The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  I gnaw the inside of my cheek and think of what he attempted today, how narrow my escape. What if I let him in tonight, only to have him wreak an even more terrible revenge? I feel the familiar twisting in my bowels as he stirs. I wait for the surge of his rage. It does not come. Rather, he is timid, hesitant. It must be a sham.

  ‘Gnome?’

  Who else? I am sorry.

  ‘Sorry? Don’t insult my intelligence. You set thugs on me!’

  I knew it was a mistake the minute I did it. I didn’t mean it to go that way. I swear.

  ‘Rubbish. It’s just the sort of trick you’d pull.’

  I was angry. Can you blame me? Can’t you forgive me a moment’s fury?

  I clench my fists against the bile rising in my gorge. ‘No.’

  Let me in, Edie.

  ‘Just a few more days,’ I gasp. ‘Until Saturday. Then. I promise.’

  Please, Edie. Don’t. I’m frightened.

  ‘You’re not frightened of anything.’

  I cannot permit myself to trust him. Everything he says is a lie. I can’t give up, not now. I draw a pin from the brim of my hat and thrust it into the flesh of my thigh.

  I am on tenterhooks for the following three days. When not at work I keep to my room, avoiding Ma and Nana whenever possible. I wedge a chair under the doorknob if Nana looks set to deliver another sermon, and the prospect of my wage packet emptying itself into her pocket appeases Ma’s foul mood to the occasional scowl. Nothing can be permitted to prevent my meeting with Abigail. When Gnome wriggles at nightfall, I skewer him till he stops.

  On Saturday, I pace outside the Art Gallery in a frenzy. Abigail arrives on the dot of one and I am so overcome with relief I almost kneel and kiss her shoe. With a great deal of effort, I compose my features into what I hope is a calm smile of greeting.

  ‘Guy has been most mysterious,’ she says, taking my hand and shaking it gently. ‘He told me you missed a day at work.’

  ‘Did he?’ I recoil at the idea of Guy casting my confidences to the winds.

  ‘Rest easy, dear Edie. He said nothing untoward. He can be very discreet when he chooses. Or is required to be.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, unsure if I am addressing Abigail or Guy.

  ‘He intimated I may need to treat you gently.’

  I open my mouth, ready to fashion a brisk retort about not needing to be mollycoddled by anyone, thank you very much. Her expression is suffused with such kindness the words die on my tongue. I nod stiffly. It is a poor state of affairs to be so unused to expressions of tender feeling that I lash out at all and sundry. I must learn to accept gentleness.

  We proceed through the heavy wooden doors, cross the vestibule and its chessboard of black and white tiles, turn to the left and enter a room full of landscapes. We pause before a breathtaking vista. Wisps of cloud are torn across an azure sky and dense forests cling to the side of mountains, thrilling me as much as if I were a mountaineer braving their slopes.

  ‘I find it quite magical that I can gaze into another world through the golden frame of the painting,’ I say. ‘Without leaving the confines of this room I can travel a thousand miles in the wink of an eye, transported far from Manchester and its sooty mills and chimneys.’

  ‘I never thought of it in such a way before,’ Abigail replies. ‘You have the soul of a poet.’

  ‘Me? Hardly.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself.’

  She assesses me with a penetrating glance. Here, then, was my great fear: to be observed closely and for my disguise to be pierced. To be found wanting and rejected. No such denouncement occurs. We move to the next painting, a rural idyll with a sky of cornflower blue.

  ‘I declare I can hear birdsong!’ she says. There is the lightest of pauses. ‘There are blackbirds nesting in my father’s garden. They have the sweetest of songs. I should like you to hear them sometime.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘May I press you to call upon me one evening after work?’

  ‘I should like that very much.’

  ‘So should I.’

  We wander on, side by side. A pair of stone lions guards the staircase to the upper galleries. On previous occasions I imagined them baring their fangs and growling. This afternoon they appear to be grinning. Abigail’s company is indeed invigorating if it can prompt such a flight of the imagination.

  ‘Now we leave the countryside and enter the world of men,’ she says with an arch smile. ‘Prepare yourself for a great deal of sound and fury.’

