The Life of a Teenage Body-snatcher

by Doug MacLeod

  CHAPTER 5

  Now that John has left home, I live with my mother on The Beaufort Estate. Our house is not fully finished and has been in this state for a decade. Mr Brook, the builder and developer responsible for it (and indeed the other sixty-two houses on The Beaufort Estate) abandoned the project and escaped to Tahiti with all the money he’d been paid, in order to paint topless women. We never saw Brook again.

  Our house looks pleasingly bland in the English tradition, as do the other houses. They are so identical that we regularly receive visits from confused neighbours, believing that our house is theirs. We have made many new friends this way. The streets are of pressed earth, not cobblestone, even though we have paid for them. There are supposed to be gas streetlamps, for which we have also paid, but these too have not been forthcoming. Neither have the drains been completed. Heavy rainfalls turn the streets into sludge. None of this bothers my mother as much as her recent discovery that ‘Beaufort’ is a French word. She is concerned that the name might lower property values and attract pickpockets. Consequently, she is lobbying to have it changed.

  Mother is reading in the parlour when I arrive after my night with Plenitude. She barely looks up when I enter the room, engrossed as she is in a novel by her favourite author, Aubrey Wilks, whose gaudy fantasies are currently enthralling women from one end of the country to the other.

  I once tried to read an Aubrey Wilks book, but it was not to my taste, with far too much emphasis on dresses and hairstyles. I will stick to reading Shakespeare and The Lancet, a new medical journal. (Mother thinks it indecent because a recent issue contained a cross-section of the human knee.)

  ‘Hello. Is it Thomas?’ Mother looks up from her book. Her face has that slightly dazed expression I’ve come to know so well. I notice the half-finished cup of laudanum on the side-table.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I say.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I had rather a busy night. I went to London.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘London, the capital of England?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to London?’

  ‘I thought I did.’

  ‘I will have to look in my journal.’

  Mother’s memory has become so bad that she has taken to writing every event of the day in her journals, of which there is a rapidly growing library. She puts down her Aubrey Wilks and picks up volume twenty-seven. She turns to the appropriate page and reads.

  ‘We had lamb for dinner,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘Mrs Dunwoody made a jelly.’

  ‘Also correct.’

  ‘I reprimanded her because I didn’t like the shape.’

  ‘You thought it indecent.’

  Mother closes her journal and places it on the side-table. ‘There is certainly no mention of London. Why did you go?’

  ‘I have a very close friend, Bunton, who is ill.’

  ‘I’ve never heard you mention Bunton before.’

  ‘He doesn’t like it when people talk about him.’

  ‘Is he a criminal?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Goodness. Is he French?’

  My mother has an overactive imagination that compels me to concoct the occasional nonsense myself.

  ‘No, Mother. Bunton is Maltese.’

  ‘How perfectly dreadful for him.’

  ‘Malta’s English now.’

  ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘Quite recently.’

  ‘Thomas, you really must tell me when these things happen.’

  ‘You could read a newspaper.’

  ‘You know I can’t abide newspapers. Your father, may God rest his soul, was my prime source of information on world affairs. Every morning at breakfast he would give me a commentary on the latest wars, scandals and natural disasters. It was a delightful way to start the day and one of the few times I enjoyed his company.’

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t speak ill of Father. It seems unfair, since he cannot respond.’

  ‘He was a bank manager. Many people spoke ill of him. No doubt some of them still do. But tell me, what is wrong with your friend Bunton?’

  ‘He has … Dutch quinsy.’

  ‘That sounds ghastly.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to make further notes in my journal.’

  Mother reaches for volume twenty-seven and starts to write.

  ‘How did this conversation start?’ she asks.

  ‘You asked if I was Thomas.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said I was.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Mother, I’m most terribly late for school and I really shouldn’t linger.’

  ‘What time is it exactly?’

  I automatically reach for my fob watch then remember I am not wearing my own clothes.

  ‘It is noon, Mother.’

  ‘Then you must go. Incidentally, the ladies from the literary circle are visiting tonight.’

