‘Yes!’ I shout and pile in like there’s no tomorrow.
There’s a squawk from beneath me. It’s her, I tell myself, plunging in and out. Miss. Fucking. Har. Greaves. My innards roil and ripple. I bang on, gasping, breathless. This’ll wipe the smile off that posh bint’s face. My guts clench, tighter with each thrust. A flickering sense of something, someone … Set against the furnace of my lust it is dim, but it’s there nonetheless.
Edie.
Surfacing, drawn by the scent of what I’m doing, till she’s fair peering over my shoulder. Of all the filthy – I shove her away, but she sticks like glue, slithering over my business. Is there no peace for me, even here, even now?
‘Get away from me!’ I wail, unsure if I say it out loud or in my head.
Jessie shows no sign of having heard. I can’t go on. I’m damned if I’m going to poke Jessie with Edie watching. Even worse, joining in. Getting in. I can’t risk it. I mustn’t fire my load. I can’t, I can’t. I shove aside all thoughts of Miss Hargreaves and Edie sinks away.
Cold sweat pricks my brow. I stare at the mirror over the bedhead and pull the faces a man is supposed to pull: brow creased, teeth bared and puffing like a thief. It’s an empty, dead sort of thing my body is doing. I’m as hard as a chair leg and as unfeeling. The mirror’s plaster frame thumps the wall in time with my rutting, showering the bed with flecks of gold paint. I am drowning in a cacophony of panting breath, shrieking bedsprings, the hammering rhythm of the looking glass and Jessie’s smothered yelps. I have the oddest notion that I have been doing this forever and will never be able to stop, caught in the mirror’s nightmare spell.
Jessie’s cries lose their complimentary edge. A few more moments of strenuous pumping pass without any sign of escape. It’s no use. I have to stop before I go off. I’m going to have to pretend. Gradually, Jessie’s moaning tails off and it occurs to me that she’s bored. No, not that. She has fallen asleep.
I should be furious. I’m anything but. It’s my chance and I grab it. I dive heavily on top of Jessie, shouting a triumphant oh yes! to keep up the pretence of culmination as much as wake her. She comes to with a snort and gathers herself hastily, rearranging her skirts.
‘Well then,’ she says, and tickles me under the chin, testing the rasp of stubble. ‘Better than those young ’uns, aren’t I?’
‘Course,’ I mutter.
I stow my rigid prick in my trousers. It is a devil to manoeuvre, so to cover up I press my face into the curve of her throat and snuffle like a piglet. Under cover of her giggles, I worm my way to the edge of the bed, out of reach. I want to be away: out of this room, this house, this rat-infested neighbourhood. I want to climb to the top of Lewis’s, take wing and quit this island. I want to soar farther and farther till I get to the moon, live on green cheese and get away from bloody Edie. That’s all I want and even in this, the most private moment a man can have, she’s there. I hate her. I’ll destroy everything she has. I’ll crush it to pieces and, when I’ve done that, I’ll stamp those pieces into dust. I struggle to my feet. Jessie latches on to my arm.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I grunt.
Rather than release me, she hangs on. ‘Come and give Jessie a cuddle,’ she says.
I wish she’d shut her trap, but the nonsense spills in a maudlin stream.
What a chap you are, to be sure!
How about another gin?
How about some chocolate?
If she’s like this with all her customers I’m surprised she doesn’t get a thick ear every time. I take a step from the bed and drag her after me. She weighs a ton. I wonder if we are joined forever, like some monstrous fairground attraction. All I have to be is nice. Toss out a bit of flattery and watch her primp and preen, unlock her talons and let me go.
‘Put a cork in it!’ I bellow. ‘Get off me, you ugly cow! I don’t need anyone, certainly not an old tart like you!’
My words scatter like dirty pigeons. She unlatches her arms and the sudden release of dead weight makes me feel like I’m floating towards the ceiling.
‘Well then,’ she says. Her voice is far away, her eyes farther. ‘That’ll be that.’ Her face has a hard beauty I’ve not seen before. My friend Jessie is so utterly gone I almost beg forgiveness. ‘I’ve been the worst sort of fool,’ she says, straightening her stockings. ‘It’s my own fault for …’
‘What?’
‘Never you mind. You wanted things to change. They have,’ she says, buttoning up her chemise. ‘Next time you’re here it’ll be cash on the barrel.’
