The Night Brother

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Rosie Garland 2017

Rosie Garland asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780008166137

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008166120

Version: 2018-02-12

Dedication

For Manchester

and all the wanderers who have found a home

in this Rainy City

Epigraph

All things must change to something new,

to something strange.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

Kéramos

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Manchester: August 1894

My night brother …

Part One: Manchester 1897–1904

Edie: 1897–1899

Gnome: 1899

Edie: 1900–1901

Gnome: 1901

Edie: 1901–1902

Gnome: 1902

Edie: 1902–4

Gnome: 1904

Part Two: Manchester 1909–1910

Edie: March 1909

Gnome: March 1909

Edie: March 1909

Gnome: March–June 1909

Edie: June–September 1909

Gnome: September 1909–January 1910

Edie: January 1910

Gnome: January 1910

Abigail

I am an …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Rosie Garland

About the Publisher

MANCHESTER AUGUST 1894

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.’

‘But she’ll shout.’

‘She won’t.’

‘But—’

‘But but but! You don’t half whine, Edie. We’re going and that’s that.’

I yield to the press of his authority. For all my protestations I am thrilled. For two weeks I have been breathless with hoping Ma might take me to the firework show, the street having spoken of little else. Even Miss Pannett’s Sunday School voice brightened when she described last year’s extravaganza. Excitement tingles down my arms, into my legs. I leap from the bed.

‘Good,’ he grunts. ‘About time, silly girl.’

He speaks fondly and I am not hurt by the words. Ma says there’s no money to squander on toys. I have Gnome. Better than a hundred dolls. Wherever I go he holds my hand. I watch him lay the bolster along the mattress and arrange the blanket on top of it.

‘It doesn’t look anything like me.’

‘Who cares? It’s not like Mam is going to come in and kiss you goodnight, is it?’

‘She might,’ I protest, voice as empty as my wishes. If Ma looks in at all, it is a swift open and shut of the door after she’s cleared the bar at closing time.

‘And I’m the king of …’ Gnome mutters, fastening me into a pair of britches. He snaps braces over my shoulders to stop them falling down, for they are far too big.

‘Why have I got to wear trousers?’ I ask. ‘I’m not a boy.’

‘Hush your racket. It’s easier to climb out of windows, and no one will remark upon— Oh, I haven’t got time to explain, you little goose. We must go.’

He drags me towards the window.

‘Wait,’ I say.

‘No waiting.’

‘Wait!’ I grab a handful of marbles from under the pillow: each one a prize hoarded from the cracked throat of a lemonade bottle. I shove them into my pocket and hear the reassuring clink. ‘They’re lucky,’ I say.

He sighs. ‘Are you ready? We must go. Now.’

He rolls up the sash and hauls me on to the sill. I blink at the long climb down the drainpipe.

‘I’m afraid, Gnome.’

‘It’ll be worth it. Wait and see. Anyhow,’ he adds with a twist. ‘If there’s an ounce of trouble, it’ll be you that gets it in the neck. I’ll be long gone by the time Mam gets her hands on you.’

A familiar feeling swirls in my chest, sick and uncomfortable. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Stop asking daft questions and get down this damned pipe.’

I am silenced by the coarse word and obey. He shows me where to put my feet and fingers. My knees grind iron; rust stains my hands. We jump to the privy roof, which rattles beneath our feet, but holds steady. Then it’s only a short drop to the ground and we melt into the dark of the yard. Through the gate we scuttle, over the chipped cobbles of the back alley and on to the street.

Gnome gallops ahead full tilt, wind lifting his curls, whooping loud as Buffalo Bill and all his Indians. I tumble after, puffing and panting with the effort of keeping up. He laughs between my hurtling breaths.

‘You should come out and play more often, Edie,’ he teases. ‘It’ll build you up strong and healthy.’

‘I am going fast as I can, Gnome,’ I wheeze. ‘Ma says I should behave as befits a young lady.’

‘Mam says this, Mam says that. Mam says rot,’ he says dangerously, waiting for my shocked reaction. When it doesn’t come, he grins. ‘That’s more like it. Who cares what she thinks.’ He giggles. ‘I suppose you are doing well. For a girl.’

I pinch his skinny ribs and he squeals with laughter. We leap puddles dark as porter, hopscotch from lamplit pool to lamplit pool of light, my hand in his and his in mine. The faster I run, the easier it becomes. I flap my arms, imagining them wings. I could run forever.

Gnome sings the praises of Belle Vue. What a fairyland it is: more fantastical than any I could dream up in a month of Sundays. He spins stories of Maharajah the elephant, Consul the intelligent chimpanzee, the crocodiles with gnashing jaws, the pythons that can squeeze the life out of a man. I’d be frightened out of my wits if I were not so over the moon.

