In the Shadow of Frankenstein: Tales of the Modern Prometheus

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  “Oh, he’s original all right,” Aunt Matilda agreed. “Ah, here he comes now.”

  Charlie entered the room and started when he saw the visitor. Dressed in mud-stained overalls, he looked as every genius should, but rarely does.

  “Don’t sit on the sofa in those muddy things,” Aunt Matilda instructed. “Spread a newspaper over the cushion first. What have you been doing?”

  “Getting rid of surplus requirements,” Charlie answered thoughtlessly. “That is to say—I’ve been digging a hole.”

  “All part of your hobby?” Jennifer enquired with a certain coyness. “Matilda tells me you’re making something in that shed of yours.”

  But Charlie was lost in a world where half-legs met rump, spare-ribs needed certain adjustments, liver required replacement, kidneys had lost their suet, lights had to be exchanged for a battery—and the entire thing was still too large.

  “A smaller top and a rolling base,” he muttered. “And arms—who the hell wants arms? A couple of cut-down crankshafts should do the trick. Excuse me.”

  And without further explanation he jumped to his feet and raced from the room. Aunt Matilda sighed. “Whatever it is he’s making, he’s certainly wrapped up in it.”

  “You know, dear,” Jennifer said after a while, “I think I’ve got it. He’s making a rolling chair with metal arms. It will be very useful if you want to move about without getting up.”

  Uncle George was so annoyed he choked on his third glass of whisky and expressed his righteous indignation by banging a clenched fist down on the chair arm.

  “Why? That’s what I want to know—why?”

  “It’s all this television,” Aunt Matilda exclaimed. “Sets the young a bad example. What with Z Cars and that awful baldheaded man who will ruin his teeth with lollipops, it’s a wonder we aren’t all murdered in our beds.”

  “That goat was a good friend to me,” Uncle George said with a sob in his voice.

  “But it was dead,” Aunt Matilda pointed out. “I mean to say it wasn’t as though it was a up and around goat. It had passed over.”

  “That’s no reason for someone to pinch its flipping head,” Uncle George roared. “I left the corpse in the outhouse, laid out as tidy as you please. Then this morning when I took the wheelbarrow in, so as to transport it to its last resting place—no head! Some ghoulish bleeder has cut it off. Now tell me this—why should anyone want to nick a goat’s head. Must be a nut case.”

  “Same as Alfie’s go-cart,” Cousin Jane said. “Some thieving hound pinched the castors off that. Had springs on them. Came off my mother’s tea trolley. Poor little devil cried his heart up when he found it on its uppers. Well—he likes to chase the milkman down Parson’s Hill. Boys will be boys, I always say.”

  “Like Charlie,” Aunt Matilda said proudly. “He’ll chase anything that moves.”

  “You spoil that boy,” Uncle George growled. “Let him do what he likes and no regular job! He’ll come to a bad end.”

  Aunt Matilda folded her arms and shook her head in shocked reproof. “You mind your business, George Brownlow. Isn’t Charlie me own brother’s boy and with no parents to speak off, his father having passed away and his mother run off with the Prue man? He’s a good boy to me, bringing his dole money home regular as you please and not wasting it in the betting shops as some I could mention.”

  “But what’s he doing with himself all day?” Uncle George demanded. “Mucking about in that shed—a ’ammering and a sawing and muttering to himself. If you ask me he’s going round the bend.”

  “No one has asked you,” Aunt Matilda retorted. “If you must know he’s making something for me that’s going to be a surprise. Something in the chair line, Jennifer thinks.”

  There might have been further argument if Cousin Jane had not pointed out that it was seven-thirty and time for Coronation Street. Mid-way through the performance Charlie entered and slid into the armchair where he sat staring with glazed eyes at the bright screen and occasionally incurring Uncle George’s wrath by low, but disturbing muttering. His appearance was by now well in keeping with the popular concept of a genius; long hair, unshaven chin, wrinkled clothing and fingernails that were in mourning for their last close relationship with soap and water. But there was a certain air of fulfillment that only comes to a man who has found a tiny nugget of success in a ton of back breaking endeavor. Suddenly the television screen trembled and Annie Walker appeared to be in danger of decapitation by a bright flash. Charlie jumped to his feet and yelled, “Thunderstorm!” then dashed from the room.

