The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  ‘It’s just that my sister has sent me on an errand. I don’t know Miss Hargreaves at all,’ I add, watching her perk up. ‘She wishes me to leave a message. Oh, it’s all so dashed complicated. I’m awful at remembering things.’

  I shoot her a helpless look and its arrow pierces the target. Bullseye. She leans forward.

  ‘No one’s at home. They’re all out. One of their meetings.’ She pronounces the last word with weighty disapproval. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  I don’t, but nod my head sagely all the same.

  ‘I’d invite you in …’ she says, hesitantly.

  ‘I couldn’t!’ I blurt. ‘You don’t want me cluttering up the kitchen and keeping you from your chores,’ I continue, knowing that is precisely what she does want. She stares at me. I feel like a gammon joint about to be carved and eaten. ‘In any case,’ I add. ‘I’m sure Cook wouldn’t have it.’

  ‘It’s Cook’s half-day off,’ she says, and quick as a flash I’m in, with much giggling and shushing.

  I get a good look at the hallway: a parti-coloured tile floor, figured wallpaper heavy with lilies and an ornate ceiling rose from which swings an electric light glittering with a dozen bulbs. Panelled doors lead into a vast room; I am whisked by far too quickly to catch a glimpse of the interior. It’s not Buckingham Palace, but may as well be compared to anywhere I’ve lived. The maid drags me into the back kitchen, as devoid of interest as any kitchen from Scotland to Southampton. She bobs up and down in front of the range.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she chirps.

  ‘Goodness,’ I demur, warming to my role. ‘I wouldn’t want to be any trouble. Not the tiniest scrap.’

  ‘Get on with you. Won’t take a minute,’ she beams. She pokes the fire, spilling a coal on to the rug. With a lot of stamping and squeaking, we douse the flames. I imagine her smashing plates and smearing the silverware when she polishes it. After a bit of a struggle, she hauls the kettle safely on to the hot plate. ‘See? No trouble at all,’ she pants, looking very proud of herself.

  ‘Thanks awfully,’ I pipe.

  The pot of tea is made without further upset and she pours me a cup. I pronounce it delicious, despite the fact that it could scour the barnacles off a tugboat. I add an extra spoonful of sugar and chatter about my sister, how she is most awfully attached to Miss Hargreaves. However, the maid is more interested in gurning than furnishing me with useful information.

  ‘Surely you’ve seen her?’ I ask a little desperately.

  ‘Who?’ she says. ‘Miss Hargreaves? Of course I’ve seen her, silly. She lives here.’

  ‘I meant my sister,’ I say, grinding my teeth. ‘Miss Latchford. Edie.’

  ‘No. I’m sure I haven’t heard that name,’ she replies with a frowning effort at concentration. ‘My name’s Betty.’

  Her hopeful expression betrays how it’s my name she’s after. I force down a mouthful of the acrid tea.

  ‘Reginald.’ It’s good enough for the present circumstances.

  ‘Reginald,’ she echoes, rolling the syllables around her mouth like mint balls.

  ‘My best friends call me Reggie,’ I say. As though struck by an after-thought, I add, ‘Do call me Reggie, won’t you? If you’d like to, that is.’

  She looks extremely pleased with herself. ‘Well, Reggie,’ she croons.

  I toy with my cup. If I drink it, she’ll only pour me more of the vile muck. It is most provoking. At this rate I shall leave this house with nothing more than the worst tea known to man tanning my insides. I’ve no intention of that happening, not when I’ve trudged so far. I try a different tack.

  ‘I bet they work you jolly hard.’

  ‘They’re not the worst I’ve had.’

  ‘Aren’t these big houses packed to the gunnels with things that are the very devil to keep dusted and polished? Why, I’ll bet there’s a room full of stuffed tigers’ heads poking out of the wall, from the master’s time in India.’

  ‘Not this house.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I gasp. ‘It’s filled to the brim with Zulu spears and shields, isn’t it? There are lion-skins spread over the floor that you catch your foot in every time you walk into the room.’

  ‘Oh! Not a bit of it,’ she declares.

  ‘Come on now. You’re teasing me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t tease you,’ she cries earnestly. ‘They live very plainly. They have books, heaps of them, but that’s about it.’

  I fold my arms and sigh. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’ There’s the space of a heartbeat, during which time she glances over her shoulder at the wall-clock and then grasps my elbow.

