The Night Brother

by Rosie Garland

  ‘You are very entertaining, Mr Latchford. I can’t fathom why Edie doesn’t mention you more often. Or …’

  Or more generously, I think, completing her sentence in my head. I heave a wounded sigh.

  ‘She is – secretive,’ I venture, looking at the ceiling. ‘Isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says with a hopeful look. ‘You know her better than anyone, I should imagine.’

  At last I strike the mark. She wants me to take her into my confidence. It’s all I can do to restrain myself from tossing my cap into the air.

  ‘I suppose you could say that,’ I say slowly, and then falter, biting my lip. ‘I can say nothing more.’

  It would be a soulless creature who did not nibble at the bait, and nibble she does, her expression betraying a struggle between curiosity and fine breeding. I tug my cuffs.

  ‘I believe that I am an embarrassment to her,’ I blurt. ‘I beg forgiveness for speaking so openly. It is a fault of mine, to be honest with all. Too often I defy convention – to my peril. I am a freethinker, Miss Hargreaves. A man who breathes the invigorating air of this new century. Who craves change. Who craves the advancement of all women and men, marching shoulder to shoulder towards a bright future.’

  I pause, sneaking a look at her reaction through lowered eyelashes. Her eyes are bright with surprise and not a little approval.

  ‘Mr Latchford,’ she says. ‘You do not have to labour so hard to make a favourable impression upon me. I prefer simple truths to flowery dissimulation. I believe the phrase is “warts and all”.’

  I’ve no idea what the stupid woman is on about. It sounds mightily close to an insult. I decide to look aggrieved.

  ‘You think me false?’

  She smiles. ‘I do understand. When a chap is making a fresh acquaintance, he feels he must be the mirror of perfection. A barrel-chested Perseus, always rescuing Andromeda. You need not strive so heartily. I am quite generously minded towards you.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Of course. Whatever your sister says.’

  ‘I hope you will make up your own mind about me, Miss Hargreaves. I’m sure it is a very good mind.’

  ‘Flattery, Mr Latchford?’

  Under her gaze I have the distinct sensation of being peeled like an orange. ‘No,’ I say, speaking the truth for the first time in as long as I remember. ‘Not in this case.’

  One of the chief Gorgons passes by our table and sees that we have paused in our labours.

  ‘Is this really the time and place for flirtation, Miss Hargreaves?’ she asks with a look that could shrivel a potato. She turns her baleful glance upon me. ‘As for you, sir: perhaps you would be so good as to employ your own leisure time to indulge in romantic entanglements. We are busy even if you are not.’

  ‘That’s rather sharp, ma’am,’ I say, springing to the defence of my princess. ‘Miss Hargreaves is trying to teach me impossible feats with ribbon.’ I hold up the cat’s-cradle of green and purple.

  She glowers down her nose as though she’d like me to be the cat and the mess of satin to be my innards. ‘Mr …’ she begins.

  ‘Mr Latchford,’ I say. ‘I’m so frightfully sorry. I’m trying so fearfully hard.’

  The dragon is not won over.

  ‘Mr Latchford. That you are a drone is hardly a revelation. But I do not believe for one moment that you are the fool you pretend. I should be grateful if you did not treat me like one. If you cannot assist Miss Hargreaves, there is plenty of heavier work to which I can direct you. If work is what you came here for.’

  ‘I consider myself castigated,’ I say with a twinkle in my eye that I cast in Miss Hargreaves’ direction.

  The witch harrumphs and stalks off. I open my mouth to make a comment about what a naughty pair of reprobates we are, but Miss Hargreaves is watching the departure of the miserable old prune.

  ‘What fun!’ I say, in order to bring her attention back to me, which is where it belongs.

  ‘Fun? I found it embarrassing to be accused of spooning.’

  ‘Come now, Miss Hargreaves. Merriment makes toil fly by all the faster.’

  She does not look convinced. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you helped with some of the …’ She pauses and I pick up the thread.

  ‘Drudgery? Work more suited to a drone such as myself?’

