The Life of a Teenage Body-snatcher

by Doug MacLeod

  ‘You don’t seem much of a nancy-boy to me,’ says Mr Higgins.

  ‘Oh, I assure you I am.’

  CHAPTER 29

  John has made the unveiling of his portrait a special event. We are in the impressive yet sparsely decorated art gallery at Bradford Manor. A string quartet plays a repertoire of Handel, a German composer whom we allowed to become English, as we were deficient in this area. The gathering is select. John has few friends from school. Most of his associates tend to be adults who occupy influential positions in The East India Company. If they are concerned about his ridiculous youth, they do not show it.

  There are but twenty paintings adorning the massive walls. One is a stupendously bad landscape that strives to make Wishall look like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. There are elegant fountains instead of tawdry warehouses. There are enchanting winged children fluttering with harps, rather than the sailors that regularly urinate in Eildon Road.

  Next to the landscape is a picture of Mother as a young lady. It resembles the miniature in the locket given to me by Plenitude, and she is indeed beautiful. But I am greatly surprised and delighted by the picture alongside, which features a youthful Plenitude. He is even more handsome here than in the locket.

  Mother’s companions Mrs Greenough and Mrs Tilley have been invited, against John’s wishes. Mother has made him promise not to poison them. Mrs Greenough and Mrs Tilley eat tiny cucumber sandwiches that are being served by two charming children. But Mother is far too aggrieved to swallow slivers of cucumber. As I stand with John, admiring Plenitude’s portrait, Mother elbows me aside.

  ‘John, what on earth is that doing there? Hanging a picture of your late father shows a colossal lapse of taste. You know that I nurse less than fond memories of him. The painting certainly wasn’t there when I last visited. In fact, I thought the piece destroyed. I gave strict instructions to the framer, fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Fortunately, the framer disobeyed and kept it for himself,’ says John. ‘I had some dealings with him recently when I purchased the surround for my own portrait. At his workplace I was surprised to see an old picture captioned Thomas Timewell. It clearly wasn’t a representation of my own brother, but a family connection seemed indisputable. The framer said that the portrait was his very favourite thing and that he wouldn’t part with it for any money. Naturally, I soon changed his mind about that. I believe it’s a masterpiece.’

  ‘I don’t like it at all. John, I want you to take it down immediately.’

  Mother is joined by Mrs Greenough and Mrs Tilley. The charming children attempt to serve Mrs Greenough and Mrs Tilley more cucumber sandwiches, but the ladies wave them away.

  ‘What a thoroughly splendid portrait,’ says Mrs Tilley, admiring Plenitude’s picture. ‘Might I ask who this handsome gentleman is?’

  ‘My father,’ I reply.

  ‘You rarely speak of your late husband, Phyllis,’ Mrs Greenough says, in a chiding manner.

  ‘He was a bank manager who was trampled to death by a horse. What more is there to say?’

  As I study the picture, Mrs Tilley blows against the back of my neck in an effort to be playfully romantic, but she manages to spit a small piece of cucumber at me. Once I am sure that her exhalation is complete, I turn and glare, but the woman is oblivious.

  ‘Poor Thomas. All on your own,’ she coos. ‘Did you not find a companion for the night?’

  ‘She is late,’ I say.

  Not to be discouraged, Mrs Tilley gives me a tap with one of those fans that ladies seem able to produce magically from the air. One day I will work out how they do it.

  Mrs Greenough moves very close to the portrait of my father, so that her nose is almost touching the canvas. Before long, her nose is actually touching the canvas and she’s sniffing. I wonder if she has detected traces of residual alcohol in the pigment. She then backs away.

  ‘What is that object around his neck?’ Mrs Greenough asks.

  ‘Nothing of concern,’ Mother says. ‘I do wish that string quartet would stop playing. They are giving me a headache. Oh, they already have. Come, ladies, let us look at the landscape of Wishall again.’

  ‘We’ve already looked at it for half an hour,’ says Mrs Tilley. ‘It simply refuses to improve.’

  ‘It appears to be a stethoscope,’ says Mrs Greenough, not to be distracted. ‘He’s got a stethoscope around his neck.’