  ‘Come with me,’ she hisses. ‘I’ll show you. Then you’ll believe me.’

  I’ve eaten my chips off enough newspaper advertisements to know just how prissy a house can look, and I expect this one to be up there with the prissiest. It’s a surprise when Betty leads the way into the drawing room and I find windows hung with sober drapery, chairs marked with the print of many backsides and carpet of fine quality yet worn with the passage of feet. Bookshelves stretch from skirting board to cornice, crammed with more volumes than a healthy-minded chap could read in two lifetimes. Many of them stick out paper tongues where a marker has been slid between the pages. I wonder what breed of troll lives here.

  ‘Gosh!’ I gasp. ‘I did not realise Miss Hargreaves was such a bluestocking.’

  Betty lets out a snort. ‘They’re not her books, silly. They’re the master’s. Mind you, the missus reads enough of them. And, come to think of it, so does the young mistress, and all.’

  She shakes her head at such inexplicable behaviour. I cross to the desk and start to shuffle through loose papers spread across the blotter. A claw seizes my wrist.

  ‘Here! You put those down. I’ll get thrown on to the street, so I will.’

  I give her a contrite look. ‘What a naughty, naughty boy,’ I simper and hold out my hand. She looks confused. ‘Go on. Bad boys need a slap on the wrist.’

  She raps my knuckles gently, with her hand over her mouth to hold in the giggle. There is nothing of interest on the desk, merely scribbled notes about prisons and humane treatment and such rot.

  We continue on our Grand Tour. The sitting room is as dull as the drawing room, albeit with fewer books. If anything, the chairs have been even more heavily sat upon. I am confused. These people are clearly rolling in money – folk in this neighbourhood are – yet they tolerate old carpets, battered chairs and rickety desks. The books might tot up to a king’s ransom, but it’s a dreary way to show off the lucre.

  If I had half of it, I’d spend it right: fancy new chairs to start with, carpets too. Four maids. Six. A butler to fetch and carry whenever I yell. A boy to pull off my boots. And champagne: bottles and bottles. A cellar dug especially to keep them in.

  We hover at the foot of the staircase while Betty chunters away about the master and the missus and how modest they are in their ways. I know a lot about secrets and where they are hidden. I put my foot on the bottom step and she hauls me backwards. If she ever loses her position, she could go into the building trade.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going? That’s private, that is.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to show me the whole house?’ I say, eyebrows raised. ‘I bet it’s a different story up there,’ I remark. ‘The height of fashion.’

  ‘Not on your life.’

  ‘I don’t believe you! It’s all very well showing me downstairs. It’s all pretence.’

  ‘It’s the honest truth!’

  ‘Pshaw. Lots of folk pull the wool over their friends’ eyes by seeming sober in public, when in private all is riot.’

  ‘That’s as maybe. Not Master and Missus.’

  ‘I know what you’re doing,’ I say slyly.

  ‘What? I’m not doing nothing,’ she cries, eyes wide.

  I stick out my lower lip. ‘You’re too scared to show me the upstairs rooms.’

  ‘I’m not!’ she insist
s.

  ‘I understand completely. Can’t have the likes of me messing up the carpets. I’m too common by half.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ she says, desperation mounting.

  ‘Sure I am. I’m only a friend of Miss Hargreaves, after all.’ I cross my fingers and hope she’s forgotten Edie is the friend. It’s not exactly a lie, when you think about it. She chomps the inside of her cheek. I sigh. ‘I’ll be off now. The tea was lovely, thank you. It’s a shame I shan’t see you again.’

  I turn in the direction of the back door when her talons sink into my arm.

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Come on,’ she gasps, heaving me up the stairs. ‘They’re never back till nine o’clock. At least half an hour.’

  ‘I couldn’t. I don’t want to get you into trouble,’ I bleat, a love-struck fool once more.

  She blushes. We tiptoe up the stairs, letting out little shrieks with every creak. Not that there are many, for the carpet is so thick it could muffle cannonballs being rolled off the landing.

  Once more, Betty is disappointingly correct: the upstairs rooms match those downstairs for tedium. She shows me the bathroom, the master’s bedroom, then the missus’s, although her bravery does not extend to letting me take a step within. Not that I care, for it’s Miss Hargreaves’ room I’m wanting. Finally, she draws open a plain door and announces the young mistress’s room.

