The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  I am jerked out of my meditations by hands grasping my shoulders. With astonishing strength Nana pins me to the mattress, grabs the hem of my skirt and yanks it upwards.

  ‘How dare you!’ I cry. ‘Get off!’

  I endeavour to wrest my skirt from her grasp, but she pushes me aside as easily as a leaf brushed from her sleeve. She hauls my petticoats to my waist, revealing the latticework of wounds betraying five years of self-torture. I wait for the storm of recriminations. She slumps on to the mattress and puts her head into her hands.

  ‘Dear God,’ she moans. ‘He was telling the truth.’

  I look at the ruin I’ve made of my flesh, scars from every campaign I’ve fought against Gnome and the terrible price of victory. I draw my skirt over my knees. The most painful silence of my life stretches between us.

  She breaks it. ‘I thought he was exaggerating. I had no idea.’

  ‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘For five glorious years, I was free. Can you even begin to understand how wonderful—’ The words stick in my throat. ‘I want – I need – a life of my own. I am close to having it.’

  ‘At what cost?’ She lets out a little groan, which chills me far more than if she yelled. ‘This cannot go on.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ I mutter, patting my skirt into neat folds. ‘It has been quite satisfactory.’

  My tattered skin cries out the falsehood. I cannot admit it. I dare not.

  ‘Haven’t you listened to a thing I’ve said?’ She pounds the blanket with her fist. I blink, the wind taken out of my sails. She pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘I’ve never been good with words. You’re the bookish member of this family and still you’re as dense as gravy. You two are as bad as each other. He needs you as much as you need him.’

  ‘He’s the last thing I need.’

  ‘Rubbish. Since he came back, you’ve been happier than in the five years preceding, haven’t you?’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Am I? You have friends now, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say grudgingly.

  ‘Your face can’t lie. Name me one friend you had before this week. Without him, you drifted through those years half-alive. Which is rather the point. Have a heart, Edie. It belongs to both of you. Let him have his share.’

  ‘I can’t trust him!’ I protest. ‘I’ll get lodgings. Miles from here. I’ll do it all again.’

  ‘How long will you manage before you slip up? Years? Months? Days? What if we slam the door on you the next time you crawl back?’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ I gasp.

  ‘Whatever it takes for you to learn.’ Then, more gently, she says, ‘I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Doesn’t feel like it.’

  ‘Listen. What if he’d done the same to you? What if he’d held you down for five years, never letting you so much as surface for a breath? What would you do?’

  I catch my reflection in the mirror, self-justification ground into my features. I could trot out the soothing lie of Gnome’s unreasonable nature compared to my mildness, his anger against my sweet nature and so on. It’s a fairy tale I’ve told myself every night for five years.

  My grandmother is correct. If Gnome did to me half of what I did to him – how I’d rail, how I’d plot vengeance. I think myself so clever to keep him down. It is a cunning devoid of compassion. We are not so very different, Gnome and I. My eyes prick with tears. I do not know if they are for Gnome, for myself or for the wreck of our lives.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ I whisper.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ she says. ‘You have a lot of apologising to do and you’d best start now.’

  ‘What if he won’t let me back in?’

  ‘I’ll make him.’ She cups my cheek and I weep into its warmth.

  ‘Help me,’ I say, my voice small as a child’s.

  ‘I’ll stop here. Till he comes.’ She takes my hand. I cling to its anchor. ‘Now, Edie,’ she murmurs.

  Bit by bit I let go of my hold, slip away and fall into the darkness that comes with Gnome.

  GNOME

  MARCH–JUNE 1909

  Free. I’m free!

  I fly back in to find my ear clamped in the vice of Grandma’s fingers. ‘Ow! Let go!’

  ‘Not a chance.’ She shakes me like a dishrag. ‘Edie has kept her side of the bargain. You will too.’

  ‘Bargain?’ I roar. ‘How long has she kept me away for this time? A year?’

  ‘Three days.’

  I scowl. ‘Three days, three years; it’s the principle of the thing.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I agree, you daft ha’porth. I’m on your side, Gnome.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘And hers.’

