Tom Bedlam

by George Hagen

  He could barely look at her. In her face he thought he saw her resolution break and silently hoped she might change her mind now, at this last moment, as they were inches from parting.

  “Tom?” she said.

  “Yes, Audrey?”

  “I—I shall need your address when you arrive in Edinburgh.”

  He lowered his eyes. “You shall have it,” he replied.

  Audrey kissed her finger and put it to his cheek, as if any gesture more intimate than this might damage him. Tom would have cracked into pieces there and then if Oscar had not thrown his arm around him and walked him down the stairs. “Never mind about Audrey Tom,” he said, dismissing his friend's agony with a shrug. “When next we meet, I shall be married!”

  “To Penelope Mansworth?”

  “The same.”

  “And what else?” said Tom miserably, turning away from the figure on the banister above. “I can see you have plans.”

  Oscar's face widened into a jaw-breaking grin, and he tucked his thumbs in the crooks of his arms. “I plan to be a member of Parliament, Tom. And Mr. Mansworth, if he knows what's good for him, will help me!”

  “You're a scoundrel, Oscar.”

  “Not yet, Tom”—Oscar laughed—“but I hope to be!”

  A SOFT, BARELY VISIBLE rain enveloped Tom as he left Procession Street. He paused at the corner and glanced back at the towering factory, its chimneys boring into the night sky; a fiery glow turned the raindrops to vapor at the top. The tenement leaned against Todderman's building, its cracked windows twisted into imploring sockets. Tom vowed that he would never return to this spot, for if the tenement did not collapse, he surely would upon sight of it.

  TOM CHAPEL

  IN THE AUTUMN OF 1885, TOM BEGAN HIS TERM AT HOLYROOD Surgical College in Edinburgh. Most of his classes were in the Gramley Building, a large eyesore of granite and limestone. The building had a lighthouse turret, flying buttresses, Norman windows, Roman doorways, alternating Ionic and Doric columns, and floors of hexagonal, pentagonal, and octagonal tile—the total effect of which induced nausea in its visitors.

  The structure was based on the final thesis of an architectural student who had left the university in disgrace when his design was rejected. Fifteen years later, he returned—as a self-made millionaire from Chicago—having transformed a cough medicine into a popular remedy for sexual impotence. His name was Francis Gramley, and his elixir was called Gramley's Bull Tonic. Determined to make it a success in Britain too, Gramley wanted to stage a publicity event and offered to build his alma mater a new lecture building, to be named after him, of course. His only stipulation was that it had to incorporate his rejected design.

  In spite of the faculty's protests, the trustees knew a bargain when they saw one. The building was erected and had been an object of derision ever since.

  The most respected member of the medical school faculty at that time was Professor Henry Harding. He taught anatomy in Gramley's immense lecture theater. In those days, more time was spent on anatomy than on any other class in medical school. Harding wore wire-framed glasses and had a bristle mustache. His tongue was as sharp as his scalpel, and it was said that his students often emerged from his classes in more pieces than his cadavers. Entering the theater wearing a rubber apron and starched shirt with rolled up sleeves, Harding would whip the sheet off the lesson's cadaver with a flourish and order his students to gather around the examination table.

  “I'm sure you were all up last night preparing for this class, so let's get on with it. We shall be examining the liver. Who can tell me where it is?”

  A simple question. They all knew the answer. But a direct stare from Harding could make any student forget his name.

  “Have I walked into the wrong room?” asked the professor. “This is anatomy, is it not? Do you aspire to be doctors or coal miners?”

  Tom raised his hand. Harding reminded him of Mr. Grindle— another figure of unassailable veracity. Both men, Tom realized, were substitutes for his father.

  “Not you this time,” replied the professor. “You always answer. Let's have this fellow, here—”

  He had selected Cornell, an overweight young man with a prominent nose and wispy ginger hair. Nervously, Cornell indicated a spot below the cadaver's navel. “Um, in the groin, sir?”

  “Highly improbable,” said Harding, using perhaps his most strident condemnation. He turned to Isaac Dorfman, a student with dark eyes and a miserable frown. “You! Where's the liver?”