  ‘Is it really?’ I say, gazing deeply into Betty’s eyes.

  I lean very close, as though I am about to steal a kiss, and while she’s tittering I slide past.

  ‘Hey!’ she cries. ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Can’t what?’ I chirp, heading directly for the window.

  Upon the sill is a sheet of cheap writing paper. I catch a glimpse of the words deepest, heart, kindness, intimacy tossed around like marbles. I’m sniggering at women and their namby-pamby passionate friendships when I see the signature.

  Edie.

  How unutterably pathetic. How Miss Hargreaves must have laughed at such a grovelling missive! I dashed near do. It’s as plain as the nose on my face that Miss Hargreaves needs a bit of a shake-up, and I am the very chap. I’d like to pry further, but Betty bounds to my side. I grab her hand and clasp it to my chest so she can’t drag me away.

  ‘Isn’t it a pretty view?’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t you like to have a house like this one day?’

  Her lower lip droops as she tries to fathom whether this is a proposal of marriage. It takes up all of her brainpower, which grants me the opportunity to examine the room more closely. The bed is tidily made, coverlet embroidered in a tangle of green, white and purple flowers. The curtains are purple with green and white ropes tying them back. The cloth on the bedside table is cross-stitched in matching hues. I wonder if Miss Hargreaves is a monomaniac.

  Above the fireplace is an engraving of a knight in armour with a pudding-bowl haircut. Plonked on a horse, he has a circle of light around his head and is gawping at the sky. It takes me a while to realise it’s a woman.

  ‘You don’t want to be bothering with the likes of the young mistress,’ says Betty sourly. ‘She’s a suffragette.’

  ‘I’ll bet she has a face like a bashed crab,’ I say.

  ‘No, she hasn’t,’ she mutters. ‘She’s pretty,’ she adds with considerable venom.

  ‘She’ll be nothing compared to you. You’re just being nice,’ I say, and straight off I’m back in her good books. ‘All suffragettes are ugly,’ I aver knowledgeably. ‘I’ve seen the papers.’

  ‘She does have airs,’ she concedes. ‘Ideas, like.’

  I’ve got all I’m going to get. This is a reconnaissance, not a rout. I steer Betty down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  ‘More tea, Reggie?’

  ‘No!’ I say a little too loudly. I straighten my cap. ‘I simply cannot take up any more of your time, much as I should like to. Perhaps I may call again?’

  ‘I’ve got a half-day Sunday.’ She smirks. ‘Every Sunday.’

  I wink. ‘How could I stay away?’

  I’m on the verge of making my escape when she grabs my sleeve, loosening a few of the stitches in the shoulder.

  ‘Was there a message, Reggie?’

  ‘A message?’

  ‘For Miss Hargreaves, silly,’ she says, poking me with a finger as hard as a chisel. ‘You said you were on an errand.’

  I consider telling her to leave off, but I may need her again. I smile engagingly. ‘Say that Miss Latchford’s brother stopped by.’ I rack my brains. ‘Tell her my sister will meet her as arranged.’ It sounds feeble. I shrug my shoulders helplessly. ‘I’m sure there was something else, but it’s gone clean out of my head. I must’ve been bewitched along the way.’ I heave a mournful sigh. ‘By someone.’

  This cheers her enormously. She continues to paw me and it occurs that while I’m here, I may as well get some manly practice under my belt. There’s no reason why not. When I was a lad I didn’t understand. Now I do. I have a lot of time to make up.

  ‘Oh, I’m spellbound and no mistake,’ I murmur, drawing her close.

  She puckers her lips, eyes closed. I mash my face against hers. She pulls away.

  ‘Hold hard,’ she says. ‘I don’t want a fat lip.’

  I wait for the laughter, the ridicule, but she grabs my shirt front and hauls me back in. I press gently. Our mouths fit neat as two spoons in a drawer. As we kiss, I have a strange sensation of sliding into myself: a half-sleep that sparkles with wakefulness at the same time. It is pleasure.

  I pull myself up sharp. I can’t afford to let myself go. Gabbling about how the master will be back any minute, and how it’d be a fine thing for him to find the two of us canoodling, I rush out of the door and tear up the cinder path as fast as my feet will carry me.