  ‘Oh.’ I knew there’d be a catch. ‘You just wait and see what I’ve got in store for my ruddy sister.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing.’

  ‘Watch me,’ I growl.

  ‘If you so much as break one of her fingernails …’

  ‘You’ll do what, you old bag?’

  She hauls me close, presses her nose to mine. ‘God forgive me for saying this, but I shall hold her hand as she stabs you.’

  That takes the wind out of my sails. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘She is sorry. She wants to put things right.’ She lets go of my ear. ‘It’s up to the two of you to sort this out. Make a life. You’re together forever, and that’s that.’

  ‘Not if I—’

  ‘I am watching. Don’t you forget it.’

  She storms out, leaving me alone.

  I watch the sun go down and fume. Edie wants to make amends, after all these years? Too late. I’ll show her. I pound the wall with my fist, the sound drowned by the racket from the bar downstairs. Damn their gaiety. Damn my sister. She and Grandma are in cahoots and if I so much as cough out of place they’ll puncture me like a balloon. I am hobbled.

  The ingratitude. I saved her from Jack and Joseph’s clutches and look at the thanks I get. I shouldn’t have bothered. Sorry? I cringe to think I wrote such a word. Sorry got me into this tight spot. Never again will I show such milk-and-water mildness.

  I’m not man enough, that’s the problem. Jack and Joseph thought I was girlish, just like Reg did. It’s all Edie’s fault. If it weren’t for her, I’d be a true man, through and through. My birthright, yet it has been denied me at every turn. I hate myself.

  No. I pull myself up sharp. I’m bemoaning my fate, and that’s what women do. I’m not a woman, not even the tiniest bit of me. I shall prove it. Women have got fluff between their ears. I’ve got brains and I’ll use them to get what I need. I’ve been going about things all wrong. Rage got me into this fix and will not get me out. New times need new measures.

  There’s a shirt in the tallboy, britches too. I put them on and it calms me a little as I think my way to a solution.

  She stole my past. There’s nothing I can do about that. But I can take her present and her future. Take it for myself, piece by piece, and when I’m done with it I shall crumble it like stale bread. What’s more, I’ll do it so cleverly she’ll never guess a thing. With a snap of my fingers I shall transform myself into the sweetest brother ever to draw breath.

  If I’m to discover the keys to her life, there’s no better place to start than here and no better time to start than now. There is a power to be got from knowledge, and I shall get it. I snoop around the room; search under the mattress, the tallboy, the rug. I ferret through her pockets, her petticoats, the pillow-slip. I slide out the drawers on their runners and check if anything has been pasted to the underside. Not so much as a tram ticket. The only sign she’s set foot in here is a pamphlet entitled What Women Want. I mangle it into a tight ball. What women bloody want? When I’ve finished with her what she’ll want is—

  A bell chimes in my head. Patience, Gnome. I lay the crumpled paper on top of the chest of drawers and flatten it with the heel of my hand. So, she fancies herself a suffragette. Very well.
I shall let that be my first clue. It’s only a matter of time before she slips and leaves more titbits of information.

  I button my shirt and head downstairs. The Comet is in full swing. I saunter along the corridor, tipping my cap to Mam.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ she growls.

  ‘Oh Mam,’ I simper. ‘Have a heart. Edie swept me under the carpet for so long. Surely you don’t begrudge me a night on the tiles to make up for lost time?’

  I expect a curse but her face softens.

  ‘Go on, you poor lad,’ she coos. ‘You’re a good son. Better than that sister of yours.’

  ‘What’s she done now?’ I say encouragingly.

  Mam kicks a crate of lemonade bottles. They chink indignantly. ‘She strolls back in here with airs and graces like you wouldn’t believe,’ she mutters.

  ‘Did she indeed? How rude.’

  Mam hoists the crate and struggles towards the public bar. ‘Slaps down a wad of cash,’ she pants. ‘Bold as brass, declares she’ll be my lodger. Me! Do I look like a landlady?’

  ‘The cheek of it.’

  My sister has money. I squirrel away that nugget of information for future use. I’m so taken up with the thought I miss the next part of her monologue.

