Tom Bedlam

by George Hagen

  “I am Horace Shears,” he said, extending his hand to Tom.

  “Poor Tom,” Bedlam interjected, “you wouldn't know yer own grandfather from Adam.”

  Shears glared at Bedlam. “I am hardly more of a stranger than you are, sir!” He turned back to Tom. “I am your mother's father, Tom, your grandfather and, regrettably, this man's father-in-law!”

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Tom replied.

  “It is what Ican do for you, Tom, that matters!”

  The man's clothing was familiar—a blue frock coat, striped gray trousers, and shiny black shoes—this was the man Tom had seen shouting to Mr. Todderman at the factory gates. Mr. Shears slipped his thumbs into a pair of worn leather suspenders—the only part of his outfit that seemed incongruous and workmanlike. Some men who rise in station or income will cling to some vestige of their former status. The suspenders reminded Tom of his mates in the furnace room. Shears's curly white hair hung thinly about his scalp; he must have been at least twenty years older than Bedlam, and his face was pugnacious, with a broken nose and a short forehead.

  Bedlam leaned towards Tom. “Yes, indeed! It's what he can do for you!” he echoed, which caused Shears to sneer at him.

  Bedlam's smile faded.

  “Well, my boy” said Shears. “I promised your mother many years ago—when she first took up with this man—that if she were to quit his company, I would take care of her and any child she might have.” He paused and clasped his hands. “A stubborn girl, she refused my advice. I don't blame her none. I'm stubborn, myself.”

  Bedlam sniffed, as if that wasn't the half of it.

  “But my Emily soon learned that Mr. Bedlam was as fine a breadwinner as he was a devoted husband!” Shears continued. “Pride, my boy! Pride prevented her from asking my help.” He dabbed his shiny forehead with a handkerchief and ran his thumb up and down one of his leather suspenders. “Now I am without a daughter and you are motherless.”

  Here Shears paused and put his hand tenderly upon Tom's shoulder. Bedlam grasped the other shoulder. “There, there, Tom,” he muttered.

  “You are my only grandson, Tom,” Shears continued, his voice becoming thick and muddy, “and I have the assets to secure a decent future for you. It is my wish to provide you with the education you will require to go forth as a gentleman someday.”

  Tom thanked him, and Bedlam immediately interjected with a point of his own: “As I was saying to Mr. Shears, before you arrived, Tom. I am your guardian, and as such, Mr. Shears should address his intentions to me. And all finances—”

  Shears bared his teeth at Bedlam with exasperation. “You, sir, merely wish to skim money from the gift horse!”

  Bedlam turned indignant. “How dare you, sir? How dare you trespass and make accusations?”

  “I'm offering the boy an education, which you have denied him with your foolish pursuits! You'll have no money from me!”

  The two went at each other while Tom recalled Audrey's advice. When a brief pause stilled their volley, he spoke up. “I accept your offer, sir!”

  Both men turned to him with surprise.

  “Well then.” Shears nodded. “So be it, Tom. I shall make the arrangements.” He reached out to the boy and patted him gently upon the neck—as a man might caress a horse. Then, pleased to be done with Mr. Bedlam, Shears bade him a quick goodbye.

  Bedlam turned to Tom, frowning. “Astounding! A stranger walks into a boy's life and claims kinship!” He cocked an eye at his son. “I don't blame you, Tom, for accepting his terms, but the arrogance of the man!”

  Now Bedlam rubbed his hands and took the vacated seat.

  “Look, all I meant to say was that I wanted the best for you. Before I spoke to him, Mr. Shears wouldn't have considered your education. He'd have had you working for him at the brewery for the rest of your life.”

  “Really?” Tom wondered how a brewer's work compared with shoveling coal—almost any prospect seemed an improvement on that.

  Bedlam nodded. “Fortunately, I was here to argue on your behalf, Tom. You'll get a fine schooling, and all I ask is a little gratitude.”

  “Then I thank you, sir,” Tom replied.

  His father assumed a frown and dismissed his son's reply with a regal wave. “Don't mention it!”

