The Night Brother. Rosie Garland

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      ‘Shitty-arsed cow!’ I yell.

      No one threatens to wash out my mouth with soap. The carters chuckle at my impertinence. I nudge my companion encouragingly. He combs grubby fingers through his hair so that it stands up in an exclamation mark, eyes wide with the realisation that no one’s about to thump better manners into him either.

      ‘Shitty-arsed cow,’ he whispers all in a rush, in case time runs out on insolence and he is called to account.

      The little ’uns screw their heads around from the marionettes and gawk at us.

      ‘Go on,’ I say, thumbing my lapels. ‘You can shout as loud as you like.’

      One girl shakes her head. She fusses with the hem of her pinafore, revealing stockings going weak at the knees. We don’t need her. The rest take my lead, in cautious disbelief at first, then louder, till the whole cats’ chorus are yowling: Shitty-arsed cow, shitty-arsed cow. I am their bandleader, stamping out the rhythm of the words as we parade in a circle. Some bang invisible drums, some clash cymbals, some thrust trombones out and in and out again, all to the tune of shitty-arsed cow, shitty-arsed cow. I am so swept up in the cavalcade that my devotee has to tug my sleeve three times before I take notice.

      ‘Look,’ he says, pointing.

      ‘What? Don’t stop now. We are having such larks.’ I holler shitty-arsed cow for good measure.

      ‘No, look,’ he repeats.

      The puppets have been joined by their master, a scrawny man with a nose the shape and size of a King Edward’s, face curdled with bile. He rams Judy face down on to the shelf at the front of the booth and thrashes her with such force that plaster brains tumble like rice.

      ‘Turd! Turd!’ he shrieks, spittle flying from drawn-back lips.

      ‘Turd,’ I snicker. ‘He said turd.’

      Judy slumps, arms drooping over the cloth. Punch’s red coat hangs in shreds, the whole of his hump and half his knobbled cap broken away. The backdrop tangles around the puppeteer’s arm but he continues to whack the puppets against each other, screaming obscenity after obscenity.

      ‘Look at the mess he’s making,’ gasps the boy. ‘Shouldn’t we tell somebody?’

      I shrug. I don’t care if he drags the whole tent around his ears. I don’t care if he pulps the puppets into glue and the children bawl their eyes out. Mayhem is my meat and drink.

      ‘Stop being such a little prig,’ I snap. ‘This is the most fun I’ve had in an age.’

      It’s only when every infant is wailing that the drovers put down their pipes and pile in. They cart off the puppet-master, still yelling filth. This must be the best, most roisterous, boisterous night known to man or boy.

      I am encircled by dirty faces, agog for the next game. I am so engaged with racking my brains that I do not notice the bigger lads until I’m surrounded. One by one my midget congregation melt away, leaving me alone with this new gang. At first they ignore me, busy punching each other in a comradely fashion, although one of them strikes with far more vicious intent than the others. I’m glad he’s not whacking me. Though not the tallest, he carries the mantle of king upon his shoulders. He also wears a black eye like a campaign medal.

      ‘That’s some shiner you’ve got there, Reg,’ says a lad with a face like a ferret and hair to match.

      ‘It is indeed, Wilfred,’ says Reg.

      Quicker than a bolt of lightning, Reg thumps Wilfred in the guts. He doubles over, wheezing. No one dares go to their comrade’s aid, for fear they’ll be next in line for similar treatment.

      Reg chuckles, the sound of a dog being strangled. ‘You should see the other fellow.’

      The gang snigger timidly and I join in. It is a mistake. Reg twists his head in my direction.

      ‘Who are you, pipsqueak?’ he says, legs apart, hands deep in his pockets and pushing out the front of his trousers.

      ‘I’m Gnome, that’s who I am,’ I say with as much of a swagger as I can muster.

      He grins, his teeth sharp and grimy. ‘Where did you crawl in from? Never seen you before.’

      ‘You have,’ I snort. ‘Here every night, so I am.’

      ‘Are you now?’ he replies. He turns to his companions, who form a circle. ‘He says he’s here every night.’ They snicker, sharing the joke I am not privy to. The ring of bodies tightens. ‘I’m in charge here,’ Reg declares. ‘Time for you to step away, and step lively.’

      ‘Don’t see why I should,’ I reply, fists in my britches. He’s not the only one who can thrust out his nackers.

      Wilfred lurches forward. ‘How dare you talk to Reg like that,’ he snarls, still cringing from the blow he received from the man in question.

      I wither him with a pitying glance. Poor sap, if he thinks having a pop at me will restore him to his master’s good books. His face reddens.

      ‘You little—’ he growls, aiming a punch. ‘Show some respect!’

      I duck, quickly enough to avoid a broken nose, too slow to save my cap from being knocked off. Curls tumble as far as my shoulders. There’s a pause. I retrieve my hat from the cobbles, shove it back on my head.

      ‘My my,’ says Wilfred, whistling appreciatively. ‘What have we here?’

      ‘Don’t know what you mean,’ I grunt, tucking away hanks of hair.

      ‘You’re a girl!’ he hoots.

      ‘Don’t talk soft,’ I reply with a snort of derision. I turn to Reg. ‘Are all your lot this daft?’

      It is another mistake.

      ‘Wilf’s got a point, for once,’ says Reg. Wilfred preens in the glow of approval. ‘Maybe you are a girl.’

      ‘I’m bloody not.’ I hawk and spit. My mouth is dry and I barely make a mark.

      ‘Let’s have a better look at you,’ Reg murmurs, stepping close. I smell gin, so strong and thick you could wring him like a dishcloth straight into the bottle. He grabs one of my ringlets and rubs it between his fingers. ‘I declare. You’re a proper Bubbles.’

      ‘Don’t call me that.’

      ‘Bubbles!’ squawks Wilfred.

      ‘Shut up!’ I cry.

      ‘I’ll call you what I like,’ leers Reg. ‘You’re a genuine, certified Pears advertisement.’

      He circles his thumb and forefinger and blows through the hole. Another chap cracks the brim of his boater, conjuring it into a makeshift bonnet and puckering his lips for a kiss. Another picks up the hem of an imaginary skirt and prances around me. One after the other, they join in the pantomime.

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