  We take the stairs and are presented with canvasses populated by ladies and gentlemen pulling faces and striking theatrical poses. Abigail comes to a halt before a particularly wide-eyed youth who is chewing his knuckles and banging his knees together.

  ‘He looks as though he has been struck with a bad case of indigestion,’ she whispers.

  The jest is spoken softly, yet is loud enough to be overheard by a matron standing to my left. I wait for the snort of disapproval and am surprised when her mouth quirks into a smile.

  ‘How often have I thought the same,’ she says. ‘But one is hardly permitted to say so, is one?’

  ‘Life is much refreshed by a little disobedience,’ says Abigail.

  The woman laughs. ‘Thank you, my dear. You have quite made my day.’

  She turns and moves the length of the gallery with a spring in her step. The stuffed bird upon her hat flaps its wings.

  ‘Now,’ says Abigail, with a look of grave seriousness. ‘Time to screw our courage to the sticking-place.’ My face must betray my question. ‘Forgive me. I am being obtuse. Come.’ She takes my hand in hers, a gesture so distracting I care not whither I am led. ‘Ah!’ she breathes. ‘The room I most wished to visit.’

  The gallery contains portrayal after portrayal of somnolent women. They look much of a muchness to my ill-educated eye: flame-coloured hair, bruised mouths and a great deal of velvet. Abigail pokes her umbrella at one of the limp nymphs, at the joint of whose thighs the paint has been blurred into nothingness.

  ‘Bah!’ she exclaims. ‘An ideal to which women are forced to aspire, yet never have any hope of attaining.’

  I stare at her, unsure how to respond.

  ‘Do they look like any women with whom you are acquainted?’ she says angrily. ‘No! I could smack the whole roomful into the middle of next week. The artists and all.’ She pauses, breath stertorous.

  ‘I thought you said you liked the gallery?’ I say, somewhat at a loss to understand her outburst.

  ‘I do,’ she replies. ‘It reminds me why I am passionate about the cause and how far we have to go.’

  ‘Now that you mention it, I suppose there is a surfeit of disinterested-looking maidens,’ I remark. ‘It is rather trying upon the nerves.’

  ‘I should like to take a toffee hammer to them,’ Abigail says, passion unabated. ‘It might happen, you know.’ She pauses. ‘Do I shock you?’

  I consider my answer. I ought to cry out yes! However, I have a growing mistrust of statements containing the word ought. ‘No,’ I reply.

  ‘I am glad. I like you and would have us share thoughts and feelings, even if they flow against the current that society has ordained for our sex.’ She lowers her eyes and picks at the fingertips of her gloves. ‘I sound foolish.’

  ‘Far from it! You speak with fire.’

  ‘I do so whenever I touch upon my hopes. I have ambitions that are scandalous to many.’

  ‘Please. Tell me.’

  I am entranced. I could listen to her passionate declamations till the cows come home. How outrageous can she possibly be? Whatever she says, it cannot come close to my outrageous nature.

  ‘Not here. I simply must take tea or else I shall start tearing the pictures from the walls.’ She speaks quietly, but with iron determination. ‘There is a fine teashop around the corner. It serves a strong cup.’

  She slips her arm through mine. I like the sensation it affords a great deal. She guides me down the stairs and
along the street. We order tea and the waitress brings the tray straightaway. Suddenly I am thirstier than ever in my life. Abigail pours me a cup.

  ‘So,’ I say. I drop in two lumps of sugar and stir thoughtfully. ‘You said you are scandalous.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’ She glances nervously in my direction. ‘All of a sudden I feel rather shy.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I am when I am with someone whose opinion I esteem. Very well.’ She draws in a breath and speaks quickly, as though the words have been bottled up and are pouring out in a rush. ‘I wish to be my own woman. That is the beginning and end of it. I do not desire marriage to provide the only means of escape from home. I want a job that interests, not enslaves me. I want to exercise my mind and not on romantic frippery. I wish to love, freely. Whether that lover be man or woman.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ I exclaim. ‘How …’

  She falls silent. The muscles in her cheek tick away the seconds.