  TO HAMMER HALL

  A. SCHOOL WAS RECOMMENDED TO MR. SHEARS, AND ARRANGEMENTS were made for Tom's enrollment in time for the new term. His grandfather issued Tom a generous stipend for clothing and books, which Mr. Bedlam claimed, warning Tom that the city was full of criminals and such a large amount of money required safekeeping. Father and son spent a day shopping together, with Tom expressing his preferences and Mr. Bedlam suggesting cheaper alternatives. By the end of the day, Tom had several parcels to carry and noticed that his father had accumulated a few of his own.

  Mr. Shears settled his grandson's debt to Mr. Todderman for the headstone. Tom was amazed that a two-year obligation could be wiped out with a piece of paper and a handshake. Afterwards, his grandfather took him to dinner at a fine restaurant where waiters served wide platters of partridge and lobster, leg of lamb, and quail. Tom had his first cut of mutton, which was so rich (for a boy accustomed to porridge at breakfast, dinner, and supper) that he was kept awake all night by his busy stomach.

  Their conversation was cautious; Mr. Shears said very little. Tom's few comments seemed to remind the man of his daughter, and every few moments he would pause to wipe his face with his handkerchief.

  “I have arranged for a coach to take you to Hammer Hall—that is your school,” he informed his grandson. “Your father seems to wish to accompany you. I had planned to do so myself, but I cannot bear the man's company and will, instead, visit at a later date.”

  “I shall look forward to it, sir.”

  Mr. Shears squinted at him. “Will you, Tom? I am a stranger to you, but I promise we will be good friends before long. I'm not your father, but I shall assume his responsibilities, his debts and obligations. You and I are bound by flesh and blood, my lad!”

  Mr. Shears slapped his knees in anticipation of their new relationship.

  “Thank you, Mr. Shears,” Tom replied.

  “Don't call me that, boy! It's a name for strangers.”

  “What should I call you, sir?”

  “Grandfather!” He laughed. “How's that?”

  TOM SAID GOODBYE to Sissy in the factory courtyard as the workers' shifts changed. Above them Mr. Todderman sat, flanked by Brandy, pipe in mouth, releasing small white puffs of smoke that rose in stark contrast to the great billowing darkness emanating from the chimneys some thirty feet above.

  “Perhaps after your eddication, Tom, you'll come back and buy the factory,” Sissy whispered, “and I'll be your wife.”

  “Perhaps.” He smiled.

  “I'll be waiting for you, Tom,” she warned, her eyes lingering on him with wounded grace. “Don't forget me.”

  “I could never forget you, Sissy,” he promised.

  And he meant it. Her gray eyes and petulant milkmaid's mouth would haunt him for years.

  Tom received smothering embraces from Mr. and Mrs. Limpkin, and a tender one from Audrey, while the Orfling drooled on her shoulder.

  “I shall write to you, constantly, Tom,” Audrey promised, “and when you next see me, I shall be much, much older!”

  This ardent promise seemed, to Tom, a request that he consider her affection more seriously in the future. “I'm sure of it, Audrey,” he said with a laugh.

  Oscar presented Tom with a rolled up magazine. “It's Ally Sloper,” he explained. “It's very funny, we pass it about—me and the other newsboys. It's full of drunkenness and bad behavior!” He seized Tom's hand and frowned. “Remember, Tom, anyone who crosses you will have Oscar Limpkin as his enemy!”

  Tom made the same oath, then left the Limpkins with a heavy heart to board his coach.

  ON A SEPTEMBER MORNING, as a light rain fell, Tom left Vauxhall. His father escorted him on the train an
d arranged for their transfer to a public coach when they reached Millington. As they waited for their departure, Bedlam ordered a roasted chicken for himself and a small, cold meat pie for Tom. Since his father was unable to carry the trunk because of his wooden leg, it fell to Tom to help the driver hoist it up on the coach. Bedlam made many apologies for his infirmity but used it artfully to secure himself a window seat, as well as the right to first exit and entry when the coach stopped. His clothes had improved: he sported a clean linen shirt and a yellow waistcoat beneath his dark woolen coat. It occurred to Tom that he had made these purchases while they were shopping the other day.

  “Did Mr. Shears buy you those clothes?”

  Bedlam laughed uneasily. “Mr. Shears wouldn't buy me a button!”

  Considering his father's abashed smile, Tom felt his guess had been confirmed, and he concealed his dismay by looking out the window.

