‘Me? Move? I’ll be sitting here, waiting to hear about all the fun,’ I say. ‘That’s if Joseph gives you a look-in.’
He grunts a final curse and is off. I wait until he’s out of sight and race in the opposite direction, cutting through back entries and back yards, leaping over walls and dodging washing lines. I pray they aren’t acquainted with the shortcuts in and out of this neighbourhood. Some kindly god must be watching over me, for no one pays me any attention. I am one of a hundred untidy boys of no interest whatsoever.
Once I judge it is safe, I slow my pace. Despite the fear that roils in my breast, I force myself to look up rather than down, for I reason that furtive behaviour will attract attention. I will conceal myself through lack of concealment. A memory stirs: If you act confidently, folk believe what they see and hear. Act nervous, like you don’t belong in a place, and you’ll stand out like a sore thumb.
I wonder where I heard that advice and remember it was Gnome. Years ago, when we went to the fireworks. Before – A lump comes to my throat. I shake away the tender memory.
I can’t spend all day pounding the pavement. I suspect that my would-be assailants are not the sort to dally, so wait a further fifteen minutes till the clock at St Wilfrid’s clangs the three-quarter. I head home and my luck is in. There is no sign of them the length and breadth of Renshaw Street. I creep through the yard, open the door and walk slap bang into Ma.
‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with you and your brother,’ she grumbles. ‘It’s like Market Street on a Saturday night.’
My grandmother heaves into view. ‘What’s going on now?’ She peers at me. ‘Edie?’
‘At least one of you can tell who’s who,’ I mutter. ‘What’s going on is that I need to get out of these clothes, run like the devil to the Telegraph Office and grovel, that’s what.’
I expect a fight. Instead, she nods and motions me upstairs. I follow.
‘You’ll help me? No sermon, no questions?’
‘It’ll keep,’ she says. ‘We’ll talk this evening. For now, let’s get you dressed.’
While her back is turned, I hurry into a pair of long bloomers. This is no time for an interrogation about the state of my thighs. With the aid of a mouthful of pins, she fastens me into her Sunday skirt. It is a generous fit, to say the least. Ma’s best blouse and hairpiece complete my ensemble.
‘Won’t Ma complain?’ I ask.
‘What she doesn’t know won’t grieve her.’
I throw my arms around Nana and mumble thanks.
‘Get away with you. And don’t you mess that skirt. I want it returned in one piece.’
I have no idea how respectable I look, and fear not very. I have been absent from the Telegraph Office the whole morning and most of the afternoon. If I hurry I can be there by four o’clock, half past at the outside. I pound up the steps at five minutes past the hour. Mr Pryor’s work-shy nature has played its hand to my benefit and he has long quit the building. I throw myself on Miss Strutt’s narrow mercies.
‘In addition to my extreme tardiness, I must also apologise for my appearance,’ I gabble. ‘Everything is at sixes and sevens and my costume is being laundered. My mother was taken ill while I was wearing it. She suffers terribly from the problems facing women of a certain age …’
I trail off, allowing Miss Strutt to follow the chain of thought to its disagreeable conclusion. Two bright spots appear in her cheeks. I arrange my face into a mixture of what I hope looks like sorrow and penitence.
‘I expect this from others but not you, Miss Latchford,’ she says, directing an acid glance at Guy, who is pretending not to be eavesdropping. ‘I trust there will be no repetition of such behaviour?’
‘No, Miss Strutt. Assuredly not.’
‘I should hope so too. It can’t be helped if a member of one’s family should fall ill,’ she says in a tone suggesting the opposite, ‘but there is nothing to prevent you sending word.’
‘Of course, Miss Strutt. I was in error. It won’t happen again.’
‘No, it won’t. You will not find me so prepared to overlook the infraction on any subsequent occasion.’
‘No, Miss Strutt.’
She continues to skewer me with her glance. ‘I hope your mother is restored.’
‘Yes, Miss Strutt. Quite restored.’
‘I am gratified to hear it. She is not …’ She pouts, chewing over words that might convey solicitude without compassion. ‘… a sickly woman, generally speaking?’
‘No, Miss Strutt. Our family is blessed with good health.’
