The Night Brother. Rosie Garland

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      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