The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  If it were not for Abigail I would give up, so overwhelming is the stench of vomitus and the bellowing of the injured. But she does not release me from her grasp and by some mercy we arrive at a side-alley, narrow as an arrow-slot. We creep along until we reach a doorway recessed into the wall. Abigail pulls me into its shelter and we stop.

  For many moments we say nothing. We stare at each other, chests heaving. She has somehow managed to hang on to her hat, but her over-jacket is quite disappeared. Her blouse is torn at the shoulder, revealing naked flesh raked with scratches. She carries a gash beneath her left eye.

  ‘You came back for me,’ I say.

  ‘I may be willing to endure arrest and imprisonment for the cause, but you have reached no such agreement with yourself. You came to hear a speech, and hear it you did.’

  ‘Why – What did we do to deserve this?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she snarls. ‘They need no excuse.’

  I stare at her, transfixed by the memory of her kicking the policeman in the face. ‘How did you ever – I did not think a woman—’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Edie. Women sweat and strain in birth every moment of every day. We labour in coal mines, we—’ She closes her eyes and presses her lips tight. ‘Listen to me on my soap-box.’ She pats my hand. ‘There is nothing we cannot do, if we but put our minds to it.’

  ‘Oh,’ I gulp.

  She wipes her face on her sleeve and scowls at the dirt and blood that marks it. ‘We are quite a display,’ she murmurs. ‘Dash it all,’ she growls. ‘Dash every one of them to hell.’

  She glances at me with a flicker of fury. But it is the merest flicker. The corner of her mouth quirks upwards. She wrinkles her brow, fighting to keep her expression steady. Her mouth twitches again and a snort of laughter bursts free. I look at her in disbelief. I have never met anyone remotely like her.

  ‘How can you laugh at a time like this?’

  She rocks back and forth, hugging her knocked ribs. ‘Oh, Edie,’ she guffaws. ‘I am afraid I cannot stop. Look at us! What a pair we make.’

  I see myself through her eyes: battered, bruised, scraped and scratched. But alive. Most definitely alive. I cannot help myself. Her merriment communicates itself to me and I find myself laughing too, wheezing through the constriction in my throat. I can’t stop; not until I hear the hissing of her breath and realise her laughter has turned to weeping.

  I take her into my arms and cradle her head on my shoulder, making tender shushing noises. Her body wrenches with sobs and she burrows into me as though trying to escape them. I worry that the sound may bring a policeman down the ginnel, but they are otherwise engaged. We are left alone in our tattered clothes and aching flesh.

  I hold her until the fit subsides; then reach into my blouse and find my handkerchief, tucked neatly in my stays. I draw it out, warm from the press of skin and as neatly ironed as when I placed it there. It carries the scent of the talcum powder I dabbed under my arms that morning.

  I shake it out and offer it to Abigail, who nods thanks and wipes her face. She peers at me, eyes puffy. Her cheek is flowering into a blue-black peony. Without thinking, I lean forwards and kiss the bruise. I mean it kindly, the sort of kissing-it-better you do with a child who has stumbled. Abigail shoots me a look of surprise.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I say. ‘Did I hurt you?’

  She shakes her head. There is a long pause. By turns I grow cold then hot under her gaze. She leans forward, crushes her lips to mine and holds them there. A thrill courses through my wounded flesh; more refreshing than a glass of lemonade gulped on the hottest day of summer, more exhilarating than every last one of the fireworks at Belle Vue. The pain in my limbs melts away.

  I never felt anything so soft. Not the times I kissed my grandmother’s lips, not even the velvet between my thighs. Only when I can breathe no longer and think I may burst do I draw away, most unwillingly, and take a gulp of air.

  ‘You look so nervous,’ she says, reaching out a hand and touching her finger to the point of my chin. ‘Dearest Edie.’

  ‘Dearest?’

  ‘Dearest beloved,’ she replies and kisses me again.

  My heart soars and I return the embrace with fire of my own. A spear flies into my core and splits me as irreparably as a branch struck from a tree by a lightning bolt. I am cracked open to reveal my heart’s wood. I am broken; I am whole. It makes no sense, yet never has anything felt so true. I would have borne a hundred bruises for this, a hundred nights in Strangeways.