‘Aren’t I welcome?’
‘Always, dearie,’ she says, face blank as a wiped plate. ‘Money in your pocket and a box of chocolates if you’re after anything special.’
‘But I’m your little Gnome.’ I punch myself in the stomach to quell the contemptible whimper.
‘No you’re not. You’ve put paid to that. Think I need another ruddy man in my life?’
I hunch my shoulders. It’s a few paces to the door, a small matter to grasp the handle and tug, noting where it sticks on the rug. I’m halfway gone when she does speak, although not to call me back.
‘I warned you,’ she says crisply. ‘You’re not happier. Told you so.’
I stagger back to Hulme, hugging the ink of the shadows. It’s nearly morning: too soon for the knocker-up, too late for any decent soul to be about. My cock is still as stiff as a stick of Blackpool rock. I thump myself in the nackers and that only serves to make the damn thing harder. The skin is so stretched it’s on the verge of splitting along the seams.
I lumber onwards, floundering into walls and groaning like a drunkard. At last I reach The Comet. I try to shin up the drainpipe, but my knees are so watery I can’t get two foot off the ground. I refuse to go in the door, front or back. One of those crows would be sure to poke their beak in. They’d see. They’d laugh. They’d pity.
I can’t stop here forever. The sun’ll be up soon. I crawl to the privy and park myself on the seat, boss-eyed with frustration. I tussle with the fly-buttons. My prick judders. I twine my fingers around the shaft and am washed with a wave of relief. I squeeze and the wave swells. I picture Miss Hargreaves, and blow me if Edie doesn’t stir again.
Abigail, she murmurs. Yes.
I pause; she sinks away. I can’t be doing with this interruption. It’s disgusting. I have a job at hand with Mother Thumb and her Four Daughters. I clear my head of the suffragette; give myself a tentative yank. No sign of Edie. Another. Ditto. I spit on my palm, slide the slick over its head; jerk my fist; jerk again. That’s what the doctor ordered. I fill my head with Jessie, the factory girls, every whore that props up the wall of Shudehill Market: a tumultuous parade of faceless flesh; for who needs faces when that’s not what’s needed? I pump and pump, faster and faster, shaking the privy walls, and no Edie, not a sniff, not a sniff. I. Don’t. Need. Any. One. I. Don’t. Need. A. Woman. A rocket goes off, my head explodes into a sea of stars, my fist fills with jism and I’m done.
The night’s aggravation melts into satisfaction. If you want a job done properly, do it yourself. I wipe my hand on my britches. My legs are still wobbly, but it’s of a different sort. I’m up that drainpipe faster than a ferret; I collapse on to the bed, delirious with exhaustion. I wrench away my shirt and toss it into the corner. I must take off my trousers. I must play the good lad.
I’m wrestling with my braces when it hits me. My brains nearly fall out of my arse. How could I have missed it? I couldn’t make head or tail of Edie sticking her nose in at the thought of Miss Hargreaves, but it’s as clear as the shit on my boots. All those letters and postcards, stored as carefully as holy relics. The endearments, the words of affection. I’ve been so engrossed in playing the bloodhound that it went straight over my head without parting the hair.
Edie wants her. The fool has fallen in love.
EDIE
JUNE–SEPTEMBER 1909
Gnome and I settle into an uneasy truce.
At first, I dare not permit myself
to believe that such a turnabout in my fortunes is possible. I wait for his avowed good intentions to evaporate and for him to revert to his wild ways. The days turn into weeks; the weeks, months. Spring warms into summer and nothing untoward transpires. I have no clue what nocturnal escapades he indulges in, but whatever they are, I awake refreshed and unscathed. I breathe cautious relief.
Nana’s approval continues to nourish and encourage me, and it is a satisfying moment when, three months after Gnome’s reappearance and my ignoble return to The Comet, I am able to press her hand in mine and tell of our new-found peace.
I experience a particular delight in the attentive affections of Miss Hargreaves – Abigail, I remind myself with a distinct thrill – which casts radiance upon my previous darkness. We meet every spare hour I can find and I strive not to begrudge Gnome the nights he must, of necessity, be granted. When Abigail and I are apart, I devour pamphlet after pamphlet, my brain stimulated with the nourishment of the words. My life approaches a serenity I never dreamed possible. I rejoice in contradictory joy that I, the unluckiest of creatures, am now the most fortunate.