  ‘So he has,’ says Mrs Tilley. ‘Why would your late husband be wearing such a contraption?’

  ‘It must be to do with the bank,’ Mother says.

  ‘How do you use a stethoscope in a bank?’ Mrs Greenough asks.

  ‘I expect it helps when opening the safe,’ Mother says.

  ‘But surely if you’re the manager you would know the combination. You wouldn’t have to crack the safe, would you?’

  ‘Nothing my late husband did would surprise me. Take it down, John.’

  ‘No, Mother.’

  ‘I insist.’

  ‘No, Mother.’

  ‘Very well. I will fetch Mrs Dunwoody to take it down. At the moment she is digging a new privy in the yard.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Do we need a new privy in the yard?’

  ‘No, I just thought it a good idea to keep her hands busy. Mark my words, I will fetch Mrs Dunwoody and the painting will be removed and buried in the privy she has dug. I’d better instruct her to make it a large privy.’

  Mother dons her wrap and saunters off. John looks at me with a respect I rarely see.

  ‘I’m most grateful, Thomas, that you managed to quash the publication of the disgusting Atkins book.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without the help of my new darling. I do hope she arrives soon. You’ll be so grotesquely jealous it will be fun to see.’

  John fiddles with his gold cufflinks. ‘Thomas, your talk about charity made quite an impression on me.’

  ‘It did?’

  ‘You’re right, of course. Those that have much should give to those that don’t.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘You will be delighted to know that I have taken in some orphans.’

  ‘This is splendid news. How many?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Two hundred?’

  ‘No, just two. They’re over there, serving the cucumber sandwiches.’

  ‘Are you paying them?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Are you feeding them?’

  ‘Surely they can eat the leftover cucumber sandwiches. If there are no leftovers then it is their fault for not making enough.’

  ‘John, I don’t think you’ve quite got the grasp of this whole charity idea.’

  Before I can explain it to him, we are joined by Charlie Callow and a slender, red-haired girl carrying a violin.

  ‘Thomas, this is Myra Cruickshank,’ says Charlie. ‘Myra, Thomas Timewell is my best friend in the entire world.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Myra,’ I say.

  Myra smiles to reveal teeth that would turn a dentist’s thoughts to murder.

  ‘Hello, Thomas,’ says Myra, sweetly.

  ‘She’s in the string quartet.’ Charlie explains. ‘Myra is a violinist. She plays the violin.’

  Myra holds up her instrument, in case we haven’t fully understood.

  ‘I have just received the most wonderful news,’ says Charlie. ‘You know how fond I am of cats?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘When I saw Myra playing, I thought that she looked very fine indeed. It saddened me that I could not associate with her because her instrument has strings of catgut. How could I socialise with someone who makes music on cat intestines? I would never again be able to look Ginger in the face. As luck would have it, I was forced to speak to Myra.’

  ‘Forced?’

  ‘Her blouse was inaccurately buttoned and it was my duty as a gentleman to inform her.’

  ‘He was very discreet,’ says Myra.

  ‘Anyway, after Myra rectified the matt
er of the blouse, a conversation started. I complimented her on the impressive width of her skirt. Then we talked about the paintings. That is a very fine one of Mr Plenitude, by the way. Is there a family connection?’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’

  ‘Before long, Myra and I were talking about cats, because it turns out that she likes them as much as I do.’

  ‘I have two tabbies,’ puts in Myra. ‘Sampson and Delilah.’

  ‘It pained me, but I felt I had to point out to Myra that she was a hypocrite. I’m so sorry I used the word, Myra.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Charlie. Even if I’d known what it meant I’m sure I wouldn’t have been offended.’

  ‘I asked her how a cat lover could possibly play an instrument made in part from feline innards.’

  ‘Catgut,’ Myra reiterates.

  ‘And here is the miraculous thing, Thomas. It turns out that catgut is not made from feline intestines at all. It is a complete misnomer.’

  ‘Then what is catgut actually made of, if not cats?’

  Charlie is beside himself with delight, ‘It’s the intestines of a sheep. Isn’t that tremendous?’

