Tom Bedlam

by George Hagen

  Audrey

  Emboldened by her advice, Tom tried in subsequent days to talk to Pigeon, but the boy merely squinted at him, as suspicious of kindness as he was of cruelty.

  Breakfast was the one meal when the lines weren't drawn in the dining hall. The boys entered at intervals, taking their food from a table, where they could choose between porridge and a viscous, yellowish brown mixture that Mrs. Brasier called “cramblers,” which seemed to be scrambled eggs mixed with leftovers from the previous evening, a generous variety of grease, and other stray items. It was revolting to look at, but Tom had had enough porridge to last him another fifteen years; cramblers had flavor, and the stray items in it—a shoelace, a bone button—could be avoided if detected early.

  When he saw Arthur sitting before a heaping dish of it, Tom took the opportunity to warn him about Mrs. Brasier's knack for losing things.

  “I'm not stupid, you know,” Arthur replied. “I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

  “I'm only being friendly,” Tom replied.

  “Yes, and I almost lost my teeth falling down the stairs thanks to someone being friendly!”

  Tom lowered his voice. “I'm not like the rest of them.”

  At this Arthur's eyes seemed to darken. “Every school is the same. This is my third.”

  “If you make one friend then you're better off than you would be alone,” Tom replied.

  Arthur seemed to acknowledge the wisdom in this by keeping pace with him in the hall later. He proceeded to dismiss Privot as a butcher, Mansworth as a royalist, and the other boys in his row by their weaknesses. “Winesap's words are absurd. Cooper is an invertebrate. Lopping is pathetic.”

  “Nobody meets your standards, then?” Tom interrupted.

  After a pause, Arthur looked at him. “Perhaps you do, Bedlam,” he replied. His breath smelled faintly of onions; Tom wondered if the odor was responsible for the other boys' hostility towards him.

  He wrote to Audrey that Arthur was a snob. She replied with one sentence that confused him.

  My dear Tom,

  A person can dislike anyone, but you, of all people, know that a generous soul may recognize at least one good quality in the worst character.

  Audrey

  This remark contained a strange irony; Tom realized only later, as he lay in a light sleep, to whom Audrey had referred. Clutched in his hand was Sissy's first note. He had not received another, although he had written three times. If her silence indicated carelessness, forgetfulness, or even indifference, it hadn't mattered to Tom until now. He had forgiven Sissy everything for the single virtue of her milkmaid's mouth.

  IN SUBSEQUENT DAYS, WHEN Arthur Pigeon became an object of torment, Tom shadowed him. He caught the boy when he was tripped, and when he anticipated a prank, Tom warned away the villains. “Or Phibbs will find out!” he hissed at Cooper.

  “We're only having funlike,” Winesap retorted.

  Audrey seemed to have been right; the ferocity of the attacks on Pigeon appeared to wane as Tom asserted his presence.

  For all this, Arthur never thanked Tom. He seemed to think that Tom's efforts were the very least he could do.

  One evening, Privot came walking down the aisle as Arthur stuck out his leg to tie a shoelace. Privot tripped, but Arthur said nothing, even when the boy glared menacingly at him.

  Privot drew himself up. “Pigeon, I've gone easy on you, your being new and all, but if I don't see some respect on your part, you'll suffer consequences.”

  Arthur's lip curled. “Don't strain your eyes,” he replied.

  Privot rapped his knuckles on Arthur's head, but Arthur showed no pain, gave no quarter. Puzzled, Privot cocked his head but let him be.

  News of Arthur's defiance traveled quickly, however; in Mr. Trent's class, Cooper dared offer a correct answer. Then Lopping, in geography, located the Canary Islands. Disturbed by these acts of rebellion, Privot and Mansworth met that evening in a corner of the attic. Tom watched them confer and wondered what they would do.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Arthur awoke screaming.

  His head had been shaved close to the scalp; his long hair lay about his pillow. When he appeared in the dining hall, he was a frightening sight—his pale scalp exposed, with only wisps of hair still attached to it. There was a collective hush.

  Nobody, however, was more shocked than Tom, for he saw something that caused him to reconsider Arthur's place in the world.

