The Night Brother. Rosie Garland

      My night brother is here.

      Halfway between yesterday and tomorrow morning, he shakes my shoulder.

      ‘I’m asleep, Gnome,’ I grunt. ‘Go away.’

      I hug the blanket close. Sounds from the taproom steal through the floorboards: calls for mild and bitter, porter and stout; jokes and merriment to ease the day’s care and pour forgetfulness upon the toil to come. The tide of voices rolls back and forth and swells into shouting. This is brief and all contention settles into a rumbling burr, laced with the toffee scent of malt, breathed-out beer, wet coats and wetter dogs. A bedtime story that rocks me back to sleep.

      ‘“Boys and girls come out to play,”’ he sings. ‘Wake up.’

      ‘Don’t want to,’ I mumble.

      He claps his hands and I taste the tremble of his anticipation.

      ‘Have you forgotten what’s happening tonight?’ he cries. ‘It’s Belle Vue fireworks!’

      He yanks away the blanket and we begin our tug-of-war: me hanging on to one end, him the other. He wins. He always wins, for he bests me in strength as in everything else: bravery, brains, riot and loving kindness. The room swirls awake. One blink and I can make out the rectangle of the window. Two blinks, the door.

      ‘Shake a leg,’ he whispers.

      I sit up and it sets off a yawn so wide it could swallow the mattress. He presses my lips together, shutting me up as tight as the bubbles in a crate of ginger beer.

      ‘Don’t give me that. You’re not tired.’

      I am, but I save my breath. He always gets his own way.

      ‘We can’t go without asking Ma,’ I say.

      ‘She won’t miss us. What she doesn’t see won’t grieve her.’

      ‘But I’m not allowed out in the dark.’

      ‘I’ll get you back before it’s light.’

      ‘But she’ll see us come in.’

      ‘Then we’ll sneak through the window.’