  ‘Sometimes a goat,’ adds Myra, ‘but never a cat.’

  ‘So, Myra and I can be friends after all.’

  ‘Charlie, this is such good fortune,’ I say.

  ‘I know. I’m normally so unlucky. Except of course that I have a friend in you, Thomas.’

  ‘And always will have.’

  ‘I’d better get back to the quartet,’ suggests Myra. ‘They’ve started without me and it sounds wonky.’

  A picture of youthful vigour, Myra scampers off to rejoin the musicians as they play on their instruments stringed with sheep and possibly goat intestines.

  ‘What do you think of her?’ Charlie asks me.

  ‘Absolutely enchanting,’ I say.

  ‘Did you notice the colour of her hair?’

  ‘How could I not? It’s even redder than yours.’

  ‘I like it. I like many things about her. And I think she may like me. I discovered something else. She dances the gavotte. The kissing dance.’

  ‘Then she is clearly a young lady of many talents.’

  ‘Do you realise there is a ballroom in this house? Your brother was boasting about it.’

  ‘John does rather like to blow his own horn,’ I say.

  ‘He should put it back in its case from time to time.’

  Charlie has a saucy look that I’ve not seen on him before. ‘Myra and I intend to make full use of the ballroom later tonight.’

  ‘Then good luck, my friend,’ I say. ‘I knew you would find a dancing partner before long.’

  ‘I never believed it would happen. I am not especially smart or pleasing to look on.’

  ‘You are both, Charlie. I fear your low opinion of yourself may have been due to Mr Atkins’ bullying.’

  Charlie looks thoughtful. ‘I believe if you had not remained my best friend, it would have been difficult to endure the past months. Mr Atkins was more of a tormentor than a teacher.’

  ‘You were right to dance on his grave.’

  Charlie frowns and lowers his voice. ‘Thomas, you mustn’t speak so loudly.’

  ‘You needn’t be concerned. Only John can hear and I’m sure he has done far worse things than either of us.’

  ‘Thank you, Thomas,’ says Charlie. ‘Thank you for being so faithful.’

  Charlie shakes my hand warmly.

  ‘It is no less than you deserve,’ I say.

  Charlie, who now seems to walk a little taller, moves away to watch fiery-haired Myra play pizzicato.

  ‘When will you unveil your portrait?’ I ask John.

  ‘I’m not sure. I should probably wait for Mother to return. There is no hurry, since the party is going so well.’

  ‘Not for me, John, though it pains me to say it. Victoria is still not here.’

  ‘Is it really so difficult to be apart from this girl?’

  ‘She is my laudanum. I am thoroughly addicted to her.’

  ‘But she’s two years older than you. Might that cause a scandal?’

  ‘You of all people should not be concerned about age, John. I’d love Victoria even if she were twenty years older. Well, perhaps not twenty. Ten.’

  ‘Describe her.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You’re good with words. Of course you can.’

  ‘She is …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She is …’

  ‘Thomas, don’t be a tongue-tied tit.’

  ‘She is … behind you,’ I say.

  John turns to behold Victoria, who has just now entered the art gallery. This new guest causes a minor sensation. The string quartet plays The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, which suits the moment. Mrs Greenough is so taken by Victoria’s poise that she accidentally tips her champagne onto an orphan. The members of the board of management of The East India Company gaze at Victoria longingly, as if she were a Bengalese Trade Monopoly.

  ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come,’ I say.

  ‘I am sorry, dearest. I had to complete some work.’

  Victoria puts aside a portfolio she carries, then we embrace rapturously under a splendid chandelier. A few people applaud and Mrs Tilley throws a sandwich. As the party returns to normal, I introduce Victoria to John.

  ‘This is the first time I have ever agreed with my brother,’ John says. ‘You are stupendously beautiful and I am grotesquely jealous.’

  ‘You praise me too much,’ smiles Victoria.

  ‘That would be impossible.’

  ‘You are almost as charming as Thomas,’ Victoria says. ‘And I certainly look forward to your unveiling.’

  ‘And I yours.’

  I give my brother a discreet little kick in the shin for being smutty.