  In spite of the buffeting along a rough road, Mr. Bedlam fell asleep almost immediately. Tom tried to doze but was knocked awake by the coach's every lurch. He marveled at the quiet of the countryside, the gentle pastures, blackberry bushes, and beech trees that dominated the terrain. Though he looked for pavements, streetlamps, letter boxes, pillar and posts, for some time there wasn't a man-made object to be seen in any direction, and this concerned Tom, until he was reassured by the appearance of a stone bridge.

  In a town composed of a crossroads, a tavern, and a small church whose mossy graveyard contained some ten stones, they left the coach and hired a man with a horse cart to take them the last few miles of the journey. Tom saw a farm with a straw-thatched house and a meadow with scattered sheep—the sort of place his mother might have imagined for their future. He cast Bedlam a glance, remembering the Bible and his father's assault on their savings.

  Bedlam answered Tom's stare with raised eyebrows but no words.

  At a fork in the road, the driver turned to the right and, at the bottom of a hill, slowed the cart to speak to a boy of eight, perched on a stile. One of the boy's eyes seemed loose and peered at the horses' hooves, while the other addressed the driver. He spoke in a slang Tom could barely understand. But his words must have been authoritative, because the driver turned the cart around in a pasture and went back to the fork, whereupon he took the other turn.

  “Not far to go, lad, not far,” Bedlam remarked. The day had grown overcast, and the emerging terrain had become flat and treeless. A mile to the west, a wooded mountain lay shrouded in mist. When Bedlam repeated his previous assurance, Tom felt troubled. Though he was beyond reach of the billowing filth of Todderman's smokestacks, the blackened brick walls, the noisy streets, and the stench of the offal house, such things had the benefit of being familiar. He looked at his father again and wondered why he had accompanied him—they had shared very few words on the journey.

  Bedlam must have sensed his son's lack of ease, for he spoke. “Do you have a question, my boy?”

  As Tom attempted to compose his query in a way that would not seem impertinent, his father ventured an answer. “Never judge a man until you've borne his troubles on your shoulders, Tom.”

  “I do not judge you, sir.”

  Bedlam blew air through his lips skeptically. “Whatever your mother told you was a lie. Let's begin there, shall we? The woman rarely spoke the truth.”

  Tom's face flushed. “You've no right to speak of the dead in that way,” he cried. “How dare you?”

  Bedlam turned in his seat and folded his arms, momentarily chastened. “Oh, and how would you speak of her?” he inquired.

  “She fed me, taught me to read, nursed me as a loving parent,” he replied.

  Bedlam rolled his eyes. “One day, my boy if not now, you'll have dreams, ambitions, a calling, and when children appear, you'll understand what a sacrifice it is to care for 'em. You've no idea!”

  “Neither have you!” Tom retorted.

  Bedlam chewed his lip before composing a reply. “I knew that Mrs. Bedlam and I weren't ready for it. Too young, we were. Too innocent. Too foolish.”

  “Well, that cannot justify murder.”

  “Murder?” Bedlam looked offended. “Who said anything about murder?”

  “My brother,” Tom continued. “Dead and buried at your hand.”

  The driver edged away from Bedlam and cracked his whip at the horses.

  Bedlam recoiled as if stung. “She told you that? That's what she told you?” The man seemed sincerely disheartened by Tom's acknowledgment. “All these years, she told you that?”

  Tom related his mother's description of waking up to open windows and a chilled room, and the sight of Mr. Bedlam dusting the snow from his boots.

  His father fell silent, as if weighing two dark and burdensome choices. The driver cast him a glance, anxious to hear the result.

  “Whatever else you think of me, Tom,” he said finally, “I am no murderer. I'm sure your brother is alive and well. He was given up for adoption, with whom I do not know, but I left him in safe hands.”

  For a moment, Tom was elated. The thought of such a possibility thrilled him. To have a confidant, a kindred spirit who shared his name, likeness, and perhaps even a similar perspective on his father's dubious character! Then, he reconsidered the messenger, and his smile faded.

  Bedlam put his hand to his heart. “I swear by St. George's Fields, where I was raised a nameless whelp, that it is the truth. I am no murderer! Your brother was left in the care of an esteemed gentleman who promised to find him a good home.”