‘Good. Sickly mothers are not to be accommodated.’
At five o’clock, Mr Pryor returns with a red nose and beery breath. At six o’clock he examines his watch, comparing it to the clock upon the wall.
‘My goodness,’ he remarks. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the first shift, six o’clock is upon us.’
My companions push back their chairs and file out to the cloakroom. I stay at my position, wrangling the pins in and out of their sockets. Miss Strutt appears at my side.
‘Miss Latchford. Why are you still at your turret?’
‘I am making up the lost time, Miss Strutt,’ I reply. ‘I will work the late shift.’
Her mouth quirks into the nearest thing to a smile I’ve ever witnessed. ‘That won’t be necessary. Your mother has need of you. Tomorrow, return refreshed and ready to work.’
Mumbling copious thanks, I scuttle away before she can change her mind. Guy meets me on the steps.
‘How did you know I’d be allowed out?’
‘Strutt is a decent bird under all that huffing and puffing. Buck up, old girl. You’ve kept your place. If I’d pulled a stunt like that I’d be wearing out my shoe leather seeking fresh fields and pastures new, without a reference.’
‘You are a tonic, Guy,’ I say. ‘I thank you. I wish I could walk with you awhile, but I must hurry to my lodgings and beard Mrs Reddish in her den.’
‘I shall accompany you.’
‘I’m sure you have far more agreeable things to do with your afternoon.’
‘I am your friend, Edie. Remember? Friends stick together.’
We make our way through Piccadilly Gardens.
‘Thank you, Guy. I don’t think anyone understands me better than you.’
‘Heavens, I don’t know about that,’ he replies. ‘I could name one lady. Unless there are more on your dance card.’
‘Guy!’
‘My prophetic sense indicates you are tussling with yourself over whether you should meet Miss Abigail Hargreaves for a pot of tea. My advice is yea, yea and thrice yea.’
I feel a blush creep into my cheeks. I pretend to be spellbound by the shop window we are strolling past. It contains a display of machinery with a placard declaring Tangyes Steam Engine. He is not taken in by such a transparent ruse.
‘So,’ he says. ‘I have delayed long enough. Are you going to tell me where you’ve been today?’
I am hardly about to vouchsafe the story of my narrow escape into his keeping, however good a friend he may be. ‘I’m sure you were listening in. My mother has been unwell.’
‘Rot. For a start, I see no earthly reason why your mother being taken ill should necessitate that awful haircut.’ He points at my head. ‘You might fool Strutty but you can’t fool me.’
‘It is a family matter,’ I say. ‘That is all.’
‘Edie,’ he chides. ‘Spit it out.’
I sigh. I can tell a truth of some sort, if I am careful. ‘Very well,’ I say. ‘If you must. It’s my brother. He’s something of a black sheep. Been gone for years, then turns up like the proverbial bad penny and wreaks havoc.’
He laughs. ‘I’m rather partial to sheep of that hue. You’ll have to introduce me immediately. I am already dying to meet him.’
‘I’ll do no such thing.’
He pouts. ‘Spoilsport.’
‘Guy. You have no idea what he is capable of.’
‘How ma
rvellous. You are whetting my appetite.’
I clamp my lips together and withdraw my arm from his.
‘You play your cards exceedingly close to your delightful chest, dear Edie,’ he sighs. ‘I do wish you would divulge … Ah well. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. I am not given to begging.’
My blush deepens, from embarrassment to shame. ‘I treat you shabbily,’ I say, the words sticking in my throat.
‘Come now. I did not mean to upset you.’
‘It’s true. You have always been open-handed.’ My voice cracks. ‘In return I offer you little more than crumbs.’
‘Tosh,’ he protests. ‘You’re the best friend a man ever laid claim to. This man, in any case.’
‘Am I? I feel sorry for you.’
He spins me around, eyes grim and fiery. ‘Never speak to me like that again. I am in need of no one’s pity.’
‘I did not mean—’
‘Do not presume I am a fool because I play the part of one. I’ve seen more than you can know, much of it unsuitable for the eyes and ears of a young lady.’
We hold each other’s gaze. I have never seen him like this: a curtain swept back, revealing steel at the heart.
