Angel of Brooklyn (7 page)

‘So, what’s going to happen to you?’ said Jonathan. ‘Am I going to make a fortune? Are you going to have half a dozen children?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ she said, looking over her shoulder. ‘She talked to me in riddles.’

‘Bonfires,’ Jeffrey mused. ‘Now, I’m not saying I don’t like them …’

‘We’re having salmon,’ said Ada. ‘I hope you all like salmon.’

They’d met up again as planned, in the back room of the Sand Pilot, where the landlord laid on supper. The men were drinking beer, leaning against the bar, joking with the barmaid, a lively-looking redhead who had heard it all before.

‘Just look at them,’ said Madge, tutting.

The girls pushed their chairs together, giggling, secretly watching their husbands through compact mirrors, sipping light ale and comparing souvenirs.

‘Look at my Frank,’ said Madge. ‘His face is as red as her hair. He’s smitten.’

‘He’s drunk,’ giggled Lizzie. ‘They all are. Remember last year? Tom nearly broke his leg falling from the bus.’

Ada leaned back and looked towards Beatrice. She took a long slow sip of ale, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘And last year,’ she said, ‘you were still in your America.’

‘Yes, I was there selling postcards and cheap souvenirs.’

‘And now you’re buying them,’ said Madge, laughing.

The supper had been set across a table at the back of the room. The children had been taken into the parlour. People stood around clutching their plates and talking about their day.
We played the amusements. Won a bat and ball. Lost a small fortune. Lost my stomach on the roller coaster. Found a beetle in a pie. Fully stewed it was
. More beer was poured, and then there was a lull until Jim started singing, in a good baritone voice, ‘Lily of Laguna’.
She’s my lady love, She is my dove
,
my
baby love
. Slowly, other voices joined in. They sang the song again. Beatrice was swaying, Jonathan’s hand on her shoulder.
I know she likes me. I know she likes me, Because she says so
.

It was a clear night as Coleman drove them home. He was happy. He’d had a good day. A woman called Nelly had complimented him on his very fine moustache, and so he’d smiled back, and bought her a few drinks. And now her address was tucked safely inside his pocket. They were making good time. The bus was in one piece, no one was fighting, and the one or two who might be the worse for wear had their wives to clean them up.

The singing continued as the moonlight fell across their faces, and the world around them was white; it was shining.

TEN (OR MORE) TRUE THINGS

1. Soap

WHEN BEATRICE LYLE
was eight years old, a representative from Godfrey Beauty Products of Chicago knocked on the door with thin sweaty hands and a contract in his valise. Pulling at his collar, he looked at the sky, which was just beginning to cloud over. He looked at his brand-new shoes which were already starting to pinch. He had his fingers crossed. A well-rehearsed smile.

‘A very good afternoon to you, sir! Might I introduce myself?’

Godfrey Beauty Products of Chicago wanted little Beatrice Lyle, with her butter-blonde ringlets (courtesy of Joanna), to be painted by a reputable artist, and used to advertise their Purest Honeysuckle Soap.

‘Beatrice on a soapbox?’ Her father was sceptical, but he couldn’t help feeling flattered. He invited the man inside. ‘Come on into the parlour,’ he said. ‘Take the weight off your feet. Soap you say?’

The man followed him inside. ‘That’s right,’ he said, grateful for the chair. ‘Our prize-winning soap is transported throughout the USA.’

‘And you’ve come from Chicago?’

‘Yes, sir, indeed I have, I arrived here this morning, fresh from the train.’

‘So when did you see my daughter?’

‘Sir, we have scouts all over the state of Illinois, looking for the right faces for our products.’

‘And what’s in it for me?’

‘You?’ The man sat back in his seat and rubbed his forehead. He scratched at the side of his chin, which after being on the road was just beginning to prickle. ‘A small monetary remuneration. You also get to keep the painting. How about that? Something money can’t buy. Not exactly. Not an everyday kind of thing. An image of your girl. Think
about
it. It would look terrific on your parlour wall. It might brighten the place up a little?’ He swallowed, suddenly noticing all the beady eyes. Did the bird in the corner just blink? He loosened up his collar. ‘Yes, sir,’ he coughed. ‘We’ll have it professionally framed, at no cost to yourself. And of course, your daughter will be seen all over the States. It could be the start of something big.’