  ‘Abigail,’ I say.

  ‘My beloved?’

  ‘I am afraid. I am exhilarated also. I’m not sure if I understand. Can you?’

  Her eyes brighten. ‘Yes,’ she breathes.

  I never before felt so aware of my body, the breath crackling in my lungs. I clasp her hand and press it to my lips, not caring if we are watched.

  ‘I have held myself aloof,’ I say. ‘I apologise. Never again. You have my heart, my whole.’

  I expect her to frown as she weighs my confession. But she gives a smile of warm encouragement.

  ‘I thrill when you unburden yourself,’ she says.

  ‘I am not used to revealing my true thoughts and feelings.’

  ‘Who amongst us does not restrain herself, especially with a new friend?’ she muses. ‘Although I hope I have been thoroughly tried and tested.’

  She looks so bashful, so tentative. I assume her to be confident in all things. How tied up I am in my own considerations rather than those of others. I will change.

  ‘More than I can express,’ I say, and mean it. ‘My dear beloved.’

  There are things I can’t reveal; that goes without saying. But who does not speak rashly in the heat of wonderful moments? The last thing I wish is to break this spell so I hold my tongue. She won’t notice if I keep some things back. It will not matter.

  We emerge from the alleyway and avail ourselves of the nearest public convenience to wash our hands and tidy ourselves. The attendant sneers, but Abigail produces a sixpence from some miraculous store about her person and all is well. We proceed slowly, carefully, along Mosley Street, no more threatening to the fine folk of Manchester than two young ladies engaged in an afternoon’s contemplation of window displays. My heart, pounding ever since our escape from the riot, pauses in its headlong canter. How long ago it seems since I dawdled with Guy, chattering about gloves and hats. How unutterably foolish.

  Although we do our best to affect normalcy, we attract whistling comments and not just from the rougher sort of fellow. Abigail grits her teeth.

  ‘Ignore them, if you can.’ I squeeze her arm in a comforting gesture. ‘I am used to it.’

  She holds me at arm’s length. ‘You think I am immune to such attentions?’

  ‘I did not mean that,’ I say hastily. ‘But let’s be honest; I am an odd creature. If I attached a brush to my hat I could paint the ceiling. As a woman I fail at every turn.’

  ‘You think I care for such fiddle-faddle? I hope you know me well enough to know I do not judge by appearances.’

  ‘Abigail, you are so feminine.’

  ‘Heavens alive, what does that signify? I cannot help the body I was born into, any more than you.’

  I stare at her. In the rusty workings of my brain, cogs begin to grind, much like a fairground steam organ, squealing as it is cranked into life.

  ‘No,’ I say. I feel as though I am standing in a dark room and Abigail has turned up the gaslight. ‘I can’t help it, can I?’ I grasp her hand and squeeze passionately. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What have I said?’

  ‘More than you know.’

  She walks me to the door of The Comet, and I experience a delectable thrill of possession. No one can guess that the heart of this wonderful woman is in my keeping. For the first time in my life I am complete. Abigail is everything I need. With her I can forget Ma, forget Gnome, forget myself and all my problems. With her hand in mine I can put my troubled past behind me and face a bright f
uture. Gnome can try all he wants to come between us. He will get nowhere.

  Hear that, Gnome?

  I love and am loved in return. It is so wonderfully simple. This is the peace of which I dreamed.

  GNOME

  SEPTEMBER 1909–JANUARY 1910

  I tilt the mirror so that it reflects my face. A coil of hair tumbles down my brow, inviting kisses. I toss my head and the tresses spread their cloak. I am quite the aesthete these days. Hold that: not aesthete. I’m a gypsy rover, a charming prince; so adorable, I barely recognise myself. All I have to do is beg forbearance that she doesn’t grow it too long, not wanting to find my manly hours difficult and all that, and blow me if she doesn’t keep it trimmed to a reasonable length. There’s a lot to be said for these new manners of mine.

  I devour each morsel of Miss Hargreaves’ letters to Edie as well as Edie’s rough copies to her, for my poor sister drafts many attempts before she is happy with her answer. When I discover where Miss Hargreaves will be of an evening, why, there I am strolling by, purely by happenstance. I raise my hat; I kiss her glove. A little touch of Gnome in the night.