  As he examined the boy's shorn scalp, the bloody nicks, and the patches of hair that made him resemble a hatchling fresh from an egg, he noticed a mark just below Arthur's left ear. First, he had to be sure that it was not a cut. And when he was certain, he smiled cautiously.

  “What are you staring at?” asked Arthur bitterly.

  “I never noticed before because of your hair, but you have a birthmark,” said Tom.

  Arthur touched it. “Yes,” he replied. “What of it?”

  Tom recalled his mother's delirium on the night of her death: I'll know him. I'll find the poor abandoned creature!

  “Nothing,” he replied. But until he had evidence to the contrary, Tom resolved to remain Arthur Pigeon's keeper.

  HAMMER PEAK

  IT WAS ONLY NOW THAT TOM UNDERSTOOD MR. GRINDLE'S REMARK about hooligans. Arthur Pigeon was an example for all the boys—the pecked hen, the pariah, the lowest ranking member. In that regard, Tom had set himself a considerable challenge. He couldn't have picked a worse person to claim as a brother.

  “Is the earth round or flat? Can no one tell me?” cried the exasperated Mr. Barby.

  Nobody dared offer any answer now.

  Mansworth and Privot were not finished. Though Arthur was their whipping boy he was hardly cooperative. A normal boy might have been driven to submission, but Arthur was not in this category. His discovery of the boot prints on his sheets the next evening prompted a typically flat statement: “Swine. All of you.”

  This stoic response reminded Tom of his mother's philosophy: Arthur was merely turning the other cheek. What could offer further proof that he was a Bedlam? Tom, however, was determined that Arthur repel his oppressors and sought a moment alone with the boy in the library—a pantry-size room filled with shelves of reference books and old novels. He took a seat opposite him, but he didn't know where to begin until Arthur eyed him suspiciously from above the book he held. “Can you not leave me alone?” he murmured. “I thought this would be the one place where everybody would leave me in peace.”

  “But I'm on your side.”

  “Why would anybody be on my side?” Arthur muttered. Then his eyes reflected suspicion. “You're not one of those, are you?”

  “What?” Tom replied.

  “A master in the last school wouldn't keep his hands off me.”

  Furious, Tom stood up and seized a book. “I'll hit you with this to prove it. How's that? Maybe a bloody nose would make you feel better? Can you only believe people who want to hurt you?”

  “What do you want?”

  Tom eyed the spot on the other boy's neck. If Arthur was his brother, then the central riddle of his life would be solved. Was this the “poor abandoned creature” of which his mother had spoken? Tom savored the moment, preparing his question, anticipating its repetition in a triumphant story for Oscar and Audrey at some later date. “Arthur,” he began, “are your parents your real parents?”

  Arthur seemed to puzzle over Tom's reason for asking such a question, but finally replied: “Of course they are, aren't yours?”

  “Yes.” Disheartened, Tom rose and left the room.

  NOTING THE NEW predilection for torment among the older boys, Mr. Grindle proposed an exercise regimen to the headmaster. Mr. Goodkind agreed, since it required nothing of him, and made an announcement in the dinner hall.

  “Your excess energy will be expended in the countryside,” he explained, “beating the footpaths rather than each other, stalking wildlife rather than the weak among you, and ascending the lofty plateau of Hammer Pea
k rather than your own brutish hierarchy!”

  It was left to Mr. Phibbs to wake the students at sunrise for the new routine. On the first day, cursing, the stocky disciplinarian staggered up to the attic, struck his staff against the rafters to wake them, and cried in a grating tenor: “Get a move on! Everybody up! Time for a run up Hammer Peak, lads. Even you, Mansworth, and you, Privot!”

  THOUGH IT WAS not a treacherous run, the terrain demanded both exertion and caution. The path rounded a steep drop near the summit, and a mist that concealed this peril hung about Hammer Peak most mornings. The boys ran in clusters along the dark track, beating a rhythm through crackling twig and oozing mud, sometimes losing sight of their predecessors in the fog while they gasped resentment in billowing breaths that dissipated over the bracken. Swearing, wheezing, and whining, they spi-raled up to the peak, hearts beating fast, noses red and runny, coughing and cursing, until they emerged upon a rocky summit and the sun enveloped them with its cool, pale glory Here, squatting and breathless, the pimply group gathered its breath. They were guaranteed fifteen minutes' peace before Mr. Phibbs, shrill and dripping with sweat, staggered up to the plateau and ordered them down.

