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