  Midsummer passes into autumn and I judge it is time to make my move. I’ve sprinkled enough flowery seeds for them to have taken root. I’ve learned the hard way not to go charging in. The tastiest prey is the slowest into the trap and I am learning the patience of the wisest hunter.

  For this particular evening’s entertainment I am headed to a gathering of the Female Terrors. I stroll towards Rusholme, rustling Miss Hargreaves’ latest missive in my pocket. I have devilment on my mind and there’s nothing Edie can do to stop me. So what if she has a girlish pash on Miss Hargreaves? Now that I have discovered it, it merely adds spice to my shenanigans.

  She can pine till she’s blue in the face. Let her have a companion with whom to amuse herself with speeches and marches and banners. Miss Hargreaves will tire of Edie when she’s offered passion and a chap like me to supply it. What a paltry, starveling thing is female friendship, set against what a man can bring to a woman. Friendship endures only until love sweeps it into the dirt. Of course, when I’m done I shall discard Miss Hargreaves like a broken toy. This merely adds piquancy to the dish I shall swipe from under Edie’s nose.

  Birch Hall hums with hard work. It is packed to the gunnels with embroidered table napkins, knitted antimacassars, jars of jam wearing miniature mobcaps, the whole blinking lot decorated in purple and green. The walls groan under the weight of banners bearing the sigil of an angel parping on a trumpet. And there are men, in far greater numbers than I expected. I’ll bet a pound to a penny they’ve all had their ballocks cut off.

  I spy Miss Hargreaves pushing a trolley freighted with an enormous samovar. I plant myself in her path, she raises her head and our eyes meet. I have nice eyes. I sprinkle extra sparkle into them.

  ‘Good evening,’ I say, raising my cap and clicking my heels.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Latchford,’ she says politely.

  ‘It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Hargreaves.’ I stick my hand across the tea-cart. ‘I am flattered you remember a chump like myself.’

  She takes my hand and shakes it briskly. ‘I should know you anywhere,’ she replies in a friendly manner that bucks me up no end.

  ‘Gosh,’ I burble.

  ‘You and your sister are peas in a pod,’ she says, which deflates the cheer.

  She manoeuvres the trolley around the obstacle I present and continues on her way.

  ‘You can call me Gnome,’ I offer, keeping pace. ‘All my friends do.’

  ‘What a peculiar nickname,’ she replies, but does not vouchsafe one of her own. She looks over my shoulder. ‘Has Edie accompanied you?’

  I scowl. ‘No.’

  ‘The two of you are impossible!’ she chirps. ‘I declare she wore the self-same expression when I mentioned you.’

  ‘Did she, indeed.’ I restrain myself from knocking over the teacups and storming off. I force a chuckle of commendable self-deprecation. ‘I am a messenger. A shabby Mercury, I admit.’

  I wait for her to echo my laughter. She regards me evenly.

  ‘Mr Latchford?’ she asks after a pause. ‘You say you have a message?’

  ‘My dear sister is otherwise engaged this evening. She sends her most cordial of greetings.’

  She looks crestfallen. ‘Oh. I guessed that might be so.’

  I point at the laden cart. ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘I am quite capable,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sure you are. But so fine a young lady as yourself should not be delegated to heavy work more suited to a man,’ I say, ladling on the honey. Never met a one who didn’t yearn for a spoonful, however independently minded they may appear. The expression on her face is not one I’m used to. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was irritation. What is there to object in a fine-looking lad paying court?

  ‘A man’s work?’ she says. ‘I assure you, Mr Latchford, there is nothing you can achieve that I cannot match.’

  ‘Goodness me,’ I declare with a wounded air. ‘If that is all the courtesy a chap can elicit from a female of your class, then England is in a sorry state.’

  I turn to go and my luck changes. It’s as well, for if she hadn’t relented I’d have had no option but to march away with my nose in the air.

  ‘I apologise,’ she concedes.

  I dangle the hook a while longer. She deserves it and a lot worse.

  ‘Convention dictates I must accept,’ I reply. A kicked puppy never looked as wretched.

  ‘I am sincere,’ she continues, if not with warmth, then with sufficient contrition.

