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.’
I
