I strike the third match. The fire takes like a dream, flames gobbling wood made delicious with turpentine. I stare at the spreading inferno, hypnotised by my handiwork. Sparks soar and whirl like Catherine wheels. My memory glitters: a lake full of stars; Edie and I leaping like rockets. A time when I knew what I was and what I was doing.
No time to lose myself in memory. I run.
‘Fire!’ I shriek.
Windows roll up; heads stick out to discover the source of the racket. I pull my cap low.
‘Fire!’
I love her.
That voice again, sounding like my own. It can’t be me. It has to be Edie.
I can’t let myself know this truth. I career towards Hulme, bellowing till my heart bursts, but I can’t outrun my feelings, nor drown them out with screaming. It’s too late for repentance. Too late for any of that. Miss Hargreaves is right. Everything I do is an act. I play the lover I think she will want; I play the brother I think Edie wants, the man Jessie wants, the son Mam wants. I no longer know who I am. I’ve been pretending so long I lost Gnome in all the invention. I thought myself so clever. I’m still a fool of a boy, jumping at fireworks. At least I was happy then. I was alive. We were alive. It’s over; all of it.
Mam’s in the kitchen. When she claps eyes on me, her expression twists to fondness. ‘My favourite little man!’
She pours a cup of tea. I have the bizarre notion she’s been waiting up with the pot ready at her elbow. I am all over the shop tonight and can’t trust anything. I grunt thanks and sip the brew, powerful enough to make my ears ring.
‘Just as you like it, strong and sweet.’ She clinks her cup against mine. ‘Here’s to us. None like us,’ she adds, play-punching my bicep. ‘Aw, my lamb. What ails you?’
I wipe my nose on my sleeve. ‘Nothing,’ I mutter.
‘Come on now, tell your mother.’
I drain the cup and stand. ‘I’ll get upstairs. Edie’ll be here soon enough.’
She leans across the table and grabs my hand. ‘Where’s your hurry? Make her wait. Won’t do her any harm to stew in her own juice for a while.’ She inhales the words sharply, like someone might take them from her.
‘No point, Mam.’
She won’t let go of my hand. I sit down.
‘By the time I was your age I was sick to the back teeth of your grandmother ordering me to share with Arthur. Me? Never.’
Her knuckles are white around the handle of the cup. She lifts it to her lips. The liquid jitters, droplets spilling on to the board. She does not notice. I guide her hand until the cup rests safely in its saucer. She does not notice that, either.
‘You’re your mother’s son,’ she continues, eyes glazed. ‘Arthur’s allowed in when I let him and he puts up with it. So he should. He’s lucky I give him the time of day.’ She giggles. ‘Or night. You lay down the law with Edie, my lad. Serve her right.’
Something turns over in my stomach. These are words I’ve ached to hear. I’ve spoken them in the privacy of my own head often enough.
‘I need—’ I begin, but she interrupts.
‘We don’t need anyone but each other. Birds of a feather. We make a grand flock. The two of us.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t want that. I want …’
She lowers her eyelids, opens them slowly and continues as though I’ve not said a word. ‘Like mother, like son,’ she coos. ‘We’re practically normal, aren’t we? None of that vile—’ She shakes her head. ‘Normal,’ she repeats firmly, and elbows me in the ribs. ‘I’ve won. Let’s see you do the same, eh?’
I stand up. This time she does not hold me back. Her gaze remains fixed at the empty chair, as though my ghost is still seated there. I climb the stairs and sit on the edge of the bed. My stamping tantrums about how I don’t care, not for anyone, not for anything. Lies. I care, very much. Edie loves Abigail. So do I. It is real. Love, anger, misery, revenge. If there’s a difference, I can’t feel it. All agony.
‘I’m sorry,’ I moan.
The words echo off the cramped-in walls. She’s sorry too. Even if Grandma hadn’t told me, I’d still know. I did not listen. Neither of us did. There’s a swirling in my head as she surfaces.
What’ve you done? She sounds half-asleep.
‘You should know. You tried to stop me.’
Stop what?
‘If it wasn’t you, who was it?’
