The Night Brother. Rosie Garland
tremble so much that the bread dances in the dish. I dare not slap him away; indeed I cannot, for I’m holding on to the plate and if I let it fall I’ll catch it off Ma. Besides, everyone will look to see what the noise is about and I’ll die of mortification. When I think that I am about to burst, the strangest thing happens. I bend my head until my lips are on a level with his ear. A voice I do not recognise spills out of my mouth, quiet enough for him to hear, but none other.
‘Get your filthy paws off me,’ I growl. A confused look shadows his features. His hand freezes but does not withdraw. ‘Right now.’
A smirk worms its way across his lips.
‘Or what, my little pet?’ he leers.
‘Or what?’ I fill my lungs with cleansing breath, and continue. ‘Pin back your bloody ears and listen. I shall watch you, every moment of every day. I shall bide my time. One night, when you’ve dropped your guard, I’ll take my knife, the one I use for chopping this bread so nice and neat, and I shall slide it between your ribs. And when you fall gasping to the floor I shall unbutton your greasy britches, grab your wizened meat and two veg and saw off the whole damned lot.’
I straighten up in a leisurely fashion. He draws his hand away from my leg and tucks it into his trouser pocket as if it has been there all evening. Around us, men sip beer. We stare at each other, blankly as strangers do. He swallows heavily, staggers to his feet, stutters an apology and hastens away, leaving tracks in the sawdust. I follow him to the door and watch him scurry down the street. He stops, slings a look over his shoulder and disappears around the corner.
‘What’s up with him?’ asks Ma.
‘Who?’
‘You know very well who. You scaring off my customers?’ she says.
I hitch my shoulders lazily. I carry the bread around the room, offering it with a perfect smile. When the plate is empty I return to the bar, where I set it down without so much as a rattle.
That night I stretch on my bed, staring into the shadows where the wall meets the ceiling. I’ve no idea who planted those words in my mouth. I’ve never spoken like that before. Yet tonight, I did. I answered back. I said no. Maybe this is the strength of which Nana.
At last. She is standing up for herself. Good thing too. I was beginning to think she was as much use as a dog with one leg. Of course, it took plenty of help from yours truly, but I’m not the boastful sort. Nor have I any desire to squander more brain matter than absolutely necessary upon my sister. There are more important things to worry about.
Top of the list is just how far Reg and his minions have put the wind up me. The last thing I want to admit is that I’m too scared to go to Shudehill, but facts are facts and I may as well swallow them, thorns and all. I stick close to home, prowling the confines of my neighbourhood. I tell myself I am still King of the Night, even if my kingdom has shrunk to the size of a postage stamp. Tell myself this is better than nothing at all, that I am biding my time before I return to the site of my defeat. No, not defeat. I’m simply a wise general who knows when to advance and when to retreat; when to strengthen home defences before venturing abroad on far-flung campaigns. I tell myself this is consolidation.
Weeks slide into months, which stretch into a year, and I wonder if I’m fated to spend my life pacing this grimy cage. No lion ever chafed so against his bars, or roared so disconsolately at the injustice of his imprisonment. I can’t go on like this. A lad’s needs are manifold and I itch to stretch my legs.
First off, this hair will have to go. I let Edie grow it long and look where it’s landed me. This is what happens when you let kindness and consideration get the better of you. A little lad can get away with curls, but I’m fourteen and that’s not little, not by a long chalk. We are growing up. Time to get shot of childish things.
The scissors swish as curls pile around my ankles. On my head they looked gold, but on the floor they are as tarnished as old leaves. It’s a trick of the candlelight, a trick of the heart that sneaks in and whispers that I am cutting off more than hair. I grit my teeth and finish the job. With each snip, the true Gnome emerges, untrammelled by floppy fussiness. It’s hard to shear a straight line and I look like a badly plucked goose when I’m done, but nothing can be allowed to stand in the way of progress. I feed the dead hair into the mouth of the range and savour the smell of burning.
The kitchen door swings and in stomps Mam, drawn by the stink. She’s in her nightdress, face wrinkled from the pillow. She blinks a powerful number of times, like it’s hard work to fit me in. I can’t tell if she’s going to chuck a saucepan or take me to her bosom.
‘That’ll put the cat amongst the pigeons,’ she says, nodding at my haircut.
‘Want me to look like a lass?’
She chews the inside of her cheek while she tries to work that one out. I break the silence before her eyes pop.
‘How about you sit down. Let me make my dear mam a brew.’ I slide the kettle on to the heat. ‘Work your fingers to the bone, don’t you?’
‘Hmmph. Someone has noticed,’ she says in a voice that splits down the middle like a bit of kindling. ‘Finally.’
‘Not right, is it?’ I pour a cup and stir in a hill of sugar.
‘No.’
‘Good thing I’m here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she mutters, and slurps the best cup of tea this side of the Pennines. ‘No one knows how hard I slog.’
‘Except for me.’
She gawps fondly. ‘Except for you.’
‘That Edie, eh?’ I sigh.
‘I’m a fool to myself,’ she says, and gives me a soppy grin.
Now that I have her where I want her, I chatter how I barely get a minute to myself; how I’d love to step out; how lads need to stretch their legs or grow into wet nellies. Mam nods and shakes her head by turns.
‘Ah,’ I sigh. ‘If only I had thruppence for a bag of sweets.’
That’s all it takes for her to divvy up a handful of coins. I let her pinch and kiss my cheek, which is worth another handful, till my pockets are freighted with a small king’s ransom.
‘All I ever wanted was a good lad like you,’ she snuffles.
Before she can blub her silly eyes out, I blow her a farewell kiss and take the first tram heading into the city. I’ve better things on which to spend the fare, so I travel in style, hanging on to the bars at the back. Sparks fly as steel grates against steel, fine as any firework show.
I pull faces through the window. The passengers do their damnedest to ignore me, burying their noses into the evening papers to blot out the scruffy tyke cadging a free ride. I’ve half a mind to squirm through the window and turn cartwheels, but I’d be out on my ear. There’ll be plenty of time for hilarity when I get where I am going, I promise myself. As the tram slows for Shudehill, I leg it into the crowd.
I make a cautious tour of the aisles, cap pulled down to my chin. I’ve sprouted an inch and I bet I could take Reg on and trounce him good and proper. However, only a fool wastes his vigour on fisticuffs and I’m relieved to find neither hide nor hair of that particular gentleman. I take an invigorating breath and shove my cap to the back of my head.
This is where I should be: at the centre of things, where my ears din with clatter and clank. To my right, a raggle-taggle band blow trumpets, bang drums, scrape fiddles. To my left, an organ-grinder grinds. Straight ahead, the lads and lasses of the monkey-rank shout and laugh and waltz into taverns arm in arm. I am tugged this way and that, tempted by the barking of