  Uncle George delivered his sincere and considered opinion.

  “There’s no getting away from it—he’s gone up the wall. Slipped his braces. Next thing you know he’ll stand on his head when the sun comes out.”

  Aunt Matilda waited until a mighty clap of thunder had done its worst—which meant sending Cousin Jane whimpering under the table—before saying quietly:

  “Because the boy has brains that are a bit different to ordinary people’s, that’s no reason for suggesting he’s crazy. Mark my words—Charlie is going to shock all of us one day.”

  “But what the hell is so special about a thunderstorm?” Uncle George demanded.

  “I expect he revels in the doings of nature. Jane, come out from under that table this instant. If the house is struck you’ll be no more safer there than anywhere else. I’ll make a nice jug of cocoa …”

  She was interrupted by another peal of thunder and a loud cry that began somewhere at the bottom of the garden and grew louder as it approached the house. When the back door cracked open the cry took on a higher pitch and assumed the semblance of drawn out words.

  “I … I … v … e … d … o … n … e … i … t …”

  Charlie exploded into the room. Sent the door crashing back against the wall, knocked an occasional table over, bumped into the sideboard, then pulled Aunt Matilda from her chair and danced the flustered old lady round the room, while still shouting at the top of his voice:

  “I’ve done it! It’s complete in every detail. And it moves.

  Moves …”

  Aunt Matilda managed to pull herself free, then pushed her still prancing nephew into a chair. She patted her hair, made certain that her cameo broach was still in its rightful place, then said quietly:

  “You really must control yourself, dear. But I’m very pleased that you have completed—whatever it was you were doing. I’m sure it will be very comfortable.”

  But Charlie obviously had not been listening, for he clasped shaking hands to his head and stamped his right foot three times on the carpet.

  “I forgot what I came for. Can … can I have one of Grandad’s woollen vests? I don’t think there’s any danger of it catching cold, but some joins ought to be hidden. Not that it’s not beautiful—in an irregular sort of way—but I’m not very good with a needle and thread.”

  Aunt Matilda looked like a lady who has lost her way and is not certain if it is wise to go on any further.

  “In the wardrobe, dear … upstairs …”

  Charlie leapt to his feet and jumped over Cousin Jane who had decided it was now safe to come out from under the table, and ran from the room. The heavy thud of his feet could be heard ascending the stairs.

  “A chair—you say?” Uncle George enquired gently.

  “That’s what I understood.”

  “A chair that wears a vest?”

  “Well, he did say it was to hide the joins. Some sort of padding I expect.”

  Charlie was heard running down some of the stairs and falling down the remainder. The crash of an overturned bucket marked his journey through the kitchen. Uncle George climbed laboriously to his feet.

  “I’m going to have a look,” he announced.

  “But it’s to be a surprise.”

  “Then I’ll surprise myself.”

  The two women were left staring at one another and when one moved the other flinched. The marble clock on the mantelpiece str
uck eight and the thunderstorm gave a final ominous rumble before retiring to the west.

  “Shall I switch the telly off?” Cousin Jane enquired.

  “Yes, dear. There’s nothing much on now.”

  Presently they heard slowly approaching footsteps, which preluded Uncle George’s entry into the room. He walked with a strange stiff gait, his face was very pale, and he lowered himself into a chair without speaking a word. There he sat staring intently at a framed portrait of Dirk Bogarde—for whom Aunt Matilda entertained a partiality—which hung on the opposite wall. The silence became extremely oppressive.

  Cousin Jane was the first to crack.

  “Well—what has he made?”

  Uncle George, without removing his gaze from Mr. Bogarde, opened his mouth—and screamed. It was a very loud, very hoarse and very unnerving scream. Then silence again descended on to the room, until Aunt Matilda ventured her enquiry.

  “George … George, is there anything wrong? Have you been drinking too much? I’ve always said that whisky on an empty stomach cannot be good for anyone.”