‘I apologise,’ I say with true contrition. ‘That was low of me.’
‘It was.’
‘Guy. I have experienced things which are difficult – no, impossible to put into words.’ His face softens in recognition and I continue. ‘Of all the people I have met, you are the first I believe I could trust. Please be assured of that.’
He squeezes my hand again. ‘Your secrets are safe with me. Leastwise, they will be, should you choose to share them.’
‘Thank you, Guy.’
‘Besides, compared to my peculiarities, I’m sure your skeletons in the closet are not so very awful.’
‘You can’t know that,’ I murmur.
‘I’ve done some reprehensible things in my time. Your hair would curl. I am completely unshockable.’
I gnaw the inside of my cheek. It is as though I stand at the edge of a cliff, wind stirring my hair and tugging the brim of my hat. One inch separates me from a vertiginous tumble. All I need do is lift my foot and step into space. The air might gather itself beneath my arms and transform my sleeves into wings. Guy’s friendship might hold steady and bear me aloft. Or, far more likely, I would see his face collapse: first into disbelief, then horror. And after the horror, disgust and rejection.
I would fall. Fall truly, down and down. Not only would I lose a jewel of a friend, but I’d deliver myself into the hands of someone who could do anything with the information, however fervent his promises of secrecy. I say none of this, of course.
‘Dear girl. You don’t need to affect bravery in my company,’ he says in a gentle voice. ‘I understand better than you might imagine. When one is aware of one’s difference, compared to the normality of every other person on the face of the earth – well, the effort of retaining one’s equanimity can be frightfully taxing on the spirits, can it not?’
He plants a kiss upon my cheek. We part on friendly terms at Mrs Reddish’s gate, after I have given firm assurances to spend luncheon in his company the following day. I steel myself for unpleasantness and knock on the door. I get no further than the doormat before being given my marching orders.
‘I will not tolerate immorality,’ says Mrs Reddish with the conviction of a hellfire and brimstone preacher.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I reply, racking my brains.
‘Miss Willert witnessed a young man leaving your room. Your room!’ she squeaks.
‘That’s not possible,’ I say.
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ says Edna. ‘Gertrude saw him as well.’
Gertrude smirks. ‘Mrs Reddish has been most unwell.’
‘A conniption fit, I shouldn’t doubt,’ says Edna primly.
‘My nerves,’ exclaims Mrs Reddish. ‘They are in shreds!’
‘I can explain,’ I begin, and then realise I can’t. There’s a silence.
‘There’s the matter of the suit, Mrs Reddish,’ adds Gertrude helpfully.
Mrs Reddish’s face turns a fierce shade of magenta and she sinks into a chair. Edna wafts a tiny bottle under her nose, which prompts a bout of spluttering.
‘I should say Miss Latchford’s lucky not to have the police called on her,’ says Gertrude with great cheerfulness.
Under the watchful eye of these three witches I pack my bag with the sum total of my five years of independence: a few blouses, some skirts and a picture postcard of Hetty King in top hat and tails. No doubt Mrs Reddish suspects an unsavoury character like myself will roll up the carpet and spirit it away unless my every move is supervised. I return to The Comet with bowed head.
‘Here she is, tail between her legs,’ Ma crows, eyes glittering with triumph. ‘Don’t think you can stop here without paying your way.’
‘Fear not, Mother,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t dream of presuming on your generous nature.’
I snap open my reticule and count coins on to the table. Ma’s eyes widen. The amount far exceeds anything I tipped in before.
‘Since when did you become a moneybags?’ she sneers. ‘Been on the game, have you?’
‘Cissy!’ gasps Nana. ‘She’s not been in the house five minutes.’
‘Sticks and stones,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Words cannot hurt me. Listen up, Mother. This is the amount I paid to Mrs Reddish. Not a penny more, not a penny less.’
‘Didn’t she pull the wool over your eyes,’ Ma replies.
I do not rise to the bait. ‘For that, I had two meals a day, laundry, a hot bath and I did not have to cook or clean. I shall be your lodger, Mother. Not your barmaid, nor understairs maid, nor girl of all work.’