  ‘… how wonderful.’

  The cloud clears from her face. She smiles and peers into the teapot. ‘Enough of my hectoring. What of you?’

  ‘Me?’ No one ever asked such a question. ‘I assume I’ll follow Ma into the brewery trade.’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  I shrug. ‘What I want is of little significance.’

  ‘If you could choose?’

  ‘Choice? Not for the likes of me.’

  I take a fortifying gulp and it occurs to me that I have made choices: even though my lodgings are lost, I am earning a wage in the Telegraph Office. Perhaps I can still be my own woman? No. The very idea is laughable, not to mention impossible.

  ‘You must pardon my questions,’ Abigail continues. ‘I am an inquisitive creature and like to have my curiosity satisfied. It is a great failing and has led me into all kinds of scrapes.’

  ‘You have failings? I cannot believe that.’

  She laughs loudly. An old fellow with bushy side-whiskers shoots us a sharp glance of disapproval. O tempora, O mores, I imagine him thinking. I stare back until he looks away.

  Abigail chuckles. ‘Too loud to be ladylike, aren’t I? That is another of the sins I commit. My manners do not become my sex.’ She takes a long draught of tea, her eyes sparkling. ‘I must warn you, Edie. If we are to be intimate friends you must understand that you are falling into unsavoury company.’

  ‘You wish to be intimate friends?’

  She tips her head to one side. ‘Indeed. Why not?’

  ‘I am not like other women, who know the art of friendship. What have I to offer one such as yourself?’

  ‘A good question. Maybe the exploration of that question over time will produce its own answer.’

  I faced this crossroads with Guy. This afternoon I face the same with Abigail. I can continue on my life’s narrow course, free of the entangling snares of companionship. Safe and lonely. That path is as clear as a series of picture postcards, complete with dramatic captions. I grip the edge of the table, rubbing my thumb against the warp and weft of the tablecloth. The creases are ironed in so sharply I am surprised they do not slice the skin and draw blood. I raise my eyes, regard her steadily and in that moment know I do not wish to be free.

  ‘Your mouth is open,’ she says. ‘Be careful, for I may push in a sugar lump.’ Her cheeks flush crimson and she places her hand over her smile. ‘Now it is my turn to offer apologies. I did warn you I was uncouth. Words spill out before I have the sense to check them for propriety.’

  ‘No one heard,’ I say and smile reassuringly.

  ‘You did.’

  I am unused to flirtation and it makes me dizzy. Abigail is a near stranger, yet there is an indefinable quality about her that demands honesty. It is most peculiar. I never felt so madcap. I drain my cup.

  ‘Be assured that you have my good opinion and more. If I hesitate on the brink of closer intimacy it is no fault of yours. It is entirely as a result of my own fear and shame.’

  ‘Shame?’ Abigail echoes.

  At that moment, the waitress reappears. ‘Can I fetch you some sandwiches, miss? We’ve got nice cheese and piccalilli.’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘How about a slice of cake? There’s a lovely Victoria sponge.’

  ‘No. Thank you.’ Abigail smiles and proffers the empty jug. ‘Another pot of boiling water, if you please.’

  ‘We’ll be getting busy shortly,’ the waitress says pointedly. ‘They’ll be coming out of High Exchange and wanting tea. And cakes, and sandwiches. Heaps of them.’

  ‘We’ll not keep the table much longer,’ I apologise.

  The waitress sniffs at such a pair of penny-pinchers and sweeps away.

  ‘I don’t blame her for trying,’ Abigail says. ‘Pittance of a wage. I shall leave a generous tip. However, I’m not moving until I’ve heard you out. I have a feeling if I do not hear it today I never will.’

  The waitress returns speedily, carrying a very small jug of water. Abigail thanks her, and tips it into the pot.

  ‘We’ll be lucky to have a cup worth the drinking. The leaves are practically drowned. But faint heart, et cetera.’ She pours us both a cup. The brew is thin, approaching a state more akin to water. In her presence it is nectar. ‘Tell me,’ she says. She props her elbows on the tablecloth and leans her chin on her fist. ‘What do you mean by such powerful words? Shame. Fear.’