  I beam forgiveness and earn a small smile. She permits me to take one of the handles and together we steer the trolley in as straight a line as possible, although it is disobedient and insists on veering to the right. It affords me the opportunity to observe her with sidelong glances. She’s wearing a costume of unsurpassing sobriety, without so much as an inch of lace on it; not that plainness can disguise the delightful curve of her waist between the twin abundances of bosom and buttock.

  I am unaccountably tongue-tied. I’ve practised flirtatious speeches and can’t remember a bally word. I’m as bold as a lion when I’ve got my hand around my John Thomas. The memory brings on a furious spate of blushing. So much for impressing her with my repartee. She does not notice – too busy talking about the cause. I tolerate the chatter with saintly forbearance, telling myself I’m listening out for a chink in her armour. However, the sound of her voice is decidedly musical and I find myself smiling. I shake myself. This will not do. I ought to tell her to put a cork in it and leave worldly observations to the male sex.

  ‘Here we are,’ she says, interrupting my line of thought.

  ‘What else can I do?’ I ask eagerly.

  ‘You need not trouble yourself.’ A spindle of a female appears at her side. Her face bears a distinct resemblance to a jug with its handle facing forwards. ‘Miss Abrams will assist me now. Thank you, Mr Latchford.’

  The newcomer positions herself between Miss Hargreaves and myself and rearranges the cups whilst jogging me with her elbows. They make off together, clanking the tea-things as they go.

  I refuse to be spurned so easily. A temporary retreat is in order, so I make a circuit of the hall whilst gathering my wits. I pick up leaflets and, by jingo, the nonsense in them makes my blood boil. They are worse than those my sister possesses, if that were credible, and bear ridiculous titles like The New Crusade, The Need of the Hour, The Emancipation of Woman. I snort and hurl them aside, eliciting raised eyebrows. I must play this with care. This crew are simply itching for a chap to put his foot wrong so they can turf him on to the street.

  After I judge sufficient time has elapsed for absence to make her heart grow fonder, I direct my peregrinations towards Miss Hargreaves. She is seated behind one of the trestles and wrapping a green ribbon around a broom handle.

  ‘What a shame dearest Edie could not be here,’ I simpe
r.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d think she would make an effort and spare one evening. Especially for the cause.’

  ‘It does not matter,’ says Miss Hargreaves rather unconvincingly. ‘Evenings are difficult for her.’

  I’m glad she is not looking at me, for it means I do not have to mask my look of triumph. She adds a purple ribbon, creating a striped effect rather like a barber’s pole. I loiter a moment longer. There is a prodigious heap of ribbons and wooden staves at her feet.

  ‘You’ve got an awful lot to do, haven’t you?’

  Finally, she bestows a glance on me. ‘Yes, I do.’

  There’s an edge of exasperation in her voice that I decide is meant for Edie. Without further encouragement, I seat myself, taking a pole and a length of ribbon. It will not keep its place and there are gaps where the wood shows through.

  ‘I am not very good at this, am I?’ I say sadly. ‘Proof positive that the male is the inferior sex. I cannot even wind a ribbon in an adequate fashion. If my sister were here I am sure all would be completed to your satisfaction.’

  ‘I dare say it would,’ she agrees, taking the failed effort from my hands and unravelling the tangled muddle. ‘But she is not here and you are. I shall make the best of that which I am given.’

  A lesser mortal would be stung by such a retort. But I detect annoyance. I grin inwardly. What gratification there is in putting the cat amongst the pigeons.

  ‘I do want to help, Miss Hargreaves, I do,’ I say earnestly. ‘It is your company that distracts me.’

  ‘I shall leave, in that case.’

  ‘Oh no! That would be frightfully miserable. Please don’t. Oh, what a dilemma. If you go, I’ll be a whiz at handicrafts but miserable. If you stay, I’ll be happy but of no earthly use. Whatever shall we do?’

  The smallest of smiles breaks like a sunrise on her face. ‘I cannot solve this conundrum, Mr Latchford.’

  ‘Permit me to hazard a guess. Your smile makes me bold. Your smile makes me happy. It may render me all fingers and thumbs, and I shudder at the thought you might ask me to thread a needle or handle a pair of scissors. But all is suddenly clear. You are the cause of my fumbling, Miss Hargreaves.’