  She sighs, but will not be drawn. She picks up a roll of purple ribbon and starts to loop it into a rosette, which she fixes to the end of one of the broom handles with a push-pin. It looks perfect. She then takes a roll of white ribbon and does the same, building up a bouquet of shining flowers. After a few moments she gives me a look that questions why I am still seated beside her with unoccupied hands.

  I hang my head in a pitiable fashion. ‘My company is unacceptable.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘I have created trouble for you, for which I take full responsibility. I beg your pardon most sincerely, Miss Hargreaves. I shall depart and offend you no further.’

  I stand and take a small step in the direction of the door. She lays her hand upon my sleeve and I gaze at the glove with genteel longing. The lavender leather is stretched as tight as a second skin.

  ‘Please, dear Miss Hargreaves. Let me retreat with a little of my dignity.’

  ‘Mr Latchford. I cannot make you stay.’

  You can, I think. A word would do it.

  ‘But as you go, I should like you to take my good wishes.’

  ‘Gosh, Miss Hargreaves.’

  ‘Convey them to Edie, if you will.’ I incline my head obediently and force a smile. ‘Take with you the assurance that I value honesty above all things, however awkwardly it may be expressed. I do not kowtow to convention either. I am here, am I not?’

  I am mightily tempted to stay and force my suit. I make a gallant retreat. I have done well. I shall do better.

  Month succeeds month and I become a veritable Galahad. If a sheaf of posters is set to slide out of Miss Hargreaves’ arms, I am there to catch them. If a volunteer from the Men’s Committee is required to hoist a banner at a rally, my hand is first in the air. I spend dashed near every evening dazzling her with my attention. I cannot figure out why she clings to this suffrage nonsense tight as a convolvulus. I have the devil of a job not to get bamboozled into it myself. The ghastly thought gets under my skin like scabies that I am enjoying her company far too much and that she’s casting light into my darkness rather than the other way around.

  I shudder. This coven draw men in with their feminine wiles, and suck all the manliness out of them. I’ll wager Guy was once as burly as a bricklayer before they got their claws into him. Every fibre of my being warns me to give them the widest berth possible. But they are the means to Edie’s downfall. Was ever a fellow so plagued with difficulty?

  Chin up, Gnome. I shall not wilt at the first sign of trouble. Brave as a lion-tamer, that’s me. As if a female could turn my head! Laughable, of course. Miss Hargreaves is a distraction with whom I may amuse myself whilst I wreck Edie’s life.

  Stop this, counsels a voice from within. You are digging yourself a hole you can’t get out of.

  It sounds like me. It can’t be. Bloody Edie again.

  I’ll show Miss Hargreaves who’s boss. I’ll astound her with my virility until she is the one who capitulates. Till she admits she’s the one acting a part. It couldn’t be clearer. This game is ten times more interesting than planned. I thought I’d be winning over a lass in order to discard her. Here’s a greater challenge and a sweeter prize: I’ll break Miss Hargreaves as well as my sister. I’ll show them all.

  As autumn chills into winter the sharpness softens, grain by grain, both Miss Hargreaves and her sourpuss sisters. When I am invited to attend – for that I read as beast of burden and general dogsbody – a rally in Ashton-under-Lyne in a fortnight’s time I beam with pleasure and swear that I will be there.

  That evening, I loiter as Edie gives me back my body. What a shame it is that I have to take all the nights, I sigh. Dear Edie, with
so many invitations to evening entertainments. She brushes off the apology. Ah well, I shrug.

  What a pity, I say, the following night. If only there were a way around it.

  Drop by drop, I water the seedling. After a night or two, I plant the suggestion – gently, mind – that of course there is a solution. It is staring us in the face. Cinderella can go to the ball. It’s only habit that ties us to Gnome by night and Edie by day. She can stay for an evening if she wishes it.

  That’s if you do wish it, I sigh.

  I hear the clunk of cogs as the machinery of her suspicion whirrs.

  Of course, I murmur, if you don’t trust me, I quite understand. It’s a shame, that’s all.

  A few more days slide by. Each time we change over, I smell hunger. She snuffs it the second it flares between us, but I’d know its stink anywhere.

  I’ll trade you a whole night for an afternoon, I say. No catch.

