthest extent. The policeman’s hand shoots forward and he grapples my bosom. I squeal in pain.

  ‘By heck,’ he hisses. ‘They’re bloody real.’

  ‘I should say so!’ I cry.

  The discovery serves to confuse him, and confusion changes swiftly to anger.

  ‘You little whore!’ he barks, shoving me against the wall. ‘You’re worse than him. I ought to—’

  ‘Now now,’ says his companion. ‘Sweet manners, chum. She’s a posh one. You heard that voice, didn’t you?’

  My tormentor swallows heavily. He is not done yet, not by a long chalk. He peers around the room and his eye lights on the performers, who are receiving similar harsh treatment from his fellow lawmakers.

  ‘What about them?’ he says. ‘All the costumes?’

  ‘Haven’t you ever been to rehearsals for the pantomime?’ replies Guy.

  ‘In March?’

&
nbsp; ‘The best thespians start early. I shall send you some complimentary tickets. For the front row, of course.’

  ‘You cheeky fucker,’ the policeman grunts. He shoves his elbow into Guy’s face. I hear a yelp, a crunch of bone and Guy collapses on to all fours. ‘Down where you belong, you dog.’

  I kneel at Guy’s side. I glare at the brute and would do far more, but Guy grasps my arm, whispering no.

  ‘I don’t believe a word of your nonsense. We’ll be back. Make sure you’re not here when we do.’

  With that, he and his comrades-in-arms leave, kicking over chairs and stoving in a few barrels, laughing as they do.

  Guy insists on escorting me home, not that I have any intention of refusing. We pause at the tea-stand on the corner of Stott Street. I am trembling so violently I almost drop the cup. I have escaped with little more than my dignity bruised, but Guy looks a fright. A bruise is settling into his cheek and his collar is distinctly awry.

  ‘Bit of rough trade, duck?’ slurs a tattily dressed woman leaning against the counter.

  ‘You could say that,’ Guy replies.

  ‘Your boater,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Gone the way of all flesh.’ He touches his cheek experimentally and winces.

  ‘It looked new.’

  ‘No more lemon buns for a while, alas.’

  ‘You are remarkably sanguine. It must have cost a week’s wages.’

  ‘Edie dear, we could have lost a great deal more.’

  We drain our mugs and continue on our way to Rusholme with the tram-track as our guide. My mind trips and stumbles.

  ‘How did that happen? Why?’

  ‘We were given up. Some poor sap caught short in a public convenience, I shouldn’t wonder. One can imagine the threats: Betray your fellows or it’s Strangeways for you. I can’t say as I blame the blighter. None of us would last two minutes in chokey.’

  ‘We were doing no harm. We were making less noise than I’ve heard in a beerhouse. Far less.’

  He chews his moustache. ‘We were lucky. We didn’t get thrown in the wagon. They didn’t have a root and rummage up your skirt to be sure of your sex.’

  ‘Guy!’ I cry, shocked at the ghastly picture presented.

  He squeezes my arm. ‘I beg your pardon, Edie. Truly I do. But it fills me with – oh, the bally unfairness of it all. I did not ask to be born the way I am.’