Her eyes flicker. ‘Oh, Edie,’ she whispers. ‘You don’t need …’
Her mouth trembles. Despite myself, I am shaken. If only I’d seen that tenderness as a child; if I’d once heard her speak my name so softly. It is too little, too late. She is not the only person on this earth to learn harshness out of necessity.
‘Done,’ she barks, the weakness gone as swiftly as it appeared. ‘I shall expect nothing from you. This is business.’ She sweeps the coins into her apron.
‘Business,’ I agree.
I climb the stairs and unpack, folding my clothes and placing them in the dresser. I become aware of my grandmother leaning on the door frame, but have no intention of engaging in small talk. She breaks the silence.
‘We’ve missed you,’ she says with true warmth.
This is the moment where I am supposed to run to her arms whilst wiping away a tear as we make our joyful reconciliation: the prodigal daughter returned to the bosom of her affectionate family. I toss the notion aside. Such a reunion is the stuff of penny papers.
‘Did you?’ I scoff. ‘I find that difficult to believe.’
‘Edie, love. I didn’t take you for such a harsh woman.’
‘You are surprised? I am my mother’s daughter.’
‘That you are,’ she sighs. ‘Edie, she’s not had it—’
‘If you dare tell me she’s had a hard life, I swear I shall scream.’
‘Do as you please. You’ll never know the half of it.’
I refuse to soften. ‘You assume I have any desire to do so.’
We face each other: I with folded arms, chin thrust forward and glaring down my nose. She gives me a long, slow look.
‘Edie, lass …’
‘I am no longer a child. You can’t win me round with clucking and cooing.’
I wait for her next sally, tapping my foot belligerently. She sags like a loaf taken out of the oven too soon.
‘I can’t fight you,’ she croaks. ‘Not any longer. But I shall have my say and then I shall leave you to your own devices. You have precious little respect for your mother, eh?’
‘How did you guess?’ I reply with a snort of derision.
‘Then pin your ears back and hear this. You will
end up like her. Worse, I reckon.’
‘Where on earth did you get that idea?’
‘She’s closed Arthur away, more or less. You’ve done the same to Gnome, haven’t you? Took what was not yours. There’s a bitter price to pay for such tyranny.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I lie.
I stare out of the window at the rain-glazed roofs. I refuse to show how deeply her words have affected me, but she’s been able to read my face since I reached her knee.
‘At least you have the good grace to look guilty, even if you won’t admit it.’
‘Nothing to admit,’ I mutter.
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s killed your mother.’ She waves away my interruption. ‘No. Not in that way. But she might as well be dead. She works, she eats, she sleeps. She is too terrified to contemplate love, even a friend. That’s a poor sort of life. Do you want that? Frozen, friendless, loveless?’
She has hit the mark and she knows it. I hang my head. ‘No, but—’
She silences me with an angry gesture. ‘No more of your wheedling justifications. You’re back home. Gnome must be back also. I want to see him, every night. Chew on that, young lady, and see how it tastes.’
With that, she leaves the room. She has no idea what he’s put me through. I resist the urge to shout something uncomplimentary and confine myself to slamming the door. I make up the bed with the blanket and sheet laid out on the chair. Night is coming in. From beneath come the sounds of the bar and its customers. The basin and ewer stand in their usual position upon the chest of drawers. The wallpaper peels at the cornice. It’s as though I never left. Battered by a wave of misery, I sink to the bed and put my head in my hands. All my effort, for nothing. I have lost everything. I am back where I started.
I grind my teeth. No, not quite. This is a temporary setback. I have retained my job by the skin of my teeth, which is more important than the loss of my lodgings. I have a friend in Guy. And, possibly, Miss Hargreaves. Abigail! In all the confusion, I clean forgot. The single light in my present darkness is the arrangement to meet her at the Art Gallery on Saturday afternoon. For the first time on that monstrous day, I smile.
The pleasure is short-lived. Nana’s words ring in my ears and my skin crawls with the truth of them. My whole life I’ve regaled myself with the glib conviction that I’d never follow my mother’s example. Yet I’ve done precisely that, and worse. I consider the notion of Gnome and me resuming our old ways: day and night, night and day. We might start this very evening.
The Night Brother Page 22