Tom Bedlam

by George Hagen

The room fell silent. The headmaster's next words contained a tinge of regret. “Clean this boy. I'll see him in my study later.”

  UNFORTUNATELY, MRS. BRASIER'S powers of healing were as dubious as her culinary skills. Tom found Arthur in the privy behind the kitchen. Though the nosebleed had stopped, and his lips had shrunk a little, he had developed diarrhea from the dose of fish oil she had administered. “I'm filthy,” he complained. “Tom, could you get me some fresh clothes?”

  “Of course,” Tom replied. He went to the attic and retrieved a clean set, although Arthur refused to put them on until he was sure his stomach had settled. “She's a monster,” he said, nodding in the direction of Mrs. Brasier's kitchen. “She told me to let the blood pour out. Said it was bad blood. What an idiot! Wouldn't leave me alone until I told her I was going to shit her kitchen!”

  “I've heard of letting out bad blood,” Tom admitted.

  “My father's a doctor” said Arthur, with a glare. “I've had nosebleeds all my life. I have them when I'm upset.”

  “I'm sorry,” said Tom.

  Arthur stared uneasily at him. There was something else he wanted to say.

  “Bedlam,” he began, “there's something I said to you before that wasn't true. My parents adopted me, as you thought.”

  “How old were you?”

  “A newborn baby,” Arthur replied. “I should have just admitted it, but I wasn't sure what you were up to. One can't trust anyone.”

  “Arthur,” Tom began, “I believe we may be brothers. I can't be positive, but my brother was adopted, and my mother told me once that he had a birthmark here, just as you do.”

  Deep in the boy's hollow stare, Tom detected a look of surprise, then distress. Arthur Pigeon was completely unprepared for such a revelation—he was accustