‘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 I’m going to burst.
‘Stop wriggling,’ he snaps. ‘If you don’t calm down I’ll shove you under the bench and you’ll see nothing.’
I 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