The Night Brother. Rosie Garland
Ma,’ I lisp and stretch my deceitful grin to the tips of my ears.
I am shepherding the last bit of porridge from bowl to mouth when Nana lays her hand on my forehead.
‘You look a bit peaky,’ she says.
I butt into the broad warmth of her palm. Half the porridge slips from the spoon back into the bowl. Her tenderness is my undoing.
‘Yes, Nana.’ I yawn. ‘It was that dream again: where I jump out of the window and get into all sorts of naughtiness.’
Her hand makes peaceful circles across my brow. My eyelids droop.
‘Dreams,’ she murmurs, half-statement, half-question.
I am more than halfway back to sleep. ‘I never know why I wake up with dirty hands and feet.’ The delicious massage ceases abruptly. ‘Nana?’ I mumble.
I winch open my eyelids to see Ma shooting my grandmother a look of such blazing fury I am surprised she does not incinerate on the spot.
‘Cissy,’ says my grandmother in a soothing tone. ‘It’s only right. Let me tell—’
‘Not a word,’ rasps Ma, shaking her head. ‘Unless you wish to look for alternate lodgings.’
‘Cissy! I am your mother!’
‘And as long as it is my name upon the licence, you will abide by my rules. Remember who does everything around here. Everything!’
My spoon hovers between dish and lips. What species of imp prompts the next words I do not know.
‘Uncle Arthur,’ I pipe.
‘What?’ growls Ma, her eyes wide as saucers.
‘He helps.’
She lets loose a cry that could split firewood. ‘He does nothing, do you hear?’ she screams. ‘I work my fingers to the bone and he swans in once a month!’
I bow my head and let the storm rage. I think her ungrateful, but I’ll never be the one to say so. Uncle Arthur is a pearl of a man. Without him, who knows how we’d manage when Ma takes to her bed, regular and reliable as the full moon.
Life continues on its confusing path.
I grow into a swallowed voice of a girl. I speak when I am spoken to and often not even then. Ma says sufficient for the two of us, sharp as thistles and as bitter. I gulp down my words before they are born and they wedge in my throat like stones. If I lay my hand on my chest I feel them grinding together, locked up tight.
As soon as I’m old enough to stand without hanging on to the furniture Ma has me collecting glasses and washing them too, for she scorns the idea of squandering cash on a servant. I learn quick not to break one, having no desire to increase the number of times she takes out her wrath on my backside.
Year follows year until I reach my twelfth birthday. It is a proud day indeed, for I carry a jug of beer from the cellar without spilling a drop. It makes Ma happy. And when Ma is happy, well, so is everybody else.
Our customers have their little ways. There’s the temperance man who disappears for a fortnight at a time, only to reappear with a famished look, ready to spring to the defence of his porter at closing time. There’s Old Tom, who takes the same seat by the fire and woe betide anyone who tries to purloin it. There are the pipe-smokers, teeth stained brown as the benches they sit upon. There’s the bearded fellow, white stripes running from the corners of his mouth and lending him the appearance of a badger.
And there’s the charming man.
The hair on his head is black, but his eyebrows and moustache are copper-red, adding a streak of spice to his features. I find it difficult to like a man whose head disagrees with his face. Whenever I pass through the bar on one errand or another, he grabs me around the waist and pulls me close, squeezing out what little breath I have to spare. Every time he does so Ma ticks me off.
‘Stop annoying the customers,’ she growls.
‘She’s not bothering me,’ he replies.
One evening, after a particularly onerous spell of cuddles and pinches, I retreat to the privy. The night-soil collectors emptied the bucket the previous evening but it retains the fruity stink of human ordure. I consider the smell preferable to his unwanted attentions. There is no point in wasting a visit, so I hitch my skirt around my middle.
I hear a light cough, more of an apology.
The ginger-faced man slides into the doorway and hovers there. I stretch out my hand to pull the door shut, but he braces his foot against it.
‘I’ll make sure no ill befalls you,’ he says in his soft, polite way.
I want to tell him to turn around and leave, but something in the way he speaks smothers my protestations. I have the sensation of a pillow stuffed with goose down being held tenderly over my face.
I tug my skirt over my knees. It is tricky to keep my balance at the same time as preventing the hem from trailing in muck. My insides shrivel. I cannot go while he is watching. I pull up my drawers as modestly as I am able.
‘I didn’t hear you tinkle,’ he says, the loveliest of smiles lighting up his face.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t need to.’
‘Oh, but you do,’ he purrs. He doesn’t shift aside to let me pass, nor does he lift his protective gaze from me for one instant.
‘I can’t.’
‘But you must.’ His voice is as sticky as barley malt. ‘Ah!’ he breathes. ‘You’re afraid someone will barge in, aren’t you? I’ll tell you what. Let your old friend help you. I’ll fight off any rough fellows who come this way.’
I can neither move nor speak.
He waggles his fingers, fanning the sickly air. ‘I’ll be your lookout. Carry on.’
A cry for help twists my innards. ‘No.’ It is less than a squeak. Barely an exhalation.
‘Do it,’ he says, a fraction sharper. ‘Now.’
I sit down so quickly I crack my tailbone on the seat. I watch him turn very slowly until he takes position with arms folded, gazing towards the beerhouse door. I raise my petticoats, lower my bloomers. My body clenches. I tuck my chin into my chest and stare at the ground between my knees in the hope that I can block him out. I know he’ll not release me until he is satisfied.
Whether it is my prayer or merely an urgent need to pass water, but liquid splashes into the bucket. I didn’t know it is possible to feel such relief. It gushes on and on as though it’ll never stop. I tear a scrap of paper from the string, wipe myself and rearrange my clothing. When I raise my head, he is staring right at me, beatific grin in place.
‘That’s better, isn’t it? I took care of you, didn’t I?’
I do not reply.
He stretches out a hand. ‘Here, little miss. Ups-a-daisy. Don’t want you falling in, do we now?’ he says sweetly.
I struggle to my feet without the aid of his proffered hand. He chuckles at my refusal of help, shoves his fists into his pockets and saunters back to the bar, whistling. I trudge behind. I could have shouted for help. I could have screamed, You lied! You looked! A single word would have broken the spell. I stayed silent. I’m not sure why. What I am sure of is that this must be my fault.
It is impossible to speculate how long I might have continued in this muddled state.
Two weeks later, I traipse downstairs at breakfast-time to discover that Ma has retreated to her room, bedridden by her fearsome and unexplained women’s ailments. At school, I daydream that luck will smile; that Arthur will come through the door at the very moment Ma is shouting at me. I picture him stepping into the fray and calming her wrath. She’ll listen to her brother;