We are not alone in our exhilaration. The closer we draw to our destination the busier the streets. Hyde Road is so thick with wagons and omnibuses that not one of them can advance more than an inch at a time. We weave through the throng, Gnome guiding us with his skilful feet and eyes.

‘We’re here,’ he announces at last.

The entrance gate looms above our heads. Through its arch I spy an avenue lined with trees radiant with electric lights. It’s only as we stand there gawping that I remember there’s not so much as a halfpenny in my pocket. I grind the marbles and wish for a miracle.

‘Watch and learn,’ says Gnome and taps his nose.

He saunters across the road and I have little option but to follow, dodging carts and charabancs. We head for a roadside stall selling tea and fried potatoes. He slaps his grubby palms upon the counter.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he chirps, and tugs the peak of his cap. ‘The chaps in the lion house have a fearsome thirst on them and have sent me to fetch their tea.’

‘Hah. Sharples again, is it?’ growls the stallholder, who is a veritable mountain of a man. ‘He’s a cheeky sod, sending a lad your age to do his work.’

‘I’m eight next birthday, sir!’ says Gnome, cheerfully.

‘Are you now?’ replies the man. He hefts an enormous steel teapot and pours steaming liquid into four mugs, each bigger than our milk jug at home. He thumps them on to a tin tray and shoves it across the counter. The mugs jiggle perilously. ‘Mind you don’t spill them!’

‘Not me, sir. Thank you, sir!’ Gnome cheeps.

‘Tell him he owes me sixpence!’ yells the tea-man as we carry the tray away.

Gnome strides to the front of the line, chin up. I try to close my ears to the complaints of cheeky lad, there’s a queue here you know and hug his side, close as his shirt. At the turnstile, a fellow in a dark blue uniform plants his hand in front of Gnome’s face and we teeter to a halt.

‘Watch it!’ cries Gnome. ‘I almost spilled this tea!’

The gatekeeper chews his moustache. ‘A shilling after five o’clock,’ he grunts.

‘And if I don’t get these to Mr Sharples at the lion enclosure in less than two minutes, he’ll take more than a shilling out of my arse,’ says Gnome, so loudly that the man behind us expels a cry of disgust.

‘Good Lord!’ exclaims the gent. ‘That’s hardly the sort of language ladies should hear.’ His wife and children cluster at his coat-tails, scowling.

The ticket inspector raises his hat. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, sir! We offer our apologies that you have been so incommodicated. I do hope this won’t spoil your enjoyment of this evening’s entertainment.’

The gentleman is already bustling his brood forwards.

‘Far more interested in getting a good view of the fireworks than any real argument,’ murmurs Gnome in my ear.

The gatekeeper glares at us and jerks his thumb into the park. ‘Shift it, you little blighter. Now. And don’t think I won’t be having a word with Fred Ruddy Sharples about the class of lad he gets to do his fetching and carrying these days.’

‘Yes, sir!’ cries Gnome smartly. ‘I’ll be sure and let him know!’ We click through the turnstile and melt into the crowd. As soon as we are out of sight, Gnome plonks the tray on to the ground and passes me one of the mugs. ‘Go on. Get that down you. It’ll warm your cockles.’

The tea is strong, hot and deliciously sweet.

‘It’s the best thing I ever drank,’ I breathe.

‘That’s the ticket. Hits the very spot,’ says Gnome. He takes a slurp himself and lets out a satisfied belch.

‘You’re a marvel, Gnome,’ I say, in awe of my cunning brother. ‘I didn’t know a person could do anything half so sharp.’

‘Here’s the thing. If you act confidently, folk believe what they see and hear. Act nervous, like you don’t belong in a place, and you’ll stand out like a sore thumb.’

I take a long draught of tea. ‘I wish I were a boy, Gnome. I’d be as smart as you. And I wouldn’t have to stay at home with Ma and Nana.’

He shoots me a look. The light is not good, so it may be anger, it may be fear, it may be something else.

‘Don’t talk nonsense. You’re not dim, so don’t act it.’

‘I don’t mind being stupid. With you at my side, nothing can hurt me.’

‘You don’t know what’s around the corner,’ he sighs.

‘I do,’ I say. ‘You are.’

‘Oh, Edie,’ he says. ‘We can’t live this way forever.’ He lays a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. ‘We’re growing up. Jack and Jill have to come down the hill sooner or later.’ He heaves a sigh at my uncomprehending stare. ‘You don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, do you?’

I shake my head.