Mr Lyle shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Honeysuckle soap,’ said the man. ‘It’s a pure and innocent product.’

‘I’m not interested in soap.’

The man looked him in the eye. There were small black feathers sitting in his hair. Another one was flickering, just above his eyebrow.

‘I could up the price a little. How about a year’s free supply of our finest shampoo?’

‘No.’

‘Hand cream? Dusting powder? Hair balm?’

‘I said no.’ Her father drummed down his fist on the table, which the man noticed was covered in what appeared to be streaks of dried blood. In the opposite corner, a buzzard (one of his earlier, least successful attempts) glared down at him with what appeared to be menace, but which was, in fact, a very crooked eye.

‘Well, thanks very much for your time,’ said the man, quickly pushing back his chair and groping for his hat. ‘Yes, sir, time’s a precious thing and I appreciate it. I really, really do.’

Godfrey Beauty Products of Chicago didn’t get Beatrice Lyle. After seeing three other little girls from their scout’s list (one had a very pushy mother, one on closer inspection had bags under her eyes, and the other was dying of diphtheria), they decided to use a dog. For the next fifteen years, the face of Purest Honeysuckle Soap was a sloppy doe-eyed golden retriever called Rex.

2. Birthday

Beatrice Lyle was born on 19 April 1891 at 11.25 a.m. Every year her father would give her a card illustrated by the natural-history artist George Edwards. It would usually contain a small amount of money. This card would be handed to her with a smile that often looked more like an accusation than anything well meant. Beatrice kept the cards
inside
a shoebox. Her favourite was the Blue Flycatcher from Suriname. Her least favourite was the Brazilian Jacupema of Marggrave. It reminded her of a very strict aunt. She usually spent the money on notebooks and candy, which she shared with Elijah. She never had a party, or a birthday cake.

3. Be Careful

‘You talk in your sleep.’

A lightning storm had sent her scurrying into her brother’s room, which was in fact more frightening than her own, with its stark white walls, and its picture of Christ and the Devil, which lit up with every flash. But at least she wasn’t alone.

‘I do not.’

‘You do.’

‘So what is it that I say?’ ‘Mumblings,’ he told her. ‘A whole series of mumblings.
I can’t. It’s somewhere. But I really don’t like it
.’

‘Am I loud?’ she asked, pulling on her lips.

‘Not loud, but it’s annoying all the same. Last night I covered my head with my pillow, and when that didn’t work, I stuffed handkerchiefs into my ears, but they kept on falling out, so I just prayed to the Lord for guidance.’

‘And what did He say?’

‘He told me to sleep in another room, but I couldn’t be bothered to move.’

4. Gold Buttons

On her tenth birthday, just after her father had given her the card (of Kin to the Wheat) and the very thin smile, Beatrice Lyle decided that she’d had enough of the birds and the stares, and she wanted to live in a house like her best friend Bethan Carter, who lived right next to the main road, had four noisy brothers, a dog, a Dutch rabbit, and a mother who had a sweet tooth, waddled when she walked and, best of all, always looked happy. Even when she was cross, she was very nearly smiling. Scolding, her mouth would be set tight, but her eyes would
be
saying something else.
I’m your mama, I have to shout, I’m shouting because I love you all to bits, and I want you to grow into good decent citizens, so forgive me
.

Their father was a quiet man, who chuckled at the funnies in the paper. He ran a small grocery store, and he’d come home exhausted, smelling of bacon, his pockets full of stale but edible candy.

There was nothing like this for Beatrice. What did she have at home? Joanna was busy planning her future with Cormac, her father slept in the outhouse most nights, and Elijah had taken to wearing dog collars made out of cardboard cut from a cracker box.

Is it any wonder that I want to get away?
she wrote in her small, five-cent notebook.
Is there anything less normal, in Normal, than these Lyles?

Inside the birthday card was a more than generous dollar bill. (Her father had run out of small change, and was in the middle of a delicate piece of neck wiring.) That afternoon, while Joanna was swooning over Cormac and his runner beans, Beatrice packed a small bag and stepped out of the gate and onto the sidewalk, heading for the sunshine.