  ‘… not lifting a finger. To my face!’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘You could’ve knocked me down with a feather. Not a lick of help from her. Never!’

  An idea stirs. I shall add wily fox as well as sleuth-hound to my repertoire.

  ‘I’ll help,’ I say.

  Her complaints hiccup to an abrupt halt. She blinks. ‘You?’

  ‘Can’t have you wearing yourself out, can we? Let me take those heavy bottles.’

  She looks close to tears, or fainting. Take your pick. The crate is a dead weight and her grateful quacking doesn’t lighten it one smidgen. I follow her around The Comet, doing every task she has a mind to and doing them with a good will. When she calls time I’m there with a broom to sweep the steps. Why restrict myself to being the finest brother when best son is up for grabs? I fairly hug myself with delight at my ingenuity. I’ve been pushing a rock up a hill when all I had to do was stop and let gravity do its work.

  Night follows night and I work like a trooper. Even my slab-faced grandmother cracks a smile. Mam stuffs me so full of beer and bacon and fried potatoes I can barely move. By the end of the following week, she’s practically shoving me out of the door to take a night off.

  Back and forth we go, Edie and I; back and forth.

  Spring brightens to a summer as bright as Manchester can muster, and I’m as good as my tricky word. I don’t barge in early. No more monkey business with boots in the bed, shearing her like a sheep or leaving her too exhausted to face the day. She falls for it, the sap. She thinks Gnome is a gelding. It’s an effort to rein in my anger, but who knows what I may discover if I take things slow, rather than pile in, all guns blazing.

  As she believes and trusts in me, she lets down her guard. As she lets down her guard, she leaves evidence: letters, leaflets, books, calling-cards, a pocket handkerchief scented with flowers that don’t grow within a hundred miles of The Comet. I press it to my face. Ah, her precious life. The fool lays it out as a banquet for me to feed upon, selecting any delicacy that takes my fancy and gobbling it up.

  One evening, I find a picture postcard of the Royal Botanical Gardens propped against the ewer. I flip it over and read the message: an invitation to attend a meeting where a Mrs So-and-So will present an illustrated lecture about the work of a bunch of busybodies from Cardiff. I can’t think of anything more tedious. However, if my sister finds it of interest, so shall I. It is signed in sweeping copperplate: From your friend, Miss Abigail Hargreaves.

  Hah. My sister has a friend: a flittery, fluttery girl with whom to giggle and gossip. The thought of all that sugar and spice makes me want to gag. Courage, Gnome. I raise the postcard to my nose and inhale. My senses crackle like the moment before a thunderstorm; heart thumps, breath gallops. Anyone would think it’s yours truly who’s affected by this female. The very thought. It’s nothing to do with me. Edie read this communication with a particular thrill, that is all.

  An address is written at the top of the message. Whalley Range, a brisk fifteen-minute walk from The Comet. What business my sister has in company so far above her station is beyond me. What is beyond me, intrigues me.

  With great care, I replace the card in the precise position I found it. I wonder what this lah-di-dah companion would think if I were to whisper Edie’s secret in her shell-like? Down will fall baby, cradle and all. Dash Jack and Joseph and all of that rough stuff. There’s no need to lay a finger on Edie’s precious body when I can injure her heart and carve wounds that can neither be seen nor repaired.

  Her first friend will be my first quarry. I’ll stroll by her place of residence, casual-like, satisfy my curiosity. Stash any discoveries for future meddling.

  As I saunter along, botheration starts in my boots. It won’t leave off, wriggling its way up my legs until it gets to my bonce. Wouldn’t life be a lot simpler if I let go of my anger and shared with Edie, as Grandma suggests? Wouldn’t that be easier than all this hole-and-corner business?

  Never. Edie must be planting these notions in my head. She’ll not get one over me. There’s reparation to be made. This is not selfishness. This is survival.

  Upper Chorlton Road is something of a Rubicon: to the north huddle Hulme’s cramped terraces; to the south sprawls a plantation of modern villas, towering three storeys high. I take the turning on to College Road and straightaway I’m lost in a maze of genteel avenues. Just when I think I am heading one way, the road changes its mind and curves in the opposite direction, or else presents me with a choice of turnings. As often as not they lead to dead ends, so that I need to retrace my footsteps and begin over. If I believed in magic – which I most assuredly do not – I’d swear the houses move when I’m not looking, plonking themselves down in a fresh place every few minutes. It must drive delivery boys barmy.