  “Left hypochondriac region, sir!”

  “Correct—if I had asked for the spleen! Must we spend all day looking for the liver? Are you sure you have a liver?”

  Harding turned to his assistant, Niles Beechcroft, a tall, elegant fourth-year student with a black beard and pince-nez spectacles. “Beechcroft, please, tell us the function of the liver while we wait!”

  Beechcroft fingered his lapels and spoke with the lazy confidence of a graduate. “The largest gland, sir, secretes bile, removes toxic material from the blood. In classic mythology Prometheus was tied to a rock where his liver would be eaten out every day—”

  “Yes, yes, yes, that'll do, Beechcroft. Now, have any of you miners found it yet?”

  All eyes, however, were focused on Beechcroft. First, Harding had acknowledged him by name, a sure sign that he was blessed by the master. Second, Beechcroft's bushy beard added years to his babyish face. Every student in that room stopped shaving after seeing the assistant in the good graces of Professor Harding.

  OF COURSE, TOM GREW a beard too. Beyond the inspiration of Beechcroft, a beard had practical uses. It was a cheap protection against Edinburgh's damp cold and offered the illusion of maturity to the youngest face—a student pursuing his midwifery requirement had to attend twenty labors; nothing seemed more humiliating to an inexperienced young man than the thought of having his authority questioned by a woman delivering her fourth or fifth child. The likelihood was that she would know more than he did. All the medical students put their razors away and walked the city resembling anarchists. In Edinburgh's tea shops, they sat for hours, five at a table, nursing cups of Darjeeling and slicing a single pastry into more helpings than the biblical loaves and fishes.

  A barber near the High School Yards performed the same haircut on hundreds of young men for a keen price and ten minutes in the chair. Tom encouraged the man to give him a more extreme version—temples shaven and a thick swath of hair that tumbled over his forehead like a cockerel's comb. Studious, serious, and self-involved, Tom faced the often bitter wind that tore between the old buildings of Infirmary Street with his teeth clenched and his brows furrowed at the crest of his nose.

  Young men trying to get over love will do the most foolish things. Tom took to walking in the rain without umbrella or coat, clutching his books raw-knuckled and shivering, only the lee side of his body dry, as if he could erase his affection for Audrey by suffering. He struck most residents of that Scottish city as a quixotic figure. What fool endures such weather without a coat? Wallis Cornell dubbed Tom “Cortez the Killer” for his intense frown and absurdly pointed beard. Cornell was the son of a rich London doctor. Thanks to a substantial remittance from his father, he usually paid for tea, cake, and on occasional evenings, beer. His beaky nose tilted a few degrees when he spoke.

  “You see, Cortez, my future is settled,” he explained. “My father has a fine practice, which I shall join”—he shuddered—“if I get past those wretched anatomy classes with Harding. In London my practice will be waiting for me: fat, old people ravaged by wealth, good living, infidelity, sloth, vanity, and self-importance.” Cornell's nose tilted slyly. “And I shall soon resemble one of them.”

  Tom admitted that his own plans were modest. “I've no doctors in my family,” he said. “When I have my degree, every step I take will be a first one.” He confided to Cornell that he had adopted a new name.

  “Cortez suits you far better than Chapel,” Cornell replied. “Are you sure you won't
change your mind? Women love a foreign name.”

  Cornell talked about women a lot, but he was cowed in their presence. During the occasional social event held by the department, the heavyset student would merge with the wallpaper, a stricken smile pasted to his face. He feared small talk, blushed in a woman's presence, and lost his voice when spoken to.

  By contrast, Tom's brooding profile drew interest from the opposite sex, but he made a point of ignoring women, especially those attractive to him—as if, by treating them as invisible, he were scoring some victory against the one woman who had rejected him. He had written to Audrey just once in his first year; a terse note, giving his address only. She replied quickly, forgiving him his bitterness.

  Dear Tom,

  I know you are in pain, and that I am the cause of it. Know that I love you dearly. Please know also, that if you ever come to regret your silence to me, as I fear you will, nothing should prevent you asking my help or advice.

