The Night Brother. Rosie Garland
and am swept into his arms.
‘Princess!’ he roars.
‘Was ever a mother so blessed,’ says Nana.
In feature and bearing Uncle Arthur and Ma are more alike than two bottles of beer set one next to the other. My mind supplies the unkind observation that one is bitter, one mild. I thrust the thought aside hastily.
‘How about a stroll to pick blackberries?’ says Arthur, kissing me till I giggle. ‘If that doesn’t strike you as the most boring idea in the world.’
‘Never,’ I gasp.
The waste ground between the tracks and the canal seethes with brambles.
‘Keep an eye out for trains, eh?’ he says. ‘Let’s get you home with both legs attached.’
We wave to the folk as they rattle past. Those in third class wave back. The grand folk in first class do not.
‘They can sneer all they want,’ says Uncle. ‘They’re not having blackberry pie for their supper.’
The first few berries explode under my fierce fingers.
‘Pick them, don’t throttle them,’ he advises. ‘They’re not your enemy.’
After a while I manage better and show off the tin proudly for inspection. He nods approval each time. The berries tantalise me deeper into the bush, the next always better than the last: bigger, juicier, each drupelet as inviting as liquorice. My mouth waters.
‘Can I eat any?’ I ask shyly.
‘Of course you can. Go for the ones that burst when you touch them. They’ll go off before we can get them through the front door. But they’re fine to eat now. How’s that for a plan?’
We beam at each other. Brambles brush my face and snag my pinafore. I yelp as I prick myself. He takes my hand to inspect the thorn.
‘Close your teeth around the tip. Don’t bite or it’ll snap and you’ll never get the blighter out.’
I do as instructed. It is like kissing my finger.
‘Now, spit.’
Simple as that, it is gone.
I study my palm. ‘It’s not even bleeding.’
He smiles. ‘They don’t go deep. Only a problem if you leave them and they fester.’
Even with the handfuls I stuff into my mouth, the tin fills with remarkable alacrity.
‘Done already?’ asks Uncle, peering at my hoard. ‘Let’s be getting off, then.’
‘We don’t have to,’ I say, stabbed with disappointment. ‘There are thousands. Look, I can carry them in my apron.’
‘They’ll stain. Blackberry juice is the very devil to get out. Don’t make work for your ma.’
We pick our way up the siding. In my mind’s eye, Ma sits up in bed, remarking how much better she feels. Even though the sun beats down on my head, clouds may as well have pulled a curtain across the sky. I clutch Arthur’s hand.
‘Who’ll make the pie?’ I whisper. ‘You or Ma?’
‘You’re stuck with me tonight, Edie,’ he says. ‘Though I’m sure your ma makes better pastry.’
‘Mm,’ I murmur, spilling some of the berries. They tumble across the pavement like soft marbles. ‘They’re dirty!’ I sob.
Uncle kneels and begins to pick them up. ‘Nothing a rinse under the tap won’t sort out.’
‘It’s your fault!’ I wail, far more upset than I should be.
‘Ah well,’ he says mildly.
He returns the rescued fruit to my tin. The kitchen is empty on our return and my spirits rally. Uncle gets started on the pastry, rolling a sheet so vast it swamps the dish. I glance at the door, afraid that Ma may clump into the kitchen and knock him out of the way. The afternoon ticks away. When the pie is slumbering in the oven, he sits beside the range and fills his pipe.
‘You keep looking at the clock, Edie.’
‘Do I?’
He pulls me close. ‘My little pickle. I could gobble you right up.’ He nuzzles my neck, presses his eye to my cheek and flutters the lashes. ‘Here come the butterflies!’
‘Don’t! No!’ I squeal.
He draws away. ‘Want me to stop?’
‘Never.’
I make a special effort to smile, which eases some of the clutching of my heart. He pats his knee.
‘How about a story?’ he asks.
‘It’s not bedtime.’
‘Who knows what’ll be afoot by then.’
I clamber on to his lap and cling to his arm, solid as oak beneath the shirtsleeve. ‘A story, please. Yes. Now,’ I gabble.
As he reads, I run my finger across his stubbled chin, revelling in his perfume of tobacco and fresh sweat. He smiles and on an impulse I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze.
‘Careful, child,’ he says. ‘I can hardly breathe.’
‘Yes you can,’ I say. ‘You’re as strong as a bear. You can take any amount of hugging.’
I burrow into the broad sweep of his chest and imagine a home where he lives all of the time. A home where his shirt warms next to the hearth and a pipe of tobacco stands by. My throat tightens. Each mouthful of air has to negotiate its way past a stone lodged there.
‘Uncle.’ I press my ear to the slow thump of his heart. ‘Don’t go,’ I say, whispering the disloyal words. ‘I wish you were my pa.’
If he hears, he shows no sign. The weight of his hand alights on the crown of my head and warmth seeps into my scalp, as though a night-cap has been laid there. ‘Shush now, my pet,’ he purrs.
Very gently, unnoticeably to begin with, he rocks backwards and forwards, cradling me in the safe sweep of his arm. It is a feather-light embrace, more precious than all the shillings in the till on a Saturday night. I steel myself not to cry. I am a grown-up girl. Besides, if I begin, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.
‘Don’t worry, Uncle,’ I breathe, and manage to make the words sound level. ‘I’m happy.’
It is not a lie. I am happy when he is in the house.
‘I love you too, Edie,’ he replies. ‘Don’t you forget it.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Be brave. Chin up.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
The room sweetens with the scent of baking pastry. He drifts into sleep, head tipped back, mouth agape. I devour him with my eyes, as though by some trick of memory I can gorge myself on this moment and keep it forever; as though, by sheer force of childish possessiveness, I can hold him here.
Perhaps it is guilt at wanting him to stay that makes me do it. Perhaps it is curiosity. Perhaps I want to plumb the mystery of Ma’s monthly troubles and discover what transforms her into a hermit. Perhaps Ma’s sobriety is a lie and she spends three days as a dancer in a high-kicking line of women with frothy petticoats. Perhaps it is something for which I have no word.
I slip from my uncle’s lap. He does not stir. His breath wheezes in and out, halfway to a snore. I pour a cup of tea and stir in an extra spoonful of sugar. Nana is always praising its powers. By taking a cup to my slumbering mother I shall prove I care for her.
I tiptoe up the stairs with such a pounding of the heart, I think it will pop out of my mouth. The cup shivers on its saucer in a sympathetic rhythm. I pause at the stairhead. Ma’s door