The Night Brother. Rosie Garland
me, Reginald Awkright. He’s half your size.’
‘We’re only playing.’
‘You’re throttling him.’
Wilfred tightens his grip. ‘Nah. Bit of rough and tumble, isn’t it, Bubbles?’
‘Tumble!’ I squeak.
‘See?’ says Reg. ‘He loves it, don’t you?’
Wilfred squeezes again, like I’m a set of bagpipes.
‘Yes!’ I rasp.
‘I said, leave the poor mite be,’ she snaps. ‘He can’t hardly breathe. I know your sort, Reginald.’
He lets out a whickering laugh. ‘I know your sort and all, Jessie, you wet-kneed slapper.’
The remainder of their banter is lost in the roaring between my ears. Reg and his rabble seem a long way off. Or rather my head seems a long way from them, detached from the neck and floating away. It is most peculiar, very like the feeling I get when I – she—
I splutter into myself. ‘Get off me!’ I shriek.
Whether it’s the command in the woman’s voice, or the shock of me fighting back, I’ve no idea, but Wilfred loosens his stranglehold. I tumble forwards, giving my elbow a blinder of a crack and half stagger, half crawl away as fast as I can. Jessie picks me up as easily as you might a dropped glove. I don’t cling to her like a drowning man to a lifebelt. Not me, not by a long chalk. I just need to steady myself on her arm, that’s all.
‘There you go,’ she says, setting me upright. She rounds on the gang. ‘As for you lot, play nicely or bugger off.’
She commences patting dirt off my jacket. She smells of trapped violets.
‘I’m all right. Don’t need help,’ I say half-heartedly.
‘You tell her,’ jeers Reg. ‘See? He doesn’t want you, you old whore.’
The boys snigger at the insult. I wait for the blubbing to start. But she tips up her chin with something that looks uncommonly like pride.
‘Don’t you just wish you could get a morsel of what I’ve got to offer!’ she hoots.
‘As heck as like,’ snarls Reg. I’ve never seen a man’s eyes so famished. He points at me. ‘I wouldn’t touch you with his,’ he declares.
Jessie furnishes us with a bray of merriment, turns with extravagant grace and promenades into the throng. I watch her go, mightily impressed. I’ve no idea why Reg called her old, either. She’s as pretty as a picture. The sort of woman a chap would be proud to have on his arm. However, I have precious little opportunity for approbation.
‘Just like a girl,’ he growls. ‘Ganging up on us.’
‘I’m not a flaming girl,’ I sigh with wearied emphasis. ‘You blind or brainless?’
‘You cheeky little sod. You are what I say you are.’
‘That’s right,’ says Wilfred, still determined to get on the right side of Reg. He grinds his fist into his eye socket. ‘Run to Mama,’ he whines. ‘Wah, wah, Mama!’
Reg twists his unpleasant attention from me to Wilfred. My face cools as the awful heat is taken away.
‘Who are you calling Mama?’ he says.
‘I didn’t mean you, Reg, old pal. I mean her.’ He stabs a finger in the direction of Jessie. She’s long gone and he is pointing at a vacancy.
‘I don’t see anyone.’
I concentrate on making myself unnoticeable. Things could still change in a heartbeat.
‘It’s a joke,’ Wilfred blusters.
‘I know what a joke is,’ Reg says. ‘You saying I don’t?’
‘No! Never!’
Reg inhales slowly and glances at me. I’m out of arm’s reach. Wilfred isn’t. ‘You saying I’m like that old tart?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Sounds exactly like what he’s saying.’
There’s a horrified silence. No one drops so much as a giggle into it. Reg jabs a rigid finger into Wilfred’s chest. He reels backwards like he’s been hit with half a house brick.
‘No!’ he wails. ‘It was a joke! I didn’t mean you! We’re chums, aren’t we?’
Reg roars and at the signal the whole lot of them pile on to their new enemy. I don’t hang about to see the outcome. My conscience pricks briefly about dropping Wilfred into it, but it was him or me. I show the cleanest pair of heels this side of the Mersey and run slap bang into the lady who saved me. Of course, she didn’t exactly save me. I did that for myself.
‘Mind where you’re going!’ she chirps. ‘Oh, it’s you. You all right?’
‘Course I am,’ I mumble. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
She ought to tell me to get lost and I don’t know why she doesn’t. She ruffles my hair. I rub my head against her hand like a cat that aches to be scratched. Her fingers comb through my curls.
‘Bonny lad,’ she purrs.
The words startle me back into my skin.
‘Leave off!’ I squeak. ‘I’m no one’s bonny anything!’
I untangle myself from her skirts and fire homewards like a rocket. The kitchen is busy: Grandma sucking on that disgusting pipe of hers and Mam waving her hand and muttering, What a stink. Not that Grandma takes a blind bit of notice. So much for the welcoming bosom. After the night I’ve had a smile wouldn’t go amiss. I help myself to a slice of bread and dripping, plonk myself in front of the range and stare at the coals. I can’t go back to Shudehill. Reg will make my life a bloody misery. Where else can I go? What else do I have?
‘Is all well?’ asks Grandma, deigning to notice my presence. She taps her pipe on the edge of the table, to another complaint from Mam.
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ I grumble through a mouthful.
‘Don’t you give me any of your lip,’ she replies.
‘You leave him alone,’ chips in Mam without looking at me. ‘He’s my special treat, so he is.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt to hear you saying that about Edie once in a while.’
Mam snorts. ‘Her? I wish things were the other way around.’
‘That’s half-daft. How can you dote on one and not the other?’
‘I’ll do as I please, thank you very much. All any mother wants is an honest-to-goodness son to do her proud. If you don’t like it, there’s the door and remember to shut it behind you.’
I scoff my bread, looking from one to the other. Biddies. I’ll never unravel the mare’s nest between their ears. But what I do hear is an advantage I didn’t know I had. I lick my fingers and leave them to it.
The bedroom sash is open. I clamber through the gap and ride the stone saddle of the windowsill, one foot in and one out. The sky is becoming pale as it considers the coming morning. I puff out my chest, draw the last scraps of night into my body until there’s no telling us apart.
There was a time.
I’ve not forgotten that land of sweet content, bright as a favourite story told at bedtime. Things aren’t the same since Edie got frozen into an obedience she imagines will thaw our flint-hearted mother into loving her. You may as well try to fold gravy. Mam can’t stand baa-lambs unless they come smothered in mint sauce.
Edie’s worse than a mouse; at least mice chew the walls and confetti the floor with their tiny turds. Her goodness clings like quicksand. If I get