by George Hagen
“Of course I know that, Mr. Griff!” Bedlam winked, his eyes dancing over to Tom. “This is my only son, Tom.”
“Your only son, Tom, eh?” Griff repeated. He looked at Tom with scrutiny, filing away his observations with the many secrets to which he had just referred.
Bedlam explained the need to enroll Tom in a college of medicine.
“A doctor?” Griff frowned. “Why, young Mr. Bedlam, you have my sympathy”
“Why?” asked Tom.
“Because, sir, the lawyer and the doctor serve men at their own folly! I can only wish you a good night's sleep, for your conscience and convictions are doomed! Ours are thankless professions!”
Bill Bedlam made a remark at this point about Mr. Griff's fee being hardly thankless, to which the lawyer replied scornfully, “No man is satisfied with a lawyer's services unless his opponent is six feet under the ground. And no doctor's job is done until his client is in the same position! I speak of gratitude, sir! There is none to be had in either profession!”
“Gratitude?” replied Bedlam. “You are paid. Is that not gratitude?”
Tom looked at his father, wondering if the man honestly believed that money was an earnest expression of gratitude.
“Not if gratitude is respect. Not if gratitude is appreciation. No sir.” Mr. Griff sneered. “Even after a fee is paid, I live with my decisions, through sleepless nights sometimes, Mr. Bedlam.”
“Perhaps your conscience is a size too large, sir,” replied Bedlam. “I sleep very well.”
Mr. Griff raised one eyebrow. “Then perhaps your conscience is a size too small, sir,” he countered.
After Tom had confided his interest in attending the Holyrood Surgical College in Edinburgh, Mr. Griff offered to make inquiries.
“A good school, is it?” asked Bedlam.
Mr. Griff raised an eyebrow. “An excellent school.”
“Expensive, I'll wager.”
“Excellence is never cheap,” Griff replied. “The boy will receive first-class training.”
“And what will I receive?” said Bedlam.
“There is no mention of you in the provisions of Mr. Shears's will, sir,” said Griff. He smiled. “At least you shall enjoy a good night's sleep.”
“But as the boy's father, how shall I visit him in Edinburgh? How shall I sustain the filial bond? Blood is thicker than water.” Bedlam looked anxious. “I am a foolish, fond old man!” He placed his hand on Tom's shoulder. “Surely some financial arrangement can be made?”
“Not so old, or so foolish, Mr. Bedlam,” said Tobias Griff. “The money goes solely to the boy's education. I'm bound by the dictates of the will. I shall make arrangements for the change of his name and inquire as to his enrollment at Holyrood, but your enterprises, sir, remain your enterprises.”
The lawyer then struck the floor with the tongs and declared the matter settled.
THAT EVENING, OSCAR TOOK Tom and Audrey on a tour of the sites of some dastardly murders he had covered as crime reporter for the Vaux-hall Gazette. Audrey wore a dress, for the first time in years, Tom guessed, because she spread her knees wide as she sat in the tram, and Oscar had to remind her to sit like a lady.
Their first stop was at the north side of the Westminster Bridge.
“Here, beneath this bridge,” announced Oscar, “a butcher named Emmanuel Connolly, after an argument with his wife about whether to serve goose or lamb for his birthday, cut her in half, dropped the legs into the Thames. The other half, he buried in Regent's Park.”
Tom's smile faded when he saw the look on Audrey's face.
“Oscar, that's a nasty story.”
“Some people are nasty,” countered her brother.
Audrey turned to Tom. “I cannot stand it when he starts acting so blithe.” Oscar tried to speak, but she cut him off. “Like all your reporter friends, you trade these stories as if they were jokes, as if it's funny that a woman is murdered.”
Oscar looked indignant. “I certainly don't think murder is funny. But that was a story about marriage.”
“Marriage?” said Audrey. “Because Mrs. Connolly was treated like butcher's meat? Would it have been as amusing if she had cut him in half?”
Oscar looked to Tom for support, but Tom's sympathies were committed elsewhere. “Really, Oscar,” he said, “it's a grisly thing.”