I’m not your keeper, Gnome. It’s late. Leave me be.
‘Don’t go!’
What?
‘I don’t want to be alone.’
Stop being silly. We’re not children.
With that, she’s gone.
I have not prayed since I was a child. I fall to my knees. It is not low enough. I prostrate myself, bang my head on the floorboards and beg for the impossible: that I did not set fire to the Pavilion, did not mistreat Abigail, did not foul up my entire life in the space of half an hour.
It is done. I have lost everything because I could not control myself. I have let anger consume me as it has consumed Mam. I am the King of Ashes, all hope reduced to cinders and by my own hand. I’ve proved to Edie I can’t be trusted. Proved it to Abigail, to my grandmother, to everyone who matters. I am not worth the candle. I do not deserve forgiveness. My rage falls away. Without its heat I am cold and naked. I am nothing.
EDIE
JANUARY 1910
I rub my eyes and struggle awake, a sick grinding at my temples. The room is filled with the sharp-sweet fume of pine oil, which explains the headache. It reminds me: Gnome woke me in the middle of the night. The memory is half gone, like a dream that fades when you try to seize upon it. He was saying sorry, of all things. I delve into the depths of his apology. My skin crawls. If I didn’t know better I’d say it was remorse.
I shake off the ridiculous notion. The reek of turpentine is turning my stomach, that’s all. I drag myself off the mattress and open the window to let in some air. A bedraggled washing line, the huddled privy, but no sign of any uproar in the yard. The Comet is in one piece. Whatever Gnome was bothering me about, it can’t have been important.
The bells of St Wilfrid’s chime for morning service. I lean on the sill and bend my thoughts towards Abigail, a far more deserving object of attention. It is cold enough to see my breath in a plume of mist but to my fond eye, all is bright. For the first time in my life I am happy. If ever a soul deserved love, I do. Week follows week and month follows month, yet each moment with Abigail is as thrilling as the first, each kiss also. My flesh sings at the touch of her mouth and hands, shaking me to my foundations more profoundly than I thought possible. I entertain daydreams of the two of us sharing a home and growing old together. It is all rather vague in that way of romantic reveries, but delightful nonetheless.
I pull down the sash and blow on my fingers. As for the niggling irritation of my secret, I simply refuse to think about it. I parry her enquiries with the skill acquired from a lifetime of practice, although I do wonder why her questions increase rather than decrease. It is the only blot on perfection and compared to the nightmares life has thrown my way, amounts to the smallest of clouds in an otherwise clear sky. This new year dawns with boundless hope. Let me dream, I say to myself. A handful of dreams never did a body harm.
My reflections are interrupted by a hammering at the front door. Ma’s window screeches open.
‘I’m opening at noon and not a moment before!’ she shouts.
Muffled words are exchanged. Whoever is out there has not been put off by Ma’s peremptory dismissal. A thump of footsteps sounds along the landing and my door flies open.
‘It’s for you,’ growls Ma, her hair still in rags. ‘You tell her, whatever her name is, that decent hardworking folk need their sleep on a Sunday morning.’
She bustles out, banging on my grandmother’s door, bellowing commands to be up and about and that church will not wait. I don blouse and petticoat, trudge sleepily into Ma’s room and stick my head through the window. My headach
e dissolves on the spot.
‘Abigail!’ I cry. ‘Why ever in the world—’
She raises her head. Her features are printed with worry. ‘Edie. I am sorry.’ She draws off her glove and wrings it like a dishcloth. ‘I did not know what else to do. Can you come?’
‘Of course. I’ll be down presently.’
Church can wait. I pull on the remainder of my clothes: by some miracle the laces of my corset do not snag and my hair obeys the brush tolerably well. I squint at the mirror. It will have to do. I take the stairs two at a time.
‘Dearest,’ she begins.
I clasp her hand, and press my lips to her cheek. ‘Dearest,’ I echo. ‘What on earth has happened?’
‘Terrible things. The police have arrested – we are accused …’ She glances about distractedly. The back of my neck bristles as the curtains of Renshaw Street begin to twitch.
