Pinkerton's Sister by Peter Rushforth

Author:Peter Rushforth [Rushforth, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-59692-835-0
Publisher: M P Publishing Limited
Published: 2005-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

“… Still rolls, like them, the unfeeling river,”

– she squeakily intoned, drawing to a close –

“The guardian of his dust for ever.”

After what was clearly designed to be a moving pause – you could see her lips going as she counted up to ten – she bowed her head, with her hands folded in front of her eyes. Then she’d tried “The Wife of Asdrubal,” killing her children and perishing in the flames of the temple. (Alice had enjoyed this. The concept appealed enormously.) A count to ten. Head bowed. Eyes covered. Then she’d tried “He Never Smiled Again,” spoiling the intended effect by dissolving into giggles in mid-recitation. No. Not dissolving. The flesh involved was too too solid for dissolving, even in the most thunderous of downpours. On the occasion of the giggles, there was no count to ten, no bowed head, no covered eyes from Serenity. It was the audience who’d counted, bowed, covered, writhed. Whatever she’d tried, the results were always the same: audiences cramming yards of handkerchief into their mouths, falling off their seats, and struggling in vain to control their hilarity. It was as if Childe Roland – Myrtle Comstock’s fiancé – had convulsed Flanagan’s bar yet again by treating all its patrons to one of his celebrated impersonations of her Mama’s doggie’s farts, an unprecedentedly spectacular Chinky-Winky Krakatoa, one of those vein-bulging efforts that misted all the mirrors and rattled the light fittings. Myrtle sometimes described him as her “affianced” because she thought it sounded impressive, or, if in flirtatious mood (this, terrifying to witness, had been known to happen), as her amoroso (an understandably morose-looking amoroso). She did not know about Childe Roland’s contributions to the gaiety of Flanagan’s, a particularly rowdy bar, blinding with electric lights and acres of beveled glass, all of it imperiled when he let fly. This heady scent of danger set Childe Roland’s pulse racing.

Sobriety Goodchild and – er – Mrs. Sobriety Goodchild (Alice was not sure whether or not she had ever been allocated a Christian name), Serenity’s ambitious parents, and the Reverend and Mrs. Goodchild (who pinned on their Schiffendecken’s Grins like badges), the even more ambitious grandparents, had to rethink their strategy. They were prominent amongst the humorless of Longfellow Park, but decided to abandon attempts at serious declamation (Longfellow Park was clearly not in a mood to be harrowed), and demonstrate their well-hidden depths of chucklesomeness. The four of them trained Serenity to perform a whole series of nightmarish comic recitations, and sat there beaming with isn’t-she-just-adorable? expressions on their faces as she was launched into action.

“Isn’t-she-just-adorable?” was a question soon answered.

Serenity’s version of “Only a ’Ittle Dirly Dirl” would have had Herod leaping into enthusiastic action, elbowing his soldiers aside so that he’d be the first in line for lopping. Dressed in a many-layered pink dress, a frog in frills (once seen, never forgotten, and – my God! – how you tried to forget), and with much roguish rolling of eyes, simpering winsomely

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