“I will not be led around the city,” Audrey continued, “while you describe the terrible things people do to their wives!” She started to walk away. Oscar went after her.
“Audrey we were having such a good time. Let me show Tom one more place—no murder scenes, I promise!”
“Where?”
“Kensington.”
Audrey's features softened. “Oh—very well,” she said.
They arrived at a vast and splendid house with enormous Tudor chimneys and elaborate brickwork surrounded by a garden filled with flowers. Oscar lingered at the gate but said nothing.
“What happened here?” asked Tom.
“Nothing.” Oscar gave a cryptic smile.
They remained at the gate while Oscar consulted his pocket watch every few minutes, keeping his eye trained on a dark window on the second story. After a few minutes, Tom was ready to propose dinner when Audrey smiled. “Aah, there she is, Oscar!”
A solemn young woman in a black silk dress, her brown hair in pretty ringlets, crossed the room and paused by the window to lift the sash. She sat down, adjusted the wick of her reading lamp, and raised a newspaper.
“Isn't she beautiful?” said Oscar.
“She's certainly pretty,” Tom agreed.
“Pretty? Is that all?” said Oscar.
“She's rather far away.”
“She's beautiful; absolutely, utterly beautiful,” Oscar gasped.
Tom looked at Audrey's face, lit by the soft light coming from the girl's window, and thought her more beautiful by far. The girl in the window was no match for her.
“Beautiful and unattainable,” murmured Oscar. “I come here as often as I can, just to look.”
It was the first time Tom had ever known Oscar to accept a limit to his fantasies, and suddenly he felt sympathy for his old friend.
They returned to Vauxhall by way of the Thames. In the darkening evening, the boat traffic was illuminated by scores of lanterns flickering from the bows. It was a pretty sight, with reflections playing on the water, the sky still aglow above crouching houses, hovels, and shacks interrupted by the spires of churches and the warm candlelight that spilled from public houses. When they stopped to ponder the city's charm, Tom remembered something that had happened earlier in the day.
“As I was walking into Griff and Winshell's, I saw a face I will never forget,” he said.
“I'm sure it was somebody up to no good,” said Oscar. “Mr. Griff serves a range of scoundrels.”
“It was the father of one of my classmates,” said Tom. “Mansworth.”
All of a sudden, Oscar looked interested. “Bronson Mansworth?”
“You know of him?”
“Of course!” Oscar replied. “How would I notknow of Bronson Mansworth?”
“He is not only a member of Parliament—” said Audrey.
“But a villain,” said Oscar. “He's ruined the careers of his political rivals with false accusations. Cheated his workers, paid off his critics—and those he couldn't pay, he's ruined by exerting influence over their employers. He's the devil.”
“And,” said Audrey, giving Tom a knowing glance, “the father of a very pretty daughter who resides in Kensington.”
“That girl?”
In answer to Tom's question, Oscar raised his palms to the heavens. “It's the great paradox! A man of dark and nefarious villainy has produced a daughter so—so pure!”
“Well, I knew his son and—” Tom began, but he was interrupted by Oscar, who began a litany of Penelope Mansworth's finer points—her delicate hands, her exquisite face, her gossamer hair, and so on, until Audrey could bear it no longer.
“But you have no idea what kind of a heart she has!”
Oscar's joy became a sentimental appeal. “But, Audrey, she teaches little children! She's as pure as the rain, as a sunny day—”
“—and utterly out of your class,” concluded Audrey.
THEY SHARED A MEAL in a raucous public house, where they tried to speak over the loud chatter, but it was impossible. Oscar, for his part, said barely a word; whether he was scheming or brooding, Tom didn't care, for he was content to stare at Audrey and imagine a life together with her.
Fog engulfed the far bank as they parted at Westminster Bridge. Tom asked to see Audrey the next evening, so she suggested they meet at her place of work at the end of the day.
“You must remember that I am Edmund,” she reminded him and, telling Oscar to turn his back, she kissed Tom hurriedly on the lips.