  “Is he in London?”

  “I believe so.”

  Before Tom could ask another question, Bedlam gave a cry. “Here we are!” he said. But when Tom turned, all he could see was a dark building almost concealed by a dense cluster of trees. In another moment or two, the cart's wheels struck pavement; the horses' steps echoed in a courtyard of flagstones.

  “How long will I be at school?” asked Tom.

  “It depends on you,” replied his father. “Your grandfather will pay the bills.”

  “I shall do my best for him,” said Tom.

  Bedlam looked pained. “Will you indeed? How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child. Who deserves gratitude?” He jabbed himself with his forefinger. “I brought you here, just as I brought you into the world. You bear my name, not the name of Horace Shears…. Give a man his due!”

  Chastened, Tom dutifully modified his statement. “I shall do my best for you.”

  “Of course you will,” said Bedlam indignantly. “Goes without saying!”

  IN WEATHERWORN GOLD SCRIPT, words on a warped board read: hammer HALL, DEDICATED TO THE EDUCATION OF YOUNG MEN. Below it, in

  script, was the motto VERITAS ET LABORUM. Tom puzzled over these words as the driver lowered the trunk and his father rapped on the door.

  When the subsequent pause offered no sound of a latch being raised or hurrying footsteps, Bedlam paced the courtyard and assessed the building and its grounds. “Where is everyone? I wonder,” he said.

  “New term hasn't started,” said the driver.

  “How inconvenient.” Bedlam frowned. “Mr. Shears was told that you were expected this week, or thereabouts.”

  A linnet sang from a tree nearby. Mr. Bedlam glared at it, then at his pocket watch, and turned his gaze back to the door, this time giving it an almighty pounding that, in Tom's estimation, would have stirred the dead from the little mossy graveyard they had passed a good hour back.

  “Best try again another day,” said the driver, when Bedlam returned.

  “Another day and the cost of a night's lodgings?” retorted Bedlam. “We'll wait.”

  He and the driver adjusted position to pass the time. Bedlam sat, arms folded, ready to present a formidable profile to anyone approaching the building. The driver, by contrast, adopted a rather insolent posture, feet spread beneath the golden letters, eyes closed, arms under his head. It was a pose that expected the arrival of no one.

  Perched on his trunk with his k
nees pulled up to his face, Tom thought of his brother. If his father was to be believed, he might have passed the boy on the street somewhere in London. He would be older by a year, and probably bear Tom some resemblance, just as the Limpkins shared features.

  Tom looked at his father. “Did he have a name?”

  “Who?” replied Bedlam.

  “My brother.”

  Bedlam shook his head. “Somebody gave him a name, I'm sure.”

  Tom was troubled by another aspect of his father's story, however. “But there was a burial; you told my mother he was dead.”

  Bedlam shook his head. “The graveyard was full of babies who had died. I pointed to an unmarked grave. I wished to spare her the agony of imagining her son in the care of another woman.” He eyed Tom warily. “I am not an unkind man. You understand that, don't you?”

  Tom nodded, understanding merely that William Bedlam did not wish to be seen as unkind.

  After an hour, the driver rose from his resting place, skirted Bedlam, and began a conversation with one of his horses. “Well, Mrs. Grey” he said to the lumpy, ash-colored mare, “I don't fancy driving back along this road in the dark. Come back tomorrow is what I say, though it'll cost the customer twice the money.”

  “I've no intention of paying twice the money, Mrs. Grey” snapped Bedlam, also addressing the mare, as if she might then negotiate with the driver.

  The driver consoled the horse with an affectionate pat on the rump. “We'd best leave now, Mrs. Grey the sun being where it is, unless we want to be wandering the night in the company of unsavory folk.” By this, of course, he meant Tom's father.

  “Oh, very well!” Bedlam replied.

  The driver gestured for Tom to climb off the trunk in preparation for hoisting it back onto the cart.

  “Not so fast,” said Mr. Bedlam. “Leave the trunk.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the driver with relief.

  Tom was about to climb back onto the cart when his father laid a hand on his shoulder. “Here's the thing, Tom. Seeing as how I have brought you to the very door of your school—at considerable expense and effort—the best thing for me would be to get back to London.”