  Audrey

  Tom, of course, resented the kindness of her letter as much as he had resented her rejection. Every angry young man recognizes a perverse happiness in misery. Self-pity is the love affair of the solitary soul.

  Isaac Dorfman would join Tom and Cornell after Harding's lectures to compare wounds. He would produce a complete surgical kit from his jacket pocket, remove a scalpel, and expertly slice a tart into three identical sections. Dorfman had many talents: he was a pianist and could play a serviceable Moonlight Sonata. He had considered a career as a classical pianist, but he suffered from stage fright. “I fear humiliation,” he confessed grimly, “and Professor Harding rekindles my fear at every opportunity.” Some friends are attracted by mutual admiration, but Tom, Cornell, and Dorfman seemed united by their shortcomings.

  One evening Dorfman produced a set of worn Tarot cards.

  “Oh, for heaven's sake!” cried Cornell.

  Dorfman replied, “This is an ancient art. Older than anything you're learning here.”

  “No science in it,” remarked Tom.

  “Science and faith are natural antagonists,” said Dorfman. “But who has ever died,” he said, “from an overdose of Tarot?”

  “What nonsense,” sneered Cornell.

  Dorfman placed the deck before Tom. “Cut the cards,” he said, “and take the top one.”

  Tom did as he was asked.

  “The Queen of Pentacles. Interesting,” said Dorfman.

  Cornell chuckled. Dorfman glared at him, shuffled the cards again, and presented them to Tom. Again, the Queen of Pentacles appeared. “Interesting,” said Dorfman again. “This nurturing mother figure keeps reappearing.” He shuffled the cards, and the same card came up.

  “Should I do it again?” asked Tom.

  “Why bother?” muttered Dorfman. “What are you looking for, Chapel? Your mother? A wife?”

  “Cortez hates women,” Cornell chuckled.

  AT THE NEXT ANATOMY class, Tom offered a few answers that seemed to catch the professor's attention. After the lecture, Harding took him aside. “You, what's your name?”

  “Chapel, sir. Tom Chapel.”

  “Well, Chapel, I'm holding a soiree for my daughter. She plays the piano. On Thursday evening.”

  “How nice, sir,” Tom replied.

  “You must come, Chapel.” The professor folded his apron. “Eight o'clock?”

  Tom nodded, giddy at having been addressed by name.

  THE HARDING DAUGHTERS

  TOM POLISHED HIS SHOES, RETIED HIS SCHOOL TIE THREE TIMES, and as an extra precaution, consulted his anatomy books for fear that the small talk at the party might involve a discussion of the lymphatic system or perhaps the digestive organs. Was he nervous? Of course. He was entering his professor's home, a new realm.

  Harding lived in a small Georgian row house on Blackwell Terrace, which marked the eastern edge of Edinburgh. The Salisbury Crags rose behind the house. Tom paced up and down, intimidated by the ordered, genteel calm of the neighborhood. When he finally stepped up to the door, it opened to reveal one of his friends.

  “Cornell?” said Tom, surprised.

  “I thought you'd never come in,” replied Cornell with amusement. “Welcome to the Harding mansion. Wipe your feet and keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Am I late?”

  “No, just less early than I was. We're ahead of Niles Beechcroft.”

  It was a modest house. The parlor was tidy without being fancy. The wallpaper was striped, of colors faded and hard to identify in the tint of the gaslight chandelier—the purple flowers might have been green, and the pink stripes might have been yellow. The curtains were old burgundy velvet with an aged yellow lining. An upright piano stood by the window, partnered by an empty stool. At the far end of the room stood a table covered with a lace cloth, a punch bowl, a plate of biscuits, and a basket of fruit—a meager offering for a party. Across from the piano a desk was crowded with brass-framed photographs of a wedding couple, a mother holding a baby with a little girl on her knee, and several photographs of two little girls on a sun-drenched veranda—somewhere hot, India perhaps. A central staircase rose to the next floor. In comparison with William Bedlam's cluttered abode or the Limpkins' domestic jumble, the room seemed sadly empty.