She walked for (what felt like) at least half an hour. She smiled at passers-by, her head held high, as if she knew exactly where she was going. Outside Bethan Carter’s house, she hesitated. It had always been something of a dream of hers to be invited in for supper, then a sleepover, a good wholesome breakfast, then what the heck, you might as well move in here, and we’re sure your pa won’t mind, he’ll be happy, knowing you’ll be happy, and hey, we’re only down the road, you can see him all the time. We’ll get a spare mattress, and you can squeeze in next to Bethan. On Wednesdays it will be your turn to clean out Trix the rabbit. Do you like chocolate pudding? We always have chocolate pudding on a Saturday.

The house looked empty. There was an old toy rabbit on the swing in the yard. It had an ear missing. It made her think about the birds. The gate was banging in the breeze, and suddenly, the house looked different. It looked small and dark. Frightening. Some of the shutters were broken. She took a long breath and carried on walking. Something would turn up.

On Beaufort Street, builders working on the new houses shouted down at her and waved. Beatrice looked straight ahead, wondering what the time was. She read notices in store windows. Perhaps she could find herself a job? She could sweep out yards and doorways, she
made
a good neat bed, she was sure that somebody, somewhere in town could use her for something, but most of these notices were old, the jobs long gone (‘maid wanted’, ‘gardener required’), or they advertised beetle drives, and thrift-store sales, the proceeds going to charity. By this time she was hungry. The stores were closing. Martin Hoffmann the baker had run out of bread.

‘Are you lost?’ said a voice. She looked round. She certainly felt lost. She’d never been in this part of town before. Here, the streets were narrow, and the stores sold things with names that looked foreign.

‘I’m not exactly sure,’ she said, reading a sign for freshly pickled sauerkraut. The man appeared friendly. He had a large white smile. He had gold buttons on his coat. Bushy grey hair.

‘You looking at my buttons?’ he grinned. ‘Twenty-four of them. Two on each collar. Pretty, ain’t they?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Beatrice, who’d always been told to address gentlemen as ‘sir’, especially those she didn’t know at all.

‘How old are you, and what is your name?’

‘I’m Beatrice Lyle and I’m ten years old today.’

‘Congratulations. Have you lost your party?’ he asked, looking over her shoulder. He had a round flabby face, and Beatrice could see his jowls flapping when he moved his head quickly. His eyes were blue and icy, and pink around the edges, but they looked kind enough.

‘Oh, I never have a party,’ she told him, suddenly feeling a little sorry for herself. Didn’t Bethan Carter have a party every year, with jugs of lemonade, boisterous games and coffee cake?

‘That’s too bad,’ he said. ‘So where are you going with that little bag and purse, looking all lost and sorry, and far too forlorn for a very pretty girl who’s only just turned ten?’

‘Somewhere else?’ she said, because, of course, she had no idea where she would really end up that night, though she did think that her luck might be changing, because perhaps this gentleman might give her some employment? He certainly looked rich enough, with all his gold buttons, so he might own a store, or a place that made things, or have a large house she could clean?

‘Aha, you’re running away from home,’ he said, as if he knew all about it, because perhaps he’d done it himself a few times?

‘Yes, sir, I am.’

‘Hungry?’

‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘I do have a whole dollar, but everywhere seems to be closed.’

‘Not to worry. I live around the corner. I could help you out.’

‘You could?’

‘Absolutely. Follow me.’

And so she did. Now, how many times had Joanna drummed it into her head, never to go off with strangers? Yet now she’d left home, she supposed it didn’t count, because if you never went off with strangers, how could you meet new people? And what was it Elijah was always saying? Strangers are just friends I haven’t yet met. Perhaps this time he was right.

The man walked with a shuffle, slowly dragging his left leg. Beatrice wondered if he’d been injured in a war, like her uncle Sonny who now had to keep his right arm strapped tightly to his chest, like a large broken wing.

‘It’s a small place,’ the man said, ‘but it’s comfortable.’

They walked down streets where the buildings looked empty. But the man was whistling and the sun was still shining, so Beatrice didn’t feel afraid. She could hear some children laughing; the light whirring bell from a bicycle.

At a dark green door (paint peeling, numbers hanging crooked, like a warning), the man started rooting for his keys. Beatrice took a step backwards, suddenly wondering if this was such a good idea after all. What did she know about him? Perhaps he was fond of taxidermy too. His rooms might be stuffed with even more animals than the rooms she’d left at home.