‘I don’t mean it nastily,’ he says, smiling again. ‘It’s just – ach. You’ll understand one day.’

He drains his mug and shoves it under a bush, tray and all.

‘Shouldn’t we take them—’

‘Shush. We’ll collect them later,’ he says.

I know he isn’t telling the truth. He doesn’t care for the cups now he has finished with them.

Gnome drags me past the animal enclosures and their rank scent of dung, meat and straw. I hear the grumblings of beasts who’ll get no sleep tonight. It is hardly like night-time. Everywhere we walk, lights banish the dusk. At the Monkey House, he bows his legs and hobbles from side to side, scratching his armpits, funnelling his lips and hooting. At the elephant house he swings his arm like a trunk, and trumpets; at the bear pit he growls; at the kangaroo house he hops. I can’t catch my breath for laughing.

‘Who needs the zoo when you have me?’ he says.

He pushes on and I scramble in his wake. If I lost him in this strange place it would be awful. I’d be lost forever.

‘Stop worrying, little sister. It’s not possible,’ he whispers, as though he has heard my thoughts.

I don’t know how he can murmur in my ear and yet still be bounding ahead, but I’m far too excited to give it much thought. Besides, he is Gnome and he can do anything. He pauses at a confectioner’s stand, produces a penny from his conjurer’s store and buys a bag of cinder toffee. As we scoff it, we press on towards the Firework Lake.

‘There won’t be anywhere left to sit at this rate,’ he grunts between mouthfuls. ‘It’s your fault for being so slow out of bed.’

‘I can’t go any faster.’ I feel the tight clumping of tears in my chest.

‘Don’t cry! Not when we’re so close.’ His voice is so desperate that it swipes aside my plunge into self-pity. How funny he sounds. He is never usually so nice. ‘I’ve always been nice to you, you ungrateful little brute,’ he grumbles, although I can tell that he is relieved. ‘Now, please let us hurry.’

A wooden scaffold has been constructed on the dancing platform, high as the Town Hall if not higher. Gnome tugs me underneath, into a jungle of posts and cross-beams. He slips between them as nimbly as one of the apes he so recently imitated, starts to climb and I clamber after, up the ranks of seats until he is satisfied with our vantage point. We squeeze through the thicket of skirts and trousers.

‘I say!’ exclaims a chap as we struggle between the legs of his brown-and-yellow tweed britches. ‘Whatever are you doing down there!’

Gnome tips his cap. ‘Bless you, sir!’ he cries. ‘Thought I was going to get squashed flat!’ I pause to curtsey my thanks but he drags me down the walkway. ‘He smelled of mothballs,’ he hisses, and I giggle.

At the end of the bench are a spooning couple.

Gnome smiles angelically. In his politest voice he says, ‘If you’d be so kind,’ and they shuffle aside. There’s only the tiniest squeeze of a space but we manage to fit somehow.

‘You’re getting fat. What’s Mam feeding you, bricks?’

We laugh. No one ticks us off for making a noise. Indeed, we can hardly be heard over the commotion: shuffling of feet, rustling of petticoats, crunching of pork scratchings and gossiping about how grand the display was last time and how it can’t possibly be as good tonight. I’m so a-jangle I’m going to burst.

‘Stop wriggling,’ he snaps. ‘If you don’t calm down I’ll shove you under the bench and you’ll see nothing.’

I am shocked into stone by the awful threat. My lip wobbles. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ he sighs. ‘I don’t mean it. Shush. The show is about to start.’

Expectation ripples through the both of us. A trumpet blares and a hundred suns shine forth, illuminating a new world. There is a gasp from the entire company. Even Gnome lets out a whistle. Cries of wonder rumble in my ears: Huzzah! Bravo! Best ever! Heels stamp, so thunderous the planks shake. Before us stretches a strange city towering with castles, parapets and battlements. Not Manchester, but a fairyland better and brighter than any of the stories told by Nana when Ma spares her to sit with me.

‘What’s happening?’ I whisper. ‘Where are we?’ I shrink into Gnome and he laughs.

‘We’re in Belle Vue!’

‘We can’t be. Look! When did they build all of that?’

‘Build all of what?’ says Gnome.

‘The castles.’

‘It’s a painting.’ He sniggers. ‘A new one every year and this is the best yet. You are a dimwit.’

Now that I look more carefully I can see it is a canvas banner: taller than two houses one on top of the other, longer than our street and riotous with colour. I gawp open-mouthed, bursting with gratitude that Gnome did not leave me at home.

‘As if I could,’ he says gently. ‘Anyway. Shut your trap. There’s a train coming.’