  If that wasn’t unnerving enough, the place is as silent as the grave. It takes me a while to work out why: from the moment I entered this neighbourhood I’ve not spotted a single beerhouse, not one shop. It escapes me what these people do of an evening with nowhere to go for a pint and a sit-down, let alone buy a bag of humbugs or get their boots resoled.

  Just when I am beginning to wonder if I’ve stepped into a dream, a lady heaves into view, dragging a small dog on a lead. I raise my cap and enquire – with especial politeness – where I may locate Dene Road. The matron responds with an acid glare, as though I’ve cracked out a violent fart. She sweeps away, skirts flapping like the sails of a galleon, dragging the mutt from the tree against which it has cocked its spindly leg.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am!’ I shout after her. ‘What exquisite manners!’

  Her shoulders tighten. The dog yips disconsolately. This is unsupportable. I’d like to punch the wall, but cracked knuckles won’t improve things. I stomp beneath the electric street lamps, cursing the higgledy-piggledy street plan. My boot heels sound far louder than they ought and I’m convinced I hear footsteps behind me; but when I spin around the pavement is empty. The back of my neck prickles with hungry eyes. This place gives me the willies.

  Then, without warning, I find myself at my destination. After all the mucking about, I can’t believe I’m here. The front door boasts a brass knocker in the shape of a sunflower and the driveway is flanked by pottery urns big enough for Ali Baba and every one of his forty thieves.

  I’m not entirely sure what to do. There’s no point knocking, for it’s far too late for high-class types to receive visitors. Even if I do and Miss Hargreaves answers, she doesn’t know me from Adam. I can hardly say: I’m Edie’s brother. You know my sister. I rock back and forth on my heels and my attention alights upon an upstairs window. For no good reason, I am convinced it is Miss Hargreaves’ room. I imagine her seated before her mirror and counting
each stroke of the brush as she draws it through her unbound hair. From root to tip she goes, the bristles wrapped in a silk scarf, transferring its sheen to her tresses.

  I shake myself. Why I’m mooning like this is beyond me. I’ve work to do. I slip down the side of the house and pummel the tradesman’s door. It opens before I’ve finished to reveal a short girl in a dark uniform.

  ‘Yes?’ she enquires, sticking her nose up in a failed attempt to be grand. ‘We aren’t expecting a delivery this late.’

  Her position on the other side of the brass strip across the threshold makes her so conceited you’d be forgiven for thinking she was the lady of the house and not the parlourmaid. I decide against a ribald quip, bring my sunniest grin out of hiding and ogle her like she’s the prettiest pearl I ever saw.

  ‘Who are you calling for?’ she says, pleasingly confused.

  I gaze longingly for a few more seconds. ‘I’m sorry, miss! I am in such a daze. I do apologise – but I thought for a minute there … No.’

  ‘You thought what?’ she says. She’s hooked.

  ‘It’s impossible – but are you perhaps the famous singer Miss Minnie Atkins?’

  ‘I am certainly not,’ she says in a voice that is all affront – to the untutored ear at least.

  ‘Her sister, perhaps?’

  She squirms with delight. ‘Not a bit of it! The cheek!’

  ‘But your face – it has that self-same delicacy. Oh, listen to me. I am making such a fool of myself!’

  I hear what she will relate to her friends. He said I looked like Minnie Atkins! He said I had her delicacy, and all on the mistress’s back doorstep, without a by-your-leave!

  In truth, she has the poise and charm of a wheelbarrow, but making an accurate comparison will get me nowhere. Needs must when the Devil drives. I peer over her shoulder into the hallway. A drugget stretches its tongue into the distance. I bestow a smile that could melt granite; then it’s to business.

  ‘I was wondering – if I may trouble you,’ I simper. ‘Is Miss Hargreaves at home?’

  ‘Oh.’ Her face wrinkles in disappointment.