  ‘Even Mrs Tilley?’ I say, trying to hide my distaste.

  ‘Especially Mrs Tilley,’ Mother replies. She drains her cup.

  ‘You won’t have too much medicine today, will you?’ I say, adopting an air of mild rebuke.

  ‘Now now, don’t nag. You sound like your dear, late grandfather. I do think it was a lovely service yesterday, don’t you?’

  ‘Very moving.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe that such a vibrant man is now resting in the grounds of St Martin’s.’

  ‘It’s very hard to believe.’

  Mother dabs at a tear. ‘I hope you don’t feel – disappointed – about your inheritance.’

  ‘I’m more than happy with the fine property Grandfather left me.’

  ‘But it’s in Scotland. It might as well be the moon.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll visit often.’

  ‘Your brother John fared rather better. You don’t mind that he inherited the house in town?’

  ‘I don’t like the house. John is fond of it so I’m glad he has it.’

  ‘I thought to challenge it. But how could I deny the terms of my father-in-law’s will?’

  ‘You did, Mother. Grandfather requested distinctly that his body be left to science.’

  ‘Well, clearly I couldn’t allow that. The family had already paid for his plot.’

  Mother settles back in her chair, looking far too relaxed.

  ‘Thomas, there is something you should know about your grandfather. James was a fine man, but towards the end … his mind began to fail. He seemed to resent my daily visits to his practice, when I would make him feel useful by asking him to write prescriptions. I will be blunt with you. He accused me – his own daughter-in-law – of being a drug addict.’

  ‘You are addicted to laudanum. And laudanum is a drug.’

  ‘Nonsense. It comes from flowers. What could be more natural?’

  ‘I wish you would stop taking it,’ I persist. ‘I doubt it has any medicinal benefits whatever.’

  Mother sighs. ‘I knew it was a mistake to give you the same name as that silly apostle who stuck his hand in Jesus, but your father insisted. And it seems you have become a doubting Thomas after all.’

  Mother gives up on trying to record our conversation in her journal. She puts it down and picks up her Aubrey Wilks. I leave for school.

  A bell tolls to signal the end of lunch hour at Wishall Grammar School, a grotesque and vast redbrick building in the finest empirical tradition. I file into class with my fellows. We are all dressed alike in boaters and striped jackets, a uniform that looks charming on the younger boys but frankly ridiculous on those over the age of twelve. I risk being disciplined for my late arrival, but this afternoon we have mathematics class and I am reluctant to miss it. To become a good doctor and assist mankind, my knowledge of mathematics must be thorough.

  I sit next to m
y best friend Charlie Callow. His red hair is probably his most striking feature. He is good company and highly accomplished at the game of marbles. Our mathematics master, Mr Atkins, finds Charlie annoying and whips him for the simplest transgressions, such as blowing his nose too loudly. I always stick up for Charlie, which irritates Mr Atkins greatly.

  ‘Where were you this morning, Thomas?’ Charlie whispers.

  ‘It’s a long story, Charlie.’

  Mr Atkins suddenly looms over us. He probably thinks we are gossiping about girls or cricket.

  ‘Timewell, Callow, you seem to be having a conversation of great interest.’

  Charlie shrinks fearfully. ‘Not really, sir.’

  Mr Atkins is thinner than a conductor’s baton and appears to own only two pairs of trousers, both ghastly. One of his eyes is glass and it doesn’t seem well made. It keeps rolling in its socket, so that in the middle of a discourse with Mr Atkins you will suddenly find his left eye making an inspection of your shoes.

  ‘Well, your conversation must be interesting, since you are holding up the class by conducting it. Perhaps you’d like to share it with us?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Out the front of the class, Callow,’ says Mr Atkins, ‘since you seem so determined to be whipped.’

  Poor Charlie is yet again picked upon by Mr Atkins. I hate to see my best friend bullied.

  ‘I’d like to share the conversation,’ I say, standing.