  As though this statement had triggered off an automatic impulse, Uncle George rose and walked sedately over to the sideboard, where he poured himself a very generous helping of whisky; drank it in one mighty gulp, put down the glass with elaborate care, then turned and screamed again.

  After this second and much improved performance, he went back to his chair and continued his contemplation of Mr. Bogarde’s classic features.

  “I’m going home,” Cousin Jane announced after an interval of deep thought. “And I’m going to lock all the doors and windows and not come near this house again.”

  “Perhaps he’s got the delirious trimmings,” Aunt Matilda suggested. “I mean to say there can’t be anything in that old shed that could make him like this. Could there … ?”

  “I’m not waiting to find out.”

  “But you haven’t had your cocoa, dear.”

  “You can pour your cocoa where the monkey poured his ginger-beer. Anything that can make old George bellow like a demented banshee is something I don’t want to see. If you want my advice you’ll have that boy put away.”

  And she gathered up her knitting, two copies of True Confessions, a box of chocolates and an electric torch, then moved swiftly towards the door. Another scream from Uncle George and a glimpse of Charlie coming down the passage did much to improve the order of her going and the house shook when she slammed the front door.

  Charlie did not appear to be at all put out by this sudden exit, but poked his head round the door-frame and asked, “May I have some butter please?”

  “Never mind butter,” Aunt Matilda replied, patting Uncle George’s forehead with a handkerchief, “what have you done to your poor uncle? I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He keeps screaming and my nerves won’t stand much more of it.”

  Charlie assumed a sullen expression and he stared defiantly at the floor. “He shouldn’t have peeped. It was supposed to be a surprise. And he looked in through the window before I had a chance to cover Oscar with Grandad’s woollen vest.”

  Aunt Matilda raised an eyebrow. “Oscar! That’s a funny name for a chair.”

  Charlie stood on one leg and swung the other back and forth. “It’s not a chair. I can’t make a chair. If you must know it’s a monster. Now you’ve made me spoil the surprise and I’ve a good mind not to show him to you.”

  “I’m sure, dear, if you’ve made a monster it’s a very nice one,” Aunt Matilda said calmly. “But that still doesn’t explain why your uncle persists in staring at dear Mr. Bogarde and screaming. I remember my mother used to say my brother was a little monster, but I’m certain she never screamed.”

  “Can I have some butter?” Charlie repeated his former request. “The trolley wheels squeak.”

  “Very well. But don’t take too much. It’s now seventy pence a pound.”

  After about five minutes of having his forehead bathed with Eau de Cologne, Uncle George began to display signs of returning life. He examined every item of furniture in the room with mild interest, counted his fingers and seemed profoundly astonished to find they were all present, then turned to Aunt Matilda and whispered:

  “It’s got ’orns.”

  “Has it now? Well I’m sure they’ll be very useful for something or the other. Would you like a nice cup of cocoa?”

  “And long metal arms,” Uncle George added thoughtfully.

  “I wouldn’t care for metal arms myself,” Aunt Matilda admitted, “but I daresay they’d be better than nothing. Shall I make you a nice condensed-milk sandwich to eat with your cocoa?”

  She shook her head reprovingly when Uncle George insisted on volunteering another piece of shocking information.

  “And it’s down to its ’ambones.”

  A retreat to the kitchen was clearly the only recourse, where Aunt Matilda made a jug of cocoa and coated thick slices of bread and butter with a generous layer of condensed milk. She seemed to remember that something sweet and hot was strongly recommended as a curative for anyone suffering from shock. While she was engaged in this act of mercy, Charlie came in from the garden and after opening the kitchen door to its fullest extent, asked quietly:

  “Do you mind if Oscar comes in? He wasn’t happy in my laboratory.”

  Aunt Matilda scraped the lingering residue of condensed milk from the tin and spread it on a crust. “You know, dear, I never object to anyone you might invite home. So long as they are refined.”

  Without waiting for any further invitation Oscar glided into the kitchen.