Tom walked home in a state of aroused confusion. The evening had certainly been an adventure. Good and evil had been defined in terms he understood. The malevolent villains responsible for Tom's corruption, Bronson Mansworth and son, had been painted in their true colors. Most of all, his feelings for Audrey had become profound. He was moved by her scent, her virtue, her spirit. He could not wait to see her again.
MR. BEDLAM DID NOT answer when Tom knocked. The door was locked fast. Tom saw a light in the upstairs window, so he called, and eventually the door opened to reveal Paddy Pendleton's sphinxlike features.
As Pendleton ushered the boy inside, Tom inquired about Isaiah. Pendleton muttered that his protégé's animal impulses were provoked by the moon: “By day he is pious, but by night…” Pendleton shuddered. “The women he brings home. What awful creatures! I tell you, Bedlam, if women could see themselves from a man's point of view, society would change in a day.”
When Tom inquired after his father, Pendleton gave a dramatic shudder and led him upstairs. “In body, your father is whole, but not in spirit, I fear.”
Pendleton led Tom into a room where Bedlam was seated in a tatty armchair, clutching a glass. There were two bottles beside him: one empty, one a third full, and he seemed intent on ridding the second of its burden.
“Father?”
With his chin buried in his chest, Bedlam acknowledged Tom bitterly.
“What's the matter?”
Bedlam attempted a reply, but his lips defied him. He scowled at the bottle, pressed his hands to his heart, as if to indicate the weight of his burden, then reached out to Pendleton.
“Your father would like me to explain that he has a number of concerns with regard to you,” Pendleton said, looking to Bedlam, who nodded approvingly at this interpretation.
“What is it, Father?” said Tom.
Bedlam pursed his lips and vigorously shook his head.
“Your father regrets that he is not in command of his, er, faculties, due mainly to your late arrival. If you had come home at six, he would have had no difficulty, but his faculties are compromised at this late hour,” said Pendleton.
“Mr. Pendleton, would you please tell me what is wrong with him?” said Tom.
Pendleton took a gulp from his glass and drily remarked, “I do not enjoy being the bearer of bad news. The day I was born, my mother was warned of this by the very nurse who brought me into the world. She said, ‘The way your baby cries, you'd think the world was coming to an end!'” Pendleton raised his palms, as if he had no recourse but to blame the fates. “Now I am obliged to warn mankind of its imminent destruction, but does it listen? The fools go about as if the fires of hell matter not. I am treated like a madman. But that is my lot. Those of us who see the truth must bear its flame against the howling gale of dissent and ridicule. This is life, is it not? Rack and ruin, then out, out, brief candle!”
At this point, Bedlam frowned and stamped his wooden leg against the floor.
Pendleton shot his friend a surly glance. “Do you heckle me, sir? Be patient, I'm coming to the point.” He directed his gaze at Tom with suitable intensity. “Your father is not pleased with you. First, you have changed your name.”
“We discussed this, I thought, to his satisfaction,” Tom replied. “It is a professional necessity.”
“Perhaps,” said Pendleton. “But what of your absence this evening? Surely a man is entitled to celebrate such an event with his son.”
“But if it displeased him,” Tom replied, “why did he wish to celebrate it?”
“Hmph.” Pendleton too seemed puzzled and glanced back to Bedlam, who struck the floor again in frustration and wagged his finger, indicating several other grievances were to be addressed.
“Let me ask you this,” Pendleton continued. “Are you ashamed of your given name?”
“It has served me well, sir,” replied Tom. “But it is inappropriate to a doctor.”
“Are you ashamed of your father?”
“Why do you ask?” said Tom.
“Why do you not answer?” gurgled Bedlam, forgetting his mute status.
“I am prepared to answer,” Tom replied, “but you will admit that it is a harsh question.”
Bedlam shrank back, as if the logic of Tom's reply had robbed him of the ability to speak.
“I believe it matters not to your father whether you are Dr. Bedlam, or Dr. Tom, Dick, or Harry. But to celebrate in his absence, and come home at this late hour, is insulting. He is your father, your host, and your benefactor, and wonders why he receives no gratitude for this burden.”
