Angel of Brooklyn by Janette Jenkins Page B

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