  Victoria picks up her portfolio. ‘I hope you don’t think it forward of me, but I have brought a canvas of my own. I wonder if you would permit me to exhibit?’

  ‘Exhibit all you like,’ says John.

  I kick him again.

  Victoria smells irresistible. It is like the perfume of a decay-proof coffin, though I do not mention this and have to refer to flowers and such nonsense. Victoria’s artwork has a handsome gold frame, but the picture itself is merely a collection of geometric shapes, lines and arrows. We hang it with the assistance of Mellors and the orphans.

  ‘Ah, now there is something I do like,’ says Mrs Tilley.

  ‘Do you notice how the triangles follow you around the room?’ says Mrs Greenough. In her current state of inebriation I imagine everything follows her around the room.

  ‘The circles suggest ripeness and desire,’ says Mrs Tilley. ‘So do the arrows. And the triangles and the squares. All very erotic, especially the arrows.’

  ‘Did you create that, my dear?’ asks someone from The East India Company.

  ‘I did,’ says Victoria.

  ‘I will pay you two hundred pounds if I can have it in my bedroom.’

  The man has his shin kicked by a colleague.

  ‘It is not for sale,’ says Victoria.

  ‘But it is such an intriguing picture.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’m afraid you cannot have it.’

  Before long, all are gathered around this remarkable new artwork.

  ‘It’s not a picture,’ I say. ‘It’s a business model.’

  ‘It is,’ says Victoria.

  ‘It’s a business model for a society of gentlemen body-snatchers,’ I marvel under my breath, so that only Victoria can hear.

  ‘It is,’ whispers Victoria.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ says a new voice. I turn to see the silver-haired man who has joined us. ‘It’s absolutely beautiful.’

  CHAPTER 30

  ‘Well, I call this plain bad manners,’ John says, gazing at Plenitude. There is not a doubt that the man who stands before him is the one in the portrait. ‘Not only do you arrive uninvited, but you also have the discourtesy n
ot to be dead.’

  ‘This comes as a shock, Mr Timewell,’ Mrs Tilley says. ‘We understood you to have been trampled by a horse. You look well for a man who has been trampled to death.’

  ‘He may be a ghost,’ Mrs Greenough slurs. ‘There is a certain fogginess about him.’

  ‘To me he looks a man of utmost clarity,’ says Victoria. She does not seem surprised by Plenitude’s arrival. Perhaps it is a piece of theatre that she and Plenitude have contrived in partnership. I am now aware of Victoria’s love for the melodramatic.

  ‘He is most definitely alive,’ Mrs Tilley says to her companion.

  ‘Then why is he so foggy?’ Mrs Greenough wonders, her eyes slightly crossed. No one deems her question worthy of attention.

  ‘Mr Timewell, I believe we are owed an explanation,’ says Mrs Tilley.

  ‘The story would take too long and I fear it might spoil the convivial atmosphere,’ Plenitude says.

  John eyes me suspiciously. ‘Thomas, did you know of this? You certainly don’t seem disarmed at all.’

  ‘Plenitude and I have recently become acquainted,’ I admit.

  John baulks. ‘Plenitude? What manner of name is that?’

  ‘I prefer it to Thomas Timewell Senior,’ Plenitude says.

  ‘But this is preposterous,’ declares John.

  Mrs Tilley and Mrs Greenough are thrilled.

  ‘Phyllis has been most dishonest, assuring us of her widowhood,’ Mrs Tilley enthuses. ‘We have our very own scandal, right here in Wishall.’

  The quartet plays variations on the sublime Sarabande from Handel’s suite number eleven in D Minor. A more foreboding piece would be hard to imagine. It is particularly suitable, given that Mother has chosen this moment to return. Mrs Dunwoody does not accompany her. Mother looks dishevelled, as though she has hurried all the way from The Beaufort Estate. Her wrap is askew. She seems not to notice Victoria. It is as if she has conveniently filtered her from view, in the same manner that she has erased Plenitude. But there is a determination in her eye that belies years of laudanum abuse.

  ‘Will you take down the picture, John?’ Mother asks.

  ‘Not until you tell me the truth,’ says John.

  ‘Thomas, will you take down the picture?’