  I scrub my mouth against the back of my hand. I’ve caught myself, and just in time. You won’t find me falling for a girl. Betty – no, I’ve already forgotten that name – means nothing to me. I’m part of a man’s world now, and I shall have a slice. A bloody big slice. I’ll have a hundred women. See if I don’t. On my arm, for all the world to envy and admire. There’s a man worth his salt, they’ll say. What a chap he must be, to have a hareem at his beck and call.

  I don’t understand why my swaggering words sound hollow; why I fell into that kiss as hungrily as a starving man on bread; why I itch to go back and tell Betty that it was all an act and that I want another kiss, and another; why I can’t let myself admit any of this. I want to forget her. A man doesn’t let women get their claws into his soul. Her name sticks in my head like a song I can’t shake off.

  Betty, Betty, give me your answer, do.

  I’m half-crazy …

  Wouldn’t you know it: just when I think I’ll be lost in this labyrinth for a week I tumble on to Withington Road. By the time I’m at Renshaw Street I am my sour self again. It doesn’t make me happy, but happiness and I never went together.

  It’s a start. I have the measure of this Miss Hargreaves. A suffragette, dash it all, but if she’s important to my sister she’s important to me. I’ll grit my teeth and play court to the ugliest woman in England if it gets me what I want.

  Night after night, week after week, I continue, smooth as silk. Edie swallows the lot. A few days later she leaves an envelope for my delectation. The direction is G. Heywood, Esq. Well, now: my butter-wouldn’t-melt sister has got a beau. I’ll bet Mam knows nothing about him. I search inside but it lacks any enclosure. I’d give a lot to know what was written on that particular billet-doux. A message is scribbled on the reverse.

  Angel! Luncheon alone cannot satisfy my thirst for your company. Neither my hunger, nor that of another personage. Take pity upon your lamenting friends! If you choose to grace our soirées once again, you will find us here. Ghastly, of course. 17 Oldham Street. Upstairs.

  More friends. More mischief. I squirm with delightful anticipation. If there are soirées to attend, I shall attend them, an
d become the toast of her society. I am certainly more fun than she is.

  I make my way into the city. At Piccadilly I gaze longingly towards Shudehill with its pies and pleasures. I’d far rather share a beer with Jessie than snore in the company of Edie’s friends. They are bound to be the most insurmountable bores. Gnome, I chide. You haven’t got the brains you were born with. You’ve set yourself a task. Stick to it and have that beer after. It will taste the sweeter. My new brains win.

  I count the buildings up Oldham Street. The door opens at my knock and a willowy man greets me, beaming recognition.

  ‘Darling!’ he squeaks. ‘I thought you had quite sworn off nocturnal peregrinations.’

  He embraces me as warmly as a long-lost brother and hauls me up a dimly lit flight of stairs to an attic room so Stygian I can barely see two inches to either side.

  ‘Well, look at you! Don’t you love the new place?’ He grasps my shoulders and holds me at arm’s length, inspecting me with lip-smacking approval. ‘You look entirely the dashing blade. I knew you had it in you. You’ll be singing “Burlington Bertie” next.’

  I try to wriggle away but he hangs on tight, as if he thinks I’ll disappear in a puff of smoke if he lets go. Which I’ve half a mind to. I feel a tickle of recognition: this fool must be the Mr Heywood of the envelope. The flowery verbiage matches. I thrust him away. He looks me up and down.

  ‘Dearie me,’ he says in a contemptible drawl. ‘You aren’t Edie, are you? What a pity. Peas in a pod. And you’re not a member of our family either. How frightfully dreary.’ He wipes his paw on his jacket as though he’s touched something unpleasant. ‘Abigail!’ he roars. ‘Come and see what the cat’s dragged in.’

  Abigail? Miss Hargreaves? My heart does a skip and a jump. A young woman appears at Mr Heywood’s side. Her hair is piled upon her head, luxuriant as a cushion composed of pale brown silk. I’d pictured her as a frostbitten spinster, and am knocked sideways at how wrong I was. Betty was bang on the mark; Miss Hargreaves is a delight to rest one’s eyes upon. She grasps my hand warmly. That’s the ticket. I’ve no desire to shake her off.

  ‘Why! Edie, my dear,’ she bubbles. ‘I hardly knew you, you are dressed so outlandishly. Not that you don’t look dashing in a shirt and collar, of course.’