  During the lull, Privot showed off his excess of energy by doing press-ups while his followers kept count with respectful awe. Mansworth distinguished himself by adopting a languid pose, lying on the lofty ledge of Hammer Peak. He clasped his hands behind his head, forming a ponytail of his long hair, and closed his eyes.

  When Privot finished his exercises, scarlet-faced, he pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around his head like an Arab sheikh, exposing the heavily pocked skin of his shoulders and strong biceps. A few boys fell to the ground to perform their own exercises while he did a circular boxer's dance, sweat flying, his ripe body odor provoking the sensitive among them to wince. Privot enjoyed mornings on the mountain: they were his opportunity to flaunt his omnipotence before his followers and, of course, before Mansworth. He ran on the spot, arms above his head, while sweat flew from his scarlet cheeks.

  When Mansworth felt a stray drop, he made a show of removing a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiping the offending spot. “Privot, we see now that you can gallop like a charger, but spare us your leavings, eh?”

  When several boys smiled, Privot's color faded. “Where's Pigeon, then?” he said in an apparent attempt to change the subject.

  Mansworth tipped his head to peer down the trail. “Two minutes away, I'd imagine. Bedlam's making sure he doesn't fall off the mountain.”

  Privot was feinting punches now. Mansworth flinched as more of his sweat struck his cheek. “Honestly, Privot, go away! You smell like a plow horse!”

  This time the laughter was less kind.

  Privot adopted a smile to deflect the insult, but he lacked the necessary facial muscles to achieve much more than a pained sneer. Mansworth clamped his nostrils between thumb and forefinger, provoking more laughter.

  Outraged that his physical prowess could make him the butt of a joke delivered by a physical inferior, Privot paced the overlook, then lay upon the rock, a few feet from Mansworth, and directed a small shot across the bow: “He said you looked like a girl.”

  Mansworth didn't stir.

  “He said you eat like a girl,” Privot went on. “And you sound like a girl.” He shrugged. “That's what I heard.”

  “And what are you? A parrot?” replied Mansworth, sitting up, looking not at Privot but at the expressions of the other boys.

  “I wouldn't let him call me a girl,” challenged Privot, gazing innocently at the sky.

  “I wouldn't let him call you a girl either,” Mansworth remarked, but his joke failed because the other boys were now considering Mansworth's long hair. The point was made, and Mansworth fell into a surly and petulant silence.

  TOM HAD KEPT his distance from Arthur for a few days; they had not spoken since their discussion about Arthur's parents. But the run had brought them into proximity again, and Tom found himself slightly behind Arthur on the steepest part.

  It was obvious that Arthur was no more comfortable with the physical world than with its society. His posture was comical: his feet splayed, his arms flailed, and he dodged bushes by either leaping over them or going ridiculously far out of his way to avoid them. He also had a habit of jerking his elbows outward as he navigated an upward step, and he poked more than one boy in the ribs as he passed by. Tom had an opportunity to overtake him, but he decided to keep his place behind him. To pass him would be an unnecessary betrayal.

  They were still meandering through gorse, heather, and tall pines, but the summit was near, so Tom paused to catch his breath and retie his shoes. Arthur lurched forward into the mist, and Tom heard voices ahead. Arthur was being greeted by several figures; Mansworth was easy to recognize because he kept shaking aside his long hair, but four other boys flanked him. Defiant words were exchanged. Tom let his laces be and ran to catch up. By the time he reached Mansworth, Arthur was gone, and two of Mansworth's disciples were pursuing him up the path.

  “What's this?” said Tom.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” Mansworth replied. “Pigeon needs a lesson, and he's about to get it.”

  “Mansworth,” said Tom, “Privot bullies him because he's a brute, but why do you? He's harmless. What must you prove?”

  Tom's question seemed to startle Mansworth; his eyes flickered at his two friends, who meandered down the trail a short distance away. “The only one who can keep Privot under control is me. So when I make an example of Pigeon, I'm only keeping things fair for the rest of us. Do you honestly want a brute like Privot to run the school?”