If that were not sufficient cause for celebration, my friendship with Guy blooms. Indeed, we spend so much time in each other’s company that we become the gossip of the office.
‘Which suits me perfectly,’ he says one Saturday afternoon as he squires me out of the building. ‘Hiding in plain sight is by far the best way.’
I murmur agreement.
‘Can’t I persuade you to come out tonight?’ He sighs. ‘Afternoons are all very well, but, like the hart, I pant for the cooling streams of your company. I haven’t been able to tempt you out of your hidey-hole for aeons. My hand is quite worn out by the writing of entreaties.’
‘I’m sorry, Guy. More than you know. Since I moved back to The Comet Ma won’t let me out at night.’ It is an outright lie and I turn my face to the shop window to obscure my guilt.
‘Fiddlesticks. I am convinced that you are toying with my affections and that our engagement is curtailed.’
‘Guy …’ I throw him a look of desperation.
‘Good Lord, Edie. You look terrified. What on earth does she do; chain you in the cellar with a dish of gruel at your feet?’
I smile, despite the stirring of old fears. ‘Nothing so dramatic.’
‘Then we must find you fresh lodgings, away from your turnkey mother. Evenings simply aren’t the same without you.’
‘What on earth do I contribute to proceedings?’
He holds my gaze steadily. ‘You underestimate your value, Edie dear. You see through me, right through to the other side, yet continue to offer loyal friendship.’
‘Why should I not?’ I say, baffled.
He cocks an eyebrow. ‘It is a rare quality, far more so than you might imagine. Can’t I at least persuade you to stroll with me for a little longer?’
‘To the top of Market Street, at least. I am meeting Abigail.’
‘Capital. I can no longer tolerate that hat of yours.’
‘Whatever is wrong with it? I thought it rather the thing.’
‘Au contraire. If we are to continue as an affianced couple – whether or not that is a misrepresentation – then I must instruct you on the perils of hideous millinery. And certainly before Abigail takes exception to it.’
We make our way in the direction of Piccadilly Gardens. Guy provides the amusement with droll comments about the parlous state of gentlemen’s outfitting this season, the frightful price of gloves and how he simply must have mustard kid, no other shade will do: not ochre, and certainly not yellow.
I laugh and am very gay. I remind myself that my return to family life is merely a setback in my fortunes. Trading day for night with Gnome is a blow but not the end of the world.
‘Here we are,’ Guy declares, smirking gleefully. ‘My arch-rival!’ Under Lewis’s clock stands Abigail, looking as pretty as fifty pictures. ‘One day I shall be forced to take up arms and challenge you for Edie’s heart.’
‘I can’t imagine I’m worth fighting over,’ I say.
The two of them laugh over some truth they see and I do not.
‘You would carry the day,’ he murmurs, and pecks Abigail on the cheek. ‘I shall capitulate immediately.’
‘Buzz, buzz, Guy,’ Abigail replies and returns the brief kiss. She presses her lips to my cheek for a longer interval. ‘Edie, dear,’ she murmurs. ‘If you hold your breath for any longer you will faint.’
I shake myself out of my delicious trance.
‘Well, dear ladies,’ says Guy with a smirk. ‘I can tell that I am entirely surplus to requirements, so I shall away, having brought the pair of you safely together.’
Abigail and I hasten to our meeting, which is to prepare for a rally in Albert Square the following Saturday. Birch Hall bustles with cheery toil and I am about to set to with a good will when Abigail takes me aside and introduces me to Mrs Gore-Booth. A willow-slender lady in wire-rimmed spectacles, she peers at me like a seamstress inspecting a skirt for dropped stitches and sagging hems.
‘You vouch for this woman,’ she says to Abigail. It does not sound like a question.
‘Yes, Mrs Gore-Booth. I have found her a loyal and worthy addition to our cause.’
The grand dame nods. With that tightly executed gesture it seems all is well. The walls breathe out and I am accepted.
‘Then I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss …’
‘Latchford,’ I say, unable to prevent myself fumbling a curtsey.
This unties the final knot of her suspicions and she laughs, the lines on her brow unravelling.