There’s a general shushing as a gaggle of men in scarlet uniforms charge across the platform, bayonets glinting in the torchlight. I can pick out the noble hero by his flamboyant gestures and clutching of his breast. His mouth opens. The wind is rather in the wrong direction, and I only catch the words spirit and devour, but no one minds terribly much and we applaud his brave speech all the same.

Cannons roar; mortars boom. Beams of electrical light fly back and forth, sharp as spears. Two vast ships heave into view, one from the right and one from the left. We cheer our jolly tars and boo the enemy, who are dressed as Turks. Their ship shatters like matchwood at the first assault and they pitch into the lake, yowling like cats. I watch them struggle to the shore and squelch up the bank, shivering. They’ll catch a chill and Lord knows what else from that mucky water.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Gnome. ‘They have sandwiches waiting.’

‘Is this the Relief of Mafeking or the Battle of the Nile?’ asks the lady beside us.

‘Who cares?’ says her companion, tugging his side-whiskers with gusto. ‘It’s a right good show, that’s what it is.’ He sweeps off his hat and waves it around his head. ‘Blow ’em to kingdom come!’ he cries.

The crowd shriek like demons and the fireworks answer in hellish agreement. The night sky of Manchester is wallpapered with flame. Spinning cartwheels roll on roads of fire and set the lake ablaze. I spy serpents and stars, Catherine wheels and Roman fountains. Rockets burst and bloom like flowers hurled into the heavens and rain down silver dust.

I look around. Lit by the flicker of firecrackers we have been transformed into demons: eye sockets pierced deep as death’s heads, black flared nostrils, teeth bared in rictus grins. The lady to our right moans and groans like a cow trying to give birth, or at least that’s what Gnome whispers in my ear. I titter at his naughty joke. No one hears my little scrap of laughter over the din. No one wags their finger and tells me to be a good girl. The realisation of such delicious liberty occurs to us both at the same time. Gnome’s eyes glitter, teeth sharp as a knife.

‘Come on. Make a racket.’

‘I can’t.’ He grabs the skin of my arm and twists. ‘Ow!’ I squeak. My skin burns as though he’s stubbed out a cigar. ‘Stop it, Gnome.’

‘Not till you scream. No one can hear you.’

In agreement, a barricade of bangers is let off. My stomach pitches and rolls.

‘Aah!’ I try, hard as I can. All that comes out is a feeble mewing.

‘Do you want me to pinch you black and blue?’ Gnome growls.

‘Aah!’ I cry, a bit louder.

‘More. Still can’t hear you.’

I am struck by the realisation that tonight will never come again. I will not be able to claw back so much as one second.

‘That’s right,’ says Gnome. ‘Drink every drop. Live every minute. Yell!’

My voice breaks out of my throat. ‘Aaaah!’

‘Yes! Open your cake-hole and let rip!’

I stretch my lips wide and shriek. Gnome joins in and together, our shouts punch holes in the clouds and soar to the stars.

‘Oh!’ he cries. ‘Wouldn’t it be grand to grab the tail of a rocket and fly all the way to the moon and live there and never come back?’

I think of my warm bed, the comforting arms of my grandmother, kind-hearted Uncle Arthur on his monthly visits. The thought of losing them makes my heart slide sideways.

‘Isn’t the moon awfully cold?’ I say nervously.

‘Not a bit. Don’t you ache to spread your wings?’

‘Do I have to?’

He waggles his hands in frustration. ‘Don’t you ache to be free?’

‘Free of what?’

‘Just once, I wish you weren’t such a stick-in-the-mud, Edie. I’m never able to do what I want. Always chained to you, shackled like a prisoner—’

The barrage of words finds its target and stings.

‘Oh,’ I say.

He frowns. ‘Dash it all, Edie, I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t take on so.’ But he does mean it, exactly like that. ‘Forget I spoke. I should hold my tongue.’

He makes amends by sticking out his tongue and pinching it tight. I try to smile, but it is not easy. I don’t understand how he can say such a cruel thing. I never demand that he come and play with me. I never force him to stay. If he finds me so tiresome, I don’t know why he insists on my company. It is confusing.

Gnome piggy-backs me home. He does not grumble, not once.

‘I thought you said I was as heavy as a hod of bricks,’ I mumble.

‘So you are. But I am strong as a bricklayer.’

I squeeze him so tight we can’t breathe. ‘Don’t leave me, Gnome. Not ever.’

He doesn’t answer; too busy hoisting me on to the roof of the outhouse, up the pipe and through the window. We tumble through, tickling each other and rolling on the floor like puppies.

‘Get into bed,’ chides Gnome, herding me towards the cot he hauled me out of such a short time before. ‘It’ll be light soon.’