  Mr Atkins’ glass eye rolls downward. ‘Would you, indeed, Master Timewell?’

  ‘Since you asked, sir, yes.’

  ‘Then by all means continue. You have the floor.’

  Mr Atkins’ sarcasm excites some of the more foolish boys, who know that such moments usually precede physical violence. I walk to the front and address all thirty boys in a straightforward manner.

  ‘Last night, while I was in the process of digging up my recently deceased grandfather for reasons that I shan’t bother you with, I encountered a body-snatcher. We formed an uneasy alliance. He and I took the body to London, where I was knocked unconscious by a man called Lucifer. Apparently my grandfather’s body fetched the price of ten pounds. I unwittingly earned half of it and will shortly donate it to the orphanage. On my return to Wishall, I was assaulted by a drunken lunatic with a broken bottle. I was lucky to escape serious injury, as I was naked at the time. Oh, I also encountered a prostitute. This is the conversation I was having with my friend Charles Callow. I apologise if I have bored you in any way.’

  I am whipped by Mr Atkins and told never to make up such vile stories again. It is a harsh whipping, too, with Mr Atkins standing some yards away, allowing himself to build momentum as he runs towards me and brandishes his favourite cane. As he lands each blow, I am silent, despite the pain. I will not give Mr Atkins the satisfaction that torturers seek.

  Soundly thrashed twelve times, I return to my desk and very slowly lower myself to the seat. I have spared Charlie his usual beating and he is aglow with gratitude.

  I ignore the pain and proceed to solve quadratic equations. Half an hour later, Charlie is whipped after all. Mr Atkins maintains that he was smirking. Like me, Charlie receives twelve of the best.

  I look forward to the day when I will make Mr Atkins pay for how he mistreats my friend. As it turns out, the day is closer than I realise.

  CHAPTER 6

  The members of the ladies’ literary circle are gathered in the parlour when I return from school. There are only three women in the circle, making it more of a triangle. Mother introduces me to Mrs Greenough and Mrs Tilley, even though we have met countless times.

  Mrs Dunwoody, the servant, proffers slices of pound cake to the ladies, who do their best to find her invisible. After cake is served, Mrs Dunwoody goes about her various chores. Today is Tuesday, which means that Mrs Dunwoody will shortly be clearing away the cobwebs from the ceiling.

  As usual, Mrs Tilley gives me more attention than I like.

  ‘You look well, Thomas,’ she says.

  I thank her for the compliment.

  ‘And how was your day?’

  ‘Very good, except I was whipped twelve times.’

  Mother and Mrs Greenough do not blink an eye and merely sip their laudanum, but Mrs Tilley looks horrified.

  ‘That seems rather a lot of lashes. What on earth did you do to deserve that?’

  ‘I told the truth.’

  ‘Never a good idea,’ says Mrs Tilley. ‘Were the whips across the backside?’

  ‘Yes, they were.’

  ‘How awful. Is it uncomfortable to sit?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  ‘I’m very glad you did. Whip wounds can become gangrenous if one is not careful. I must insist that I examine the wound. We should both repair to the bathroom.’ Mrs Tilley turns to my mother. ‘Phyllis, I trust you have no objection. I am a qualified nurse, after all.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ says Mother. ‘I do wish you’d stop saying that, Alice.’

  ‘Well, I’ve read about nurses.’

  ‘It isn’t the same as being properly trained.’

  ‘The heroine in Mr Wilks’ latest book had no medical training, and yet she managed to save an English soldier’s leg after he was speared by the Ashanti in Ghana.’

  ‘That’s a work of fiction,’ my mother says. ‘We are living in the real world.’

  I can see that even Mother doubts this as she says it.

  ‘Your hair is very long and shiny, Thomas,’ Mrs Tilley says. ‘And your fine jaw is more prominent by the day. Will you sit with us?’

  ‘I prefer to stand, Mrs Tilley.’

  ‘Of course. Your poor posterior. How brave you must be. Just like the handsome young soldier in the book, wouldn’t you say, Mrs Greenough?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue, I haven’t read it,’ she replies.