  ‘I do not know where to begin,’ I say.

  ‘Edie. You are prevaricating,’ she growls.

  I take a draught of bitter tea, seized with a wave of frustration at my inability to speak plainly. I want this friendship to flourish and it cannot do so without trust. But I do not trust myself: how can I when my very flesh is untrustworthy? I can never tell her the truth. But I can share something approaching it.

  ‘I am ashamed of my family.’ The words come out in a creak. ‘In particular, my brother.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’

  ‘He has been away for a long time. He returned this week. Dramatically.’ I point at my ragged curls. ‘Take this for instance.’

  ‘He cut your hair?’

  ‘I certainly didn’t. Life at home has been overturned as a result of his – intrusion. I was forced to surrender my lodgings. Almost lost my position at the Telegraph Office.’

  Abigail leans across the tablecloth and takes my hand. The linen is speckled with tiny droplets, where tea has dribbled from the spout of the pot.

  ‘No wonder you are so distracted,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For speaking to me as a friend, not as a stranger to be kept at arm’s length with falsehood.’

  My heart swells. With such a woman, anything might be possible.

  She puts down her cup with a gesture of finality. ‘However, we must give up this table for worthier customers. Before we leave, I have a request.’

  I restrain myself from crying anything!

  ‘The pleasure of your company on Tuesday evening next. If you are not already engaged.’

  ‘I should be delighted,’ I say. ‘If needs be, I shall move heaven and earth to be there.’

  ‘I doubt if you will need to labour quite so hard! It is a suffrage meeting at Birch House, that is all.’

  ‘I have some arrangements to make. With my brother,’ I say, selecting the words with great care. ‘I shall be there. If I am not, it will not be my own choice, but rather an unavoidable detainment.’

  She nods her head gravely. ‘It is for me to apologise. I am unaccountably selfish. It did not occur to me that you may have good, plain reasons not to attend.’

  I reflect how neither goodness nor plainness are words I attach to my family.

  I fly home on wings of air. My head swims, giddy with hope. I have made it through this awful week. Abigail has declared herself my friend. My first and, I speculate, the first in the history of my cursed family. I think of us, hidden for untold generations, dodging from shadow to shadow. I am living in a new
world, a new century, peopled with wonderful creatures like Abigail. Perhaps things can change.

  Next Tuesday. I can permit myself a little leeway. An extra few nights without Gnome won’t make that much difference. Nana won’t notice. My conscience stirs and I stamp it down, hard.

  I dance up the stairs and into my room, only to be brought down to earth with a thump. My grandmother is perching on the edge of my bed, very much like a dowdy pigeon with its feathers puffed up.

  ‘Well?’ she says.

  ‘Well what?’ I glower. I am in no mood to have her trample on my happiness.

  She folds her arms and sticks out her chin. ‘It’s been three days. Where is he?’

  I unbutton my jacket and arrange it over the back of the chair; brush away a speck of coal dust that has adhered to the lapel.

  ‘He?’

  Her hand snakes out, whip-smart, and slaps my cheek. ‘Don’t you play me for a fool,’ she snaps. ‘I can still put you over my knee.’

  The shock of being struck by my grandmother is far greater than its sting.

  ‘Three days isn’t so long,’ I mumble. ‘I’ll let him back in presently.’

  I sit on the chair and unhook my right boot. I scuffed the toe at some point during the afternoon, far too beguiled by Abigail’s charms to pay it the slightest attention. I smile at the pleasurable memory.

  ‘Presently? That’s not good enough. I am begging you, lass. The two of you have got to find a better way.’

  For a moment, I think she means Abigail and myself. Of course she doesn’t. Gnome, always Gnome. I refuse to stomach her blether about balance when it’s the last thing she has any intention of doing herself. I cannot stay at The Comet. This state of affairs is untenable. I wonder idly if my next wage packet will prove sufficient for new lodgings and whether I might prevail upon Abigail to provide a reference. Out of the question. There is no point in renting a room only to have the same disaster befall me. I can do nothing until I have—