  She hesitates. Her longing seethes. I’ve got her.

  She agrees to the following Saturday afternoon with such unseemly haste that I’m sorely tempted to take the whole week and to hell with the consequences. However, my work is not yet done. I butter her up with oily thanks. It is time for my coup de grâce.

  The Saturday in question is a typical Manchester January and decidedly inclement. It’s threatening rain when I put on my britches and bucketing down by the time I arrive at St Peter’s Square. We men are directed to an empty dray; the ladies take the tram. Ostensibly it is to avoid any suspicion of assembly. To my mind they simply wish to avoid the downpour.

  Five of us fellows cram on to the wooden bench up front, the remainder consigned to the rear. All of them are tiresomely gay and give every impression of being pals on a charabanc outing to the seaside, despite our bones being bounced to matchwood. When they begin to sing cheery songs, it is all I can do not to jump down and leave them to it. Every few minutes we creak past a beerhouse and I gaze at the doors with hopeful sighs, but to no avail. Water creeps down the back of my collar.

  ‘Cheer up, Herbert,’ says the twerp to my right, his face angry with pimples. I’m surprised he has the wherewithal to handle the reins with such aplomb, he’s such a flop-haired fool. ‘Join in, why don’t you?’

  I’ve no idea why they won’t call me Gnome. At first I thought it rectitude: now it seems perversely uncomradely. I consider elbowing him off the side of the cart. The thought of his spotty face gawping in surprise as he topples off his perch cheers me considerably.

  ‘That’s better, old chap,’ he says, misreading my smile.

  ‘You being a misery-guts again?’ quips the man to my left.

  ‘I’ve had no luncheon,’ I grunt. ‘It’s all very well for you chaps, with someone to fix you a plate of bacon and eggs.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing!’ says someone in the back.

  ‘I managed some bread and jam,’ squawks another.

  ‘Cup of tea was all I got!’

  I groan and hold my head in my hands. Now that I have started them, they will not leave off prattling about how little they’ve eaten. I wait for a note of complaint to creep in, how they would secretly like to be cooked for by a docile wife, but it’s all joking and joshing.

  ‘I fried my own bacon,’ says the pimply youth. ‘Mama watched to make sure I didn’t burn it. This time.’

  They collapse in gales of laughter. I’d like a slice of bacon wedged between two slabs of bread, right this soggy minute. Another public house drifts by.

  ‘All this talk has given me a powerful thirst,’ I remark, forcing a chummy tone. ‘What say we stop and oil the wheels of industry for five minutes, eh?’

  There’s the lightest of pauses before the laughter resumes. They thump my back, declaring what a card I am, how there’ll be plenty of time for a jar later. The beerhouse falls behind with any hope of a stiffener. The horse clop-clops along, raising its tail and trumpeting wind at such regular intervals there must be something wrong with the creature. Each time it farts they giggle, pinch their noses shut and waft their hands. I am sick of this party of schoolboys and close to revolt by the time we drag our aching backsides into the centre of Ashton.

  The women are already there. One group emerges from a teashop, one from a grocer’s; another descends en masse from the tram. I watch as the driver changes ends and the rattlebox squeals in the direction of Manchester. I repress a pang of longing to join him.

  The moment the parade commences the rain stops. How very typical. We are led by an imperious female who sweeps her hand hither and thither, as though we are her orchestra and she the conductor. It is like being amongst children playing at kings and queens with sticks for sceptres: how serious their fat little faces as they stamp along the street waving placards. At last, Miss Hargreaves detaches herself from the melee of skirts and hats and strolls in my direction. My day improves.

  ‘Mr Latchford. You are here,’ she says in that unnecessary way to which women are so attached.

  I manage a brave smile. ‘At last.’

  ‘Perhaps not as comfortable a journey as the tram?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ I quip, and am rewarded with a grin.

  ‘We are most grateful for your assistance.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ I lie carelessly.

  ‘On the contrary; it is most heartening that you should support your sister so wholeheartedly.’

  ‘Surely you mean my sisters.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Yet it is admirable that a brother should so approve of his sister’s activities. Not all are so understanding. I hope I detect an improvement of relations between the pair of you.’ Her smile is infuriatingly smug.