  I find difficulty in describing this product which symbolized the marriage between two widely divided trades. Butchery was of course responsible for Grandad’s torso and the goat’s head; while the motor industry must be given credit for the metal arms, the red flashing eyes and the sparking plugs which were embedded on either side of the Grandad/goat blended neck. Inner tubes aided by glue hid whatever needlework that had been necessary to unite crankshaft arms to Grandad’s shoulders, while hands—complete with six fingers—had been fashioned from back-seat cushion springs. Remembering that compactness was of major importance, Charlie had sacrificed most of Grandad’s legs, and he was—as Uncle George had most tactlessly stated—down to his hambones. Short thick stubs encased in inverted car wheel-hubs and held firmly in position by glutinous rubber solution. A pair of trolley castors—that might well have been liberated from Alfie’s go-cart—were riveted on to the underside of the wheel-hubs and served as an excellent—even an improved—substitute for feet. A woollen vest mercifully concealed whatever liberties that had been taken with Grandad’s torso.

  Oscar—for such we must now designate this collection of bits and pieces—was not more than three foot six high and decidedly disconcerting in appearance to anyone who did not appreciate the unadorned work of genius. His communication apparatus also left a little to be desired.

  The goat jaws opened, a sliver of rotary fan-blade glittered in the lamplight and a high pitched oscillating sound gradually emerged into recognizable words.

  “This is BBC Radio Four. For the next half an hour Professor Hughes will describe his journey along the Zambezi River …”

  “Oh, blast it!” Charlie protested giving Oscar a hearty thump on the back. “There must be an overcharge between the radio valves and the loudspeaker. Wait a minute—I’ve installed an instrument panel under his shoulderblades.”

  He pulled up the woollen vest, pushed what had formerly been a self-starter, adjusted a small plastic knob—and finally aimed a kick at the lower portion of Grandad’s torso. This drastic action must have achieved some result for a bleating voice enquired:

  “What the bl … eedin … g … h … ell is go … ing … on …?”

  Charlie positively beamed with satisfaction.

  “That must be coming from that portion of Grandad’s brain I was able to plant in the goat’s skull. You see I made a little sump …”

  Contrary to he
r usual practice Aunt Matilda interrupted a man while he was speaking. Ever since Oscar’s entrance she had stared, sighed, on occasion made small appreciative sounds, but had not attempted to contribute any observation of her own. Now she spoke quite sharply.

  “Charlie, am I to understand that you have used a portion of your dear Grandad’s remains to make this contraption?”

  “Well—yes. You see materials were very hard to come by and Grandad was going to be wasted …”

  “That’s no excuse. Although I can understand your wish to be usefully employed, you still should not have laid rude hands on your Grandad. He wasn’t yours to take. In a way he belonged to us all and certainly I—at least—should have been consulted.”

  Charlie hung his head. “Sorry, Auntie. I didn’t think.”

  Aunt Matilda nodded. “That’s the trouble with the young generation—they never think. Well, I’ve said all I’m going to say. The matter is now closed. Tell me about your invention. What can it do?”

  They both watched Oscar circle the kitchen table, then roll smoothly towards the sitting-room, where Uncle George sat considering the mad possibility of becoming a tee-totaller. Charlie, like all true artists, had not thought of his creation in terms of sordid usefulness, because, so far as he could remember Baron Frankenstein’s monster had not been expected to find gainful employment.

  “Well,” he said after a thoughtful silence, “I might be able to train it to do little jobs round the house. Fetch the letters from the doormat, punch holes in tins of condensed milk and things like that.”

  Aunt Matilda did not comment on these suggestions, but listened to the bleated words that came from the sitting-room.

  “Wh … ere … the … bl … eeding … g … h … ell … is … me … l … e … gs?”

  “What a pity you had to save that part of your grandad that used bad language,” she murmured.

  A loud—and by now familiar—scream rang out; only now it was much louder, more drawn out and was perhaps the cry of someone who had crossed the barrier of fear and walked in that black and white country where reality takes on the shape of mad fantasy. Then Uncle George came out of the sitting-room; moving with a speed that would have excited the envy of a much younger man who had not formed a close alliance with a whisky bottle. Oscar was not far behind. Rolling smoothly, eyes gleaming like car rear lights, head lowered, butter-lubricated trolley wheels turning silently; he gave the distinct impression that he was, at least for the time being, a very happy little monster.