  “WELCOME!.” CRIED THE PROFESSOR, emerging from the kitchen with glasses on a tray; he set the tray down with a clatter and offered his hand to Tom. “Now”—he squinted—“you're …”

  “Chapel, sir.”

  “Good of you to come, Chapel.” He hesitated. “Student? Teacher?”

  “Student, sir.”

  “Hard to tell with the beard,” muttered the professor. “Everybody looks the same.” He looked at Cornell. “Have we met?”

  “I was the first to arrive, sir,” replied Cornell.

  “Of course, Walters!” the professor said with a laugh.

  “Cornell.”

  Harding nodded emphatically. “You must keep reminding me. I invited everyone I could think of. Too few in a concert audience makes for a catastrophe. I hope you can help us bring out chairs and tidy up, of course!”

  “Of course,” his students replied.

  “Give Eve a hand, won't you!” He nodded towards the kitchen. Tom and Cornell exchanged a glance and set about making themselves useful while the professor took stock of the table. “Let's see: punch, biscuits, fruit.”

  When Cornell picked at a grape, Harding admonished him. “Don't eat too much, eh, Walters? You'll make me seem ungenerous.”

  When a female voice called from upstairs, Professor Harding excused himself and hurried away.

  “Well,” whispered Cornell indignantly, “not only does he not have a clue who we are but we've been recruited as servants. Shall we leave?”

  A rustling in the kitchen, however, quelled the impulse. A young woman appeared in the doorway. Though her features were simple— brown eyes, shiny black hair parted in the center and sealed in a bun— she went about her task with a grace that transcended their austerity. “Hello, I'm Eve,” she said warmly. “You must be Father's first victims! What sports you are! You'll love Lizzy. My sister plays so very well once she has overcome her fright.”

  “I can't wait to hear …,” began Cornell. His voice failed him and his face turned a deep crimson.

  Eve offered him a glass of water, which he swallowed gratefully. She asked him about his studies, his childhood in London, and coaxed back his confidence. Tom, however, reverted to brooding in the corner of the kitchen, his usual manner with women, and wondered how an abrasive man like Harding could have produced such a charming daughter.

  When Cornell answered the doorbell, Tom found himself alone with Eve. “You're not like your father,” he muttered.

  “I'm told I take after my mother,” Eve replied. “She died in Burma. Lizzy and I were born there,” she explained. “My father encouraged us to bring ourselves up, so we did.”

  At that moment, feet stamped down the stairs. Harding followed his second daughter, Lizzy, a slender you
ng woman with wire-framed spectacles. She was tall but drew her shoulders together as if she wished to appear smaller. Her face was freckled, like her father's, and she was in a state. “Where's my music? What time is it? I've forgotten everything!”

  “Haven't you committed it to memory?” Her father squinted in the withering manner he reserved for his students.

  “You know nothing about performance!” his daughter spluttered, causing the professor to flinch.

  “Your music is on the piano,” Eve assured her sister.

  Lizzy tore past Tom. Cornell attempted a greeting but lost his voice again. When the doorbell rang, he fled to answer it. In moments, the parlor was crowded, and the offerings on the table had swelled with wine, whiskey, cake, and other treats.

  “Do you often have such gatherings?” Tom asked Lizzy, who peered from the kitchen in dread at the excitement.

  “Oh, no.” The girl cringed. “It was Father's idea. He's doing it to show off Eve!”

  “Shouldn't you be out there too?” Tom asked.

  Lizzy's eyes widened with fear. “No. Eve has all the charm.”

  Lizzy tore off her spectacles, breathed on them, and rubbed the lenses fiercely with a fold of her dress. “I didn't have a wink of sleep last night. Perhaps if I left now, I might take a tram to the docks and board a ship.”

  Tom nodded. “I can see you sailing the North Sea, concertina in hand, playing shanties for the sailors.”

  Lizzy turned to him with fresh interest. “Did you tell me your name? If you did, I've forgotten it. All Father's students look the same to me.”

  “Tom,” he replied.

  Suddenly the professor called to her from the parlor, and Lizzy ventured in. The guests steered her to the piano stool though she tried everything to avoid it. Tom was now interested to see whether she would survive the ordeal.