  ‘You think I am here merely to show fraternal support?’

  ‘There is another reason?’ she enquires with a tilt of her head. The smile wavers.

  ‘Miss Hargreaves, I need borrow no one’s convictions. I possess them of my own free will, and act upon them accordingly. I am present because of my belief in women’s suffrage, not because I tolerate my sister and offer grudging support.’

  ‘I have underestimated you.’

  ‘I believe you have.’

  She bows her head. ‘Mea culpa,’ she says gravely.

  I have no idea what that means, but hazard a guess from her expression that she is conceding a point. I sweep off my cap and make a courtly bow. ‘Thank you milady.’

  ‘Arise, Sir Herbert.’

  I’d rise up good and strong for you, my pretty is the grubby thought hidden behind my show of chivalry. Given a chance, this potboy would bend the lady of the house over the kitchen range and show her a thing or two.

  ‘So!’ I say, spitting on my palms and rubbing them together. ‘What is best done first, in your opinion? Command your knight!’

  I am their amiable drudge: I fetch what must be fetched, carry what must be carried and when the harpy of the hour clambers on to the cart to deliver one of those interminable speeches, I lend a shoulder. There’s plenty of shoving to get her up the steps for creature of gossamer grace she is not.

  She holds forth, haranguing the crowd from here into the middle of next week. I cannot understand why they are such a submissive lot. They chuckle as happily as if she were a comic turn at the halls, even applauding some of her wilder declarations. I shift from foot to foot, so mortally bored I pray for ructions. At least then I could enjoy the distraction of a punch-up.

  Nor do I get another chance to play the lovelorn swain. Miss Hargreaves is far too busy dashing to and fro, dishing out broadsheets and pouring nonsense into the ears of the good citizens of Ashton. I am relegated to packing the wagon for the return journey and have to suffer the advice of a female who insists on instructing me in the art of rolling banners, for it seems I am not capable of doing it correctly. I display the forbearance of Job and smile, smile, smile.

  I trudge back and forth through the drizzle, casting envious eyes on the horse, which has got its head stuffed in a nosebag. A raggedly dressed woman stops me as I’m loading t
he last box of leaflets. She darts a look from side to side, draws her shawl across her mouth and mumbles through the wool.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  Grudgingly, she uncovers her face. ‘Here,’ she mutters. ‘Give me one of them.’ She nods her head towards the box.

  ‘Too late,’ I say. ‘I’m packing up.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Are you that short of paper for the privy?’ I sneer. I try to shove past, but she blocks my way.

  ‘Look,’ she hisses. ‘If my pa catches me out here with you lot I’ll get the skin taken off my arse and won’t be able to wipe it for a week. So give me one and ruddy hurry up.’ She snaps the fingers of her free hand in my face.

  ‘It’s all rubbish,’ I murmur. ‘Not worth the ink.’

  ‘What?’

  I don’t know if she can’t hear or won’t hear. I’m aware of a movement to my side and change my tune without looking to see who it is.

  ‘Here you go, miss!’ I chirp.

  I peel away the topmost piece of paper and press it into her hand. She gives me an angry look, tucks it into the folds of her skirt and is away in a trice, head down and indistinguishable from any one of the mud-coloured peasants heading for shelter. I turn. It is Miss Hargreaves. Just my confounded luck. I wonder how much she heard.

  ‘Poor lass,’ I say. ‘She was telling me how her father wouldn’t let her come to the meeting, so she dashed out at the last minute to get something of ours to read. She spoke of awful violence if she was discovered.’ I wrinkle my forehead in concern. ‘I wish we could do more.’

  We gaze at each other for a moment. The rain is light but penetrating and the feather on her hat is sopping wet, drooping over the brim. I raise my hand and sweep it back. She starts, as though she thinks I am about to strike her.

  ‘Your feather,’ I say softly. ‘I fear it is drowned.’ A surprised smile builds on her face. ‘It is good to see you happy,’ I add. I glance at the pamphlets. ‘Whatever am I thinking!’ I cry. ‘These papers will be ruined if I don’t get them under the tarpaulin straightaway.’