‘Walk with me,’ I say. I grab hat and shawl from the coat-stand and take her arm, steering her away from inquisitive neighbours. ‘The Pahoria?’ I suggest. ‘It is open on a Sunday, the heathens.’
She manages a weak smile. ‘Heathens.’
The place is almost empty and we get a table right away. Manchester must be more God-fearing than I suspected. As soon as our order is taken, Abigail takes a folded newspaper out of her handbag and spreads it across the table. The page crackles like distant fire.
‘We are blamed for this outrage,’ she says, voice quavering.
I read the words: the Alexandra Park Pavilion reduced to cinders. Huns. Vandals. Terrible destruction. Wilful violence.
‘That’s awful,’ I say. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘Who indeed. Look.’ She presses her forefinger to the photograph beneath the garish headline. Through the blur of black and white I see what has been daubed amongst the ashes. Votes for Women.
‘Oh Lord!’ I cry. As I speak, a chill seizes my throat. That scent of turpentine. No. He can’t possibly be involved. He’s been so – amenable.
Her shoulders sag. ‘There will be denials. Which nobody will believe.’ Slowly, she looks at me. ‘You believe me, don’t you?
‘Of course!’
She grasps my hand. ‘I needed to hear you speak the words. Forgive me.’
‘I would give far more than words.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispers. Her hand creeps to my cheek and I lean into its comfort. ‘This sort of thing does the cause no good,’ she continues, withdrawing her hand and staring at her fingers. ‘We look as though we wrought this damage, even though we did not.’
‘Then why?’
‘To besmirch what little good name we have and drag us through the mud. The place was locked up for the night. What if a tramp – what if a child …’ She contemplates the newspaper. ‘A broken window is one thing. Where the life of an innocent may be endangered, assuredly not. And after such a peaceful rally …’
I clap my hand to my brow. The Ashton rally. So that’s why Gnome dangled the promise of an evening if I gave up my Saturday afternoon. It didn’t occur to me he’d have the slightest interest in women’s suffrage. Sneaking around behind my back is one thing, but would he descend to this level? Is this why he said sorry?
‘Gnome,’ I blurt, despite myself.
‘Edie. Do you know something?’
‘Yes. No.’
The waitress brings the tray and we sit in rigid silence as she places cups, saucers, sugar, milk and teapot upon the table. It seems to take forever. He couldn’t have. I trusted him.
Abigail pours the tea. ‘I wonder …’ she says in a half-trance. ‘But it cannot be. Surely your brother would not …’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ I mutter. I churn with self-recrimination. I thought he’d changed. How could I have been so stupid? I fell for his charm: hook, line and sinker. It was always too good to be true. ‘He is a hundred times worse than you can possibly imagine.’
‘I have a very sharp imagination,’ she snaps. ‘I apologise. My nerves are in ribbons this morning.’
My frustration explodes. ‘I told you to steer clear!’ I roar, bang my fist on the table. The crockery rattles. Every customer turns; stares. ‘Why didn’t you listen to me?’ I hiss, lowering my voice. Our audience lose interest. A pair of giddy females; that’s all we are.
‘I don’t relish being told what to do,’ she replies, none too gently.
‘When it comes to my brother, I damn well shall do. You have no idea of what he is capable.’
She stares into her cup before taking a careful sip. ‘I think I do. Last night, after the rally. He made – advances.’
I go cold to the roots of my hair. ‘What …?’
‘I know; I know. You warned me. There was no great damage done. He seemed to be acting out of anger rather than desire.’ She wrinkles her brow. ‘I realise that sounds absurd.’
I look at my hands. He laid them upon her. No. I could never. Would never. There is a sudden fracture in the working of my brain, as though the gaslight of my conscious mind has shuddered in a strong draught. My hands, his hands. My touch, his. I clench my fists as though I am trying to hold on to myself. The nails dig into the soft flesh of the palm. It hurts, but not enough to sear away this turmoil.
‘What is it, Edie?’
I hide his disgusting paws behind my back. ‘Nothing.’