‘You think me very regal!’ she says. ‘I dare say I shall disappoint any queenly expectations.’ She claps her hands. ‘So. To work, sisters. To work.’
I have never before been called sister and am taken aback by how it affects me. Two short syllables and I am drawn into the bosom of a group of determined women.
I am always stunned, and not a little disappointed, by the speed with which the hours fly when Abigail and I are together. It seems as though we have barely arrived before it is time to leave.
‘Do you have time to take tea before you must be home?’ says Abigail hopefully.
I glance at the clock. Wild horses may not be able to drag me from her side, but the agreement with Gnome can. ‘Unfortunately not,’ I reply.
‘In that case, permit me to be your chaperone.’
‘Gladly!’
She crooks her elbow as a gentleman would. We make an odd pair: giantess matched with nymph. I drag my feet, inwardly lamenting the brief distance to The Comet and how little time we have in each other’s company.
‘I do hope you can attend the rally next Saturday,’ she says.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything!’ She could have asked me to soak my head in vinegar and I’d have agreed as fervently.
‘It promises to be of particular interest and I should be sorry to miss you there. I know that evenings are difficult for you.’
I am grateful for her sensitivity regarding the boundaries placed upon my time, even if she will never guess the reason. She falls quiet. There is a splash of colour upon the skin of her throat, spreading up to her cheeks. She is not happy with her glove at all, tugging at the leather as if she would like to rip the stitches holding it together.
‘Abigail, my dear,’ I say. ‘You are as jumpy as a firecracker.’
She shoots me a brief glance and in it I glimpse something I am not expecting at all: nervousness.
‘I should have told you right away,’ she says. ‘I do not like secrets. Certainly not where they concern you.’
I experience a twinge of fear. I grasp her hand: to quell the jittery motions of her fingers or my own skipping heartbeat I do not know.
‘Told me what?’
She clears her throat. ‘Your brother doesn’t seem too bad a chap, you know.’
I almost fall off the kerb into the path of a coal wagon. ‘What?’ I splutter, gat
hering my composure none too smoothly. ‘You have met him?’
‘Yes.’
I resist the urge to scream. All the same, my voice has all the subtlety of a foghorn. ‘When—?’
‘He came to Oldham Street some while ago. In the dim light I thought he was you for a moment.’
‘Did you now,’ I hiss. ‘Is that not rather insulting?’
‘Edie! He warned me off mentioning it. He said you’d be put out. And you are.’
‘I am not,’ I say unconvincingly.
‘You two are quite impossible!’ she exclaims. ‘I ought to knock your heads together.’
‘Do not patronise me,’ I growl.
She pauses at the turn of Renshaw Street. ‘Are you jealous, Edie? I thought you’d know me better by now.’
‘I thought so, too,’ I grumble.
She withdraws her arm from mine. Now, I think. Now she will stride away and leave me alone and friendless. A lump rises in my throat.
‘Edie. For goodness’ sake.’
‘I hope I have not detained you,’ I say gruffly. ‘I know you have many demands upon your time.’
‘Edie,’ she says firmly. ‘Don’t be silly. Look at me.’ I obey. Between our clipped sentences you could hear a pin drop. ‘Dash it all,’ she continues. ‘Do you think I can be swayed so easily when it comes to you?’
She grasps my shoulders and kisses me on the mouth.
It is over in the time it would take to snap your fingers. The city’s clangour continues around us unabated: carts rattle and folk hasten to and fro, seemingly unaware of the shift in the world’s axis that has occurred.
‘My dear Edie,’ she murmurs.
‘My dear Abigail,’ I reply.
It may have been a simple kiss of farewell. But something about it was unlike those prim embraces. What then? I have no ready answer, nor exemplar against which to compare. At the back of my mind lurks a hope. However much I tiptoe around the idea, it speaks its name in the private chamber of my heart. It was a lover’s kiss.
What tosh, I tell myself. The stuff of romantic novels. Abigail likes my company, that is all. She was merely reassuring me of her good opinion after the mention of Gnome. Any hopes for intimacy are out of the question. I am penny-plain and always have been. There will be no hand-holding, no dimmed lights nor tactfully drawn curtains; not for the likes of me. I should know better than to indulge in the sort of wild imaginings that brought me nothing but misery as a child.
The Night Brother Page 27