  ‘But we are here to discuss it, Ada,’ Mother chides. ‘Why did you bring the book if you haven’t read it?’

  ‘I thought I could make some interesting observations about the cover.’

  ‘It is a beautiful cover,’ Mother agrees.

  ‘Quite beautiful,’ says Mrs Tilley, gazing at me.

  ‘Before we discuss the book,’ Mother says, ‘I have the most marvellous news. Mr Aubrey Wilks himself is doing a tour of English towns and reading excerpts from his novels.’

  The three ladies are greatly excited.

  ‘He will be speaking at the Wishall Temperance Hall on Thursday,’ Mother says. ‘And we shall be there to worship at his feet.’

  ‘But Phyllis, does it not say in the Bible that we shall not worship graven idols?’ asks Mrs Greenough.

  My mother is rather prim about being picked up on a biblical passage, especially as it is from Leviticus, her favourite book.

  ‘Yes, it does say that, Ada, but I think you’ll find that the word “graven” means carved from wood or stone. I would be very surprised if Mr Wilks is carved from either. Shall we meet at the Temperance Hall at seven of the clock?’

  The ladies agree to meet.

  ‘I think temperance is a wonderful thing,’ says Mrs Greenough, pouring another cup of laudanum. ‘People who drink alcohol should be set on fire.’ (It is widely known that Mrs Greenough’s husband is a heavy drinker, as indeed is Mrs Greenough.)

  There is a knock at the door. Mother calls out to Mrs Dunwoody to answer it. Since I’m a matter of feet away from the door, and Mrs Dunwoody is up a ladder wielding a broom, I offer to answer it myself.

  ‘You spoil that woman, Thomas,’ Mother mutters into her cup. ‘You’ll give her ideas.’

  I open the door to see Plenitude, smiling and holding a brown paper parcel. He is dressed like a true gentleman, complete with top hat, which he doffs in respect to me, even though I must look less than overjoyed to see him.

  ‘I won’t come in,’ says Plenitude.

  ‘How did you know where I live?’ I ask.

  Plenitude ignores
my question and hands me the parcel.

  ‘Your clothes and your monkey cap. All nicely cleaned and pressed.’

  ‘I said you could keep them.’

  ‘How could I? They are such fine clothes.’

  ‘Then I thank you, Plenitude.’

  I unwrap the parcel. Plenitude has done a good job.

  My clothes look as new. But I notice the fob watch is missing.

  ‘I fear you have robbed me,’ I say.

  ‘Never. What are you talking about?’

  ‘My watch.’

  ‘Oh, that. I know where it is and it’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘Will you return it?’

  ‘I will. Don’t be so impatient. We have all the time in the world.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Gales of laughter come from within the house. I have never heard the ladies laugh so heartily. I later find out it is because Mrs Dunwoody has fallen from the ladder.

  ‘It’s a ladies’ literary circle,’ I explain to Plenitude, noticing his raised eyebrows.

  ‘They sound drunk.’

  ‘It’s laudanum,’ I say.

  Plenitude leans close. ‘Promise me you will never take laudanum for pleasure. It is not the cure-all that people will have you believe.’ There is great intensity in his pale blue eyes.

  ‘Plenitude, I have seen my mother drink the stuff then play with a ball of wool like a kitten for five hours. I have seen her utterly convinced that she is being chased around the house by King Ferdinand of Spain. I will never be a slave to opium.’

  ‘Good man. Here’s a present for you.’

  Plenitude holds out a black velvet bag. I am not surprised by what I discover within.

  ‘A resurrectionist’s spade,’ I say, inspecting the wooden tool.

  ‘She’s oak. Nothing but the best for you.’

  ‘This is very kind, but I don’t think I’ll have cause to use it.’

  ‘Of course you will. You’re coming out with me tonight.’

  It is not an order or a threat, just a statement of fact. I ask Plenitude to repeat himself, to make sure I’ve heard correctly.

  ‘We’re working tonight, my fine companion.’