‘I see it in your face. You know more about this matter than you admit.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh yes, you do. There’s something rotten at the root of this enmity. It’s not the usual quarrelling that exists between brother and sister. I must know.’
‘No you mustn’t.’
‘I will know.’
‘No you won’t.’
She lowers her cup and gives me a look I cannot translate. ‘Edie. All I ask is honesty, however taxing. Do you imagine I find it easy to disclose what your brother attempted last night?’
I shake my head mutely.
‘There must be openness, now more than ever,’ she continues. ‘We are attacked from all sides. I must know what is going on, who stands for us and who against. What are you concealing from me?’
‘Abigail, I implore you.’
‘I will listen. I will cast no judgement.’
‘No!’ I cry, perilously close to shrieking, powerless to stop. There is an ugly pause.
‘Can you not trust me?’
The cups rest in their saucers. The tea cools. Abigail lays her palms upon the tablecloth and smoothes away a crease in the linen. She watches the movement of her fingers to the left, to the right. At last, she raises her eyes to mine.
‘If there is no trust between us, Edie, then what are we doing here?’
There is a longer silence. It stretches between us, taut and unbearable, whilst around us rings the din of plates and cups, the hubbub of conversation as the café begins to fill with good Christian souls who have done their duty and roared prayers at the firmament.
I cast about for the words to smooth this over. ‘Why do you press me so?’ I say. ‘Don’t let this argument come between us. Let us be happy. Forget my brother.’ I thrust my hand across the table. She glances at it.
‘Edie. You say I am dear to you.’
‘You are.’
‘You call me beloved.’
‘And so you are!’ I say desperately.
‘I spoke frankly to your brother and I shall afford you the same. You know all there is to know about me. I have let you into the most intimate places of my heart.’
I nod. There is a stone in my throat that is proving hard to swallow. She leans across the table and pats the back of my hand. It is a sisterly gesture, devoid of ardour.
‘I hesitate to say this,’ she continues, ‘but I must, for it demands to be said. What, my dear Edie, have you given me in return?’
With every scrap of my being I want to say everything. But the word sticks and can’t break free.
‘I know next to nothing about you. From the f
irst day of our acquaintance you have hidden half of yourself.’
I stare into my cup. Some tea-leaves have escaped the strainer and float on the surface.
‘I have demeaned myself by asking Guy if he knows more, but you play your cards as close to your chest with him.’
‘Guy is—’
She raises her hand. ‘I have spread my dreams before you and waited for you to reciprocate. You have not. I catch glimpses into your soul. Just as I feel I am about to approach some vital truth, you withdraw. There is a need about you, Edie; it draws me in, only to thrust me away. I do not understand it and I am not sure you do, either.’
My heart swings like a clapper against the cage of my ribs. I bow my head miserably. She continues.
‘I am intrigued by you. But I will not let this fascination wear a blindfold. You are a will-o’-the-wisp and if I continue to follow I will become lost. I cannot let myself be drawn further into this dance. I am tired of pursuit.’
‘Do you think I do this on purpose, to hurt you?’
‘No, I do not,’ she replies, an aching sadness in her voice. ‘You hurt yourself.’
‘Help me,’ I breathe.
‘I have done all I can. I have trusted, loved, demonstrated openness. I have been patient. I can be so no longer. We can remain friends who shake hands and take tea, but an intimate connection – no. I wish it were not so. But it is.’
I cover my face with my hands. I can’t bear to look at her, or have her look at me. ‘Of all beings with whom I wish to share myself,’ I croak. ‘That woman is you.’
‘Then why do you not? I want you in my life, Edie. But I can have no half-woman. I must have the whole.’
I hear our breathing: hers, calm and even; mine, gulping and shallow. I lower my hands and look at her. ‘I want you, Abigail.’
‘You do not. You want someone to hide in. I am not the answer to your emptiness. I am your equal. I will meet you halfway, on the bridge we build of our two souls, our two hearts. I cannot span that chasm on my own, nor shall I.’
I gaze at her. Never more desirable or out of reach. ‘Can’t you believe it is too much to tell you?’
The Night Brother Page 32