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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
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
Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com
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Source ISBN: 9780008166137
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008166120
Version: 2018-02-12
For Manchester
and all the wanderers who have found a home
in this Rainy City
All things must change to something new,
to something strange.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
Kéramos
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Manchester: August 1894
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
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Rosie Garland
About the Publisher
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.