Tom had kept his composure until now because of the absurdity of the situation, but this last question was the final straw. “I am indebted to him for bringing me into the world. I am indebted to him also for deserting me, for abandoning and robbing my mother, and for leaving me at the door of my locked and empty school to wait in the darkness. Furthermore, I am indebted to him for the loss of my older brother!”
Pendleton gasped.
Though his voice was thick with emotion, Tom continued: “I am indebted to him for coming to school to rectify a crisis that was not of my making, though he ordered me to resist my conscience, to lie, and to accept the generosity of a man I believe to be a scoundrel. He profitedby my perjury—buying himself this very house!”
Here, Pendleton turned back to Bedlam.
Still, Tom couldn't stop. All the bitterness he felt gushed forth: “Today, I am further indebted to William Bedlam for attempting to take money that was left by my grandfather for my education. So, I ask my father: What gratitude does he wish of me? What do I owe him? Or, more to his liking, what fee would he have?”
A sound worked its way from William Bedlam's chest: it was a bottled roar. “How dare you?” he cried. “Are you fed? Are you clothed? You have been taught ! If I have failed you in any way, show me the scars! You are in one piece, are you not?”
“Thank God I am,” Tom replied.
“Thank me, not God!” Bedlam shouted.
“I thank you for bringing me into the world!” said Tom.
“I deserve more than that,” cried his father. “Much more than that! I named you!”
“Indeed—after a lunatic, Tom o' Bedlam! An object of scorn and mockery! Please, don't ask me for gratitude” Tom cried, quivering with rage.
“Damn your ingratitude! Leave my house!” shouted Bedlam.
“Gladly, sir,” replied Tom, picking up his jacket.
“Wait!” cried Pendleton. “This is indecent! This is terrible! You cannot treat each other so!”
But Tom was walking down the stairs. He considered packing his bags but decided that to walk out now would be worth the loss of the few items he had left by his bed.
What a burden shed! As he stepped upon the shiny black street, he could hear Paddy Pendleton cry a protest from the window. He kept walking, feeling a sublime mix of relief and fear—the predicament of a young man liberated for the first time. The mist made his cheeks red, his heart pounded painfully; never had he felt so alive as he did now.
Tom walked London's wet streets, his fury burning in his chest, an
d he might have kept walking until he had circled the world if night had persisted. But eventually, the sun rose, the streets became busy. Tom lost his fire and, finally, his way. He decided to seek a voice of consolation.
PASSION
“I HAVE MET HER!” CRIED OSCAR.
Tom found him at the Vauxhall Gazette, where he was fussing over the final copy for the morning paper. A typesetter prepared the next page nearby his thick fingers, filthy with ink, darting among the racks. He was a heavyset man, with a week's growth of stubble and a lachrymose pout. He wore a hat of newsprint; the sweat of his forehead darkened the paper in little mushroom shapes.
“You spelled corrupt incorrectly,” the typesetter noted woefully to Oscar, as if this were one more of life's many injustices.
“Then fix it,” replied Oscar, turning to Tom. “Her name is Penelope, like the wife of Odysseus! And she has a voice so warm, so … rapturous!”
The typesetter sighed as his fingers slotted in the type. “You shouldn't use words you can't spell, Oscar.”
“It doesn't matter how it's spelled; people know what I mean,” said Oscar. “Tom, I went back to her gate last night and escorted her to school this morning. She's every bit as charming as I suspected. I am in ecstasy!” Oscar clutched his temples, as if this abundance of virtue threatened to blow his head to pieces.
“Educated, is she?” muttered the typesetter. “What could you possibly have in common? I bet she knows venal doesn't have two n 's.”
“Our names were bound together in heaven,” said Oscar.
The typesetter snorted. “I believe that those who cannot spell are dispatched to hell—at least, I hope so.” He waved Oscar's copy in the air with frustration.
“I spell murderer correctly” replied Oscar.
“But you're no longer writing about crime,” noted the typesetter forlornly. “You're in Parliament! Murderer simply isn't heard as often in the House of Commons as corrupt, deception, and travesty, is it?” When Oscar didn't reply, the man turned to Tom for an opinion. “Please correct me if I'm wrong.”