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, bec
ause 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.
‘Are you coming inside?’ he asked, his voice a little gruff, his cheeks a little pinker. ‘You can’t walk the streets for the rest of your life with nothing but a dollar.’
‘I suppose not,’ she admitted, looking at her boots.
It was dark inside the lobby, and it took a little while for her eyes to start adjusting to the light that came flickering from a small hissing gas jet just above their heads. There was a staircase in front of them. Torn burgundy carpet. The stale air carried the scent of raw onions, dead flowers and the smell that often sits inside your shoes.
‘I think I’ll be heading back now,’ swallowed Beatrice.
The man clicked the door shut. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I won’t hear of it. You’re here now. You might as well stay for five minutes. I’ll get you a drink. A little bite to eat.’
‘I’m not very hungry after all.’
‘But I won’t take no for an answer,’ he said, sounding like her father, pressing his hand into the small of her back, and pushing her forwards. ‘I have macaroons. I have Danish sultana cake and muffins.’
‘They’ll wonder where I am.’
‘Let them,’ he said, waving his chubby hand. ‘Isn’t that why you ran away from home in the first place, to make them fret a little?’
He guided her into a room on the right-hand side of the staircase. She could feel all his fingers, tapping on her ribcage.
‘Home sweet home,’ he puffed, throwing his keys onto a table. Beatrice stood stock-still and stared. The room was crumbling. The walls were so full of cracks they looked like complicated wallpaper patterns. A table was covered in dirty crockery, cigar butts and an assortment of dirty drinking vessels. Holding her breath, she squeezed her purse tight.
‘No woman’s touch,’ he said, batting away a bluebottle. ‘Don’t let the debris spoil your appetite. The food I am offering you is fresh; it’s still in paper bags and smelling of the bakery.’
‘No thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m not hungry. I don’t think I ever really was. The thing is, when someone mentions food, you just think that you’re hungry, but I know now for a fact that I’m not, and my brother, he’s told me that fasting is good for the soul, and it does you no harm in moderation, and when I think about it, I’ve probably eaten far too much food in my life already, and I –’
‘Enough!’ the man shouted. Then he smiled, his dentures, though a little loose, were a brilliant shade of white. ‘Now I think we need to wash before we eat anything, don’t you? I propose that you take off all your dusty clothes and shake them out, and I’ve some lovely buttermilk soap that will take away all those fetid smells of the day. Do you like buttermilk soap?’
She nodded. Her lips were so glued together, and her teeth were clenched so tight they were almost in danger of crumbling.
‘Whilst you are removing your things, I will go and run the faucet,’ he said, lips twitching, shrugging off his jacket with the twenty-four gold buttons, two on each collar. ‘It’s nice to feel refreshed, especially after such a long walk as you’ve had. The dust can get everywhere. It can find its way into every crack and cranny.’
As soon as he’d gone into the other room, Beatrice tried the sitting-room door. Of course it was locked. She could hear him whistling again, running the water and moving around. She tried the handle both ways. She pushed and pulled it. Nothing. Then the water stopped.
‘Are you ready?’ he called, in a high-pitched sing-song voice.
‘Not quite,’ she managed. ‘Just a few more minutes.’
‘All right, slowcoach. Then I will start without you.’
Quickly, she scanned the table. Ashtrays. Coffee cups. A saucer full of fingernails. There were ketchup bottles. Spent matches. Trails of loose tobacco. And there, beside a leaflet headed ‘Great New Inventions’, were the keys.
She took them. Fumbling, she pushed the first into the lock, but it was too big. The second key turned, but he’d heard her.
‘Where are you going?’ he shouted, half lurching out to her, but by this time, she was out of the door, her legs like jelly, but they could sprint, and the front door was now unlocked, and he was too big, and old, and his trousers were caught around his ankles.
She ran. The sidewalk bounced beneath her feet. Down the narrow streets, past houses with boys sitting on window frames, churches, closed stores, the cannery. Finally, she slowed, bent at the waist, retching into the gutter. Had he followed her? All she could see was a man with his horse, and a dog sniffing hard at some railings.
She was in Fennel Street. It was close to home. She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. The clock was chiming six. She’d only been gone an hour.
‘Where’ve you been?’ said Joanna. ‘I made you some cookies. Your father has gone to see a man about a dead squirrel but Elijah’s been waiting. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Cormac brought you some flowers. I’ve put them in your room.’
It was only when she saw the flowers, pink and white, standing in the jug that she began to cry. Her whole body ached with it. She’d had a lucky escape. Running away was dangerous. Especially on your birthday. She’d be careful next time. Plan it all out. That night she dreamed about the buttons.
5. Allergy
Beatrice Lyle was allergic to goat’s cheese.
6. Amethyst Rings
One of Beatrice’s favourite relations was Aunt Jess Simpson, her mother’s younger sister. Aunt Jess lived with her friend Alicia Wellaby in Springfield, Illinois. She had never married. The first time that Beatrice met her, she wanted to ask a whole lot of questions about her mother. She’d written a list and memorised it. Had she liked dancing? Was she a naughty child, or a good one? Had she been a skilled seamstress, or just as bad at sewing as Beatrice? Had she liked children? Would she have liked her? Did she fervently believe in God? How did she find and fall in love with her father? Was she allergic to goat’s cheese? In the end, Beatrice, who had been given coffee to drink for the very first time, was too jumpy with caffeine to mention her mother at all. And Jess didn’t either. So Beatrice spent the afternoon with her aunt, and her friend Alicia Wellaby, playing old maid, wondering how the two women were connected, why they wore identical amethyst rings, and called each other ‘My lovely’.
7. Scar
‘It wasn’t my fault, the knife just slipped.’
‘Onto your sister?’ said Joanna.
‘She was standing too close. She was nudging into my arm.’
‘It was deep. It needed three stitches. Dr Jarman’s coat was covered in her blood.’
‘It did look messy.’
‘You’ve scarred her for life.’
‘The bottom of her thumb? Who will see that?’
‘People look at hands all the time.’
‘I’ll save up. I’ll buy her some gloves.’
‘She has three pairs already.’
‘I’ll pray for it to heal quickly. I’ll ask Him for forgiveness.’
‘Never mind Him. What about her?’
‘She can pray too. Two prayers are always better than one,’ said Elijah. ‘And I’m sure He won’t mind, if she doesn’t put her hands together. At least not for a while. Not in the circumstances.’
8. School
Beatrice and Elijah attended Bloomington School, on South Street.
Beatrice would turn left into the entrance marked GIRLS, leaving Elijah to Mr Harland and the large rowdy classroom their father had once been so familiar with. (His framed picture of Jesse Fell, ‘founding father’ of Normal, still hung beside a map of North America and an illustrated account of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.)
Beatrice sat beside Bethan Carter and in front of Norah Billings who was the niece of Miss Billings the teacher and who could get away with murder. Norah Billings liked dipping Beatrice’s braids into her pot of black ink. Beatrice pretended to like it.
‘It’s an unusual shade and it makes them look distinguished, don’t you think?’ she’d say to Bethan, when Norah was close by. ‘And I have heard that ink is as good as almond oil for giving it a shine.’
Soon after, Beatrice was summoned to the headmaster’s office, where Mrs Billings and a red-eyed snivelling Norah were already waiting. Norah’s head was covered in her mother’s Sunday shawl.
Angel of Brooklyn Page 6