  Suddenly the boys who had followed Arthur returned, grinning from ear to ear, their task apparently accomplished.

  “Choose your friends wisely, Bedlam!” whispered Mansworth, as he joined his acolytes.

  When Tom found him, Arthur was lying between two large sandstone boulders. His hands were bound behind his back with long gorse stems, and his mouth was stuffed with heather. Tom untied him, and the boy spat out the heather, his eyes welling with tears.

  “What did they want?” asked Tom, but Arthur's lips were so badly swollen that he couldn't form words. Even if he could have spoken, Tom guessed that pride would have restrained him.

  When several boys came running along the path, they noted Arthur's condition and clustered around him.

  “What happened, Bedlam?” they cried.

  “Mansworth had him roughed up.”

  “Why?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Privot told Mansworth that Pigeon called him a girl. That's the bibletruth” said Winesap, who had returned from the summit. “When you've got hair down shoulderways” he added, “it hurts your feelings, if you have feelings, I s'pose.”

  Abandoning their obligation to reach the summit, the boys escorted Arthur down the path. It was an odd gesture of empathy with a pariah, Tom thought, though he suspected their compassion was mingled with the relief that Arthur's misery was an alternative to their own.

  Mr. Phibbs stood at the base of the mountain when the boys arrived. Tom and Winesap explained what had occurred. Phibbs examined Arthur with impatience. “You're unhurt, aren't you?” he said impatiently. “Nothing wrong, is there? You're in one piece, aren't you?”

  Reminded of his father's habit of asking questions that permitted just one reply, Tom felt a surge of outrage. “Perhaps we should speak to the headmaster, sir,” he said.

  “I'll be the judge of that,” snapped Phibbs. “Now, who hasn't been up the peak yet?”

  But the boys stuck by Arthur until the disciplinarian gave up and ordered them back to the school.

  WHEN PIGEON APPEARED at breakfast in the dining hall, he was a shock to behold. The scuffle in the woods had produced welts on his bare scalp, and his lips were bloated, bloody, and misshapen. Tom, Winesap, Lopping, and Cooper kept him company, and every boy who passed by couldn't help staring at his pale, vulnerable state.

  Mr. G
rindle, eyes fixed on Arthur, directed a word into the ear of Mr. Goodkind, who reacted as if his porridge had been purposely over salted. Then he stepped down from the dais and approached Arthur's table.

  “Stand up, Pigeon,” he said.

  Arthur rose slowly. The headmaster kept his hands in his pockets as he stared at the boy's lips. The room quietened.

  “An accident, Pigeon?”

  “He was beaten, sir,” said Tom.

  “He may answer for himself, Bedlam,” said the headmaster.

  Arthur attempted to speak but was hindered by his inability to form certain consonants. “Eaten, sir,” he replied.

  “Speak up.”

  Anger flickered in Arthur's dark eyes, but he tried again: “I 'as 'eaten, sir, 'y two 'oys.”

  Mr. Goodkind frowned. “Really, Pigeon, I cannot understand a word you're saying.”

  “He was beaten by two boys, sir,” said Tom.

  “Were you a witness, Bedlam?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, my boy”—Mr. Goodkind smiled—“you can hardly speak for him. If a boy wants to make accusations, he must do so for himself at Hammer Hall.”

  A collective murmur acknowledged the headmaster's point. Tom noticed Mansworth and Privot rest easy in their seats. He wondered if any boy had ever before dared make such an accusation before the entire school.

  Arthur, however, was struggling to form the consonants that had previously eluded him. As Goodkind turned to leave, he spoke.

  “I… was beaten by two boys, sir!”

  The headmaster turned. “What were their names?”

  “I don't know! I was pushed down!”

  Mr. Goodkind's features slackened. “Then what am I to do?” he said. “I cannot punish everybody”

  A murmur spread, and became a chuckle as it reached Mansworth's table.

  Suddenly blood was flowing from Arthur's nose. Down his lips it dribbled, and fell upon his chin and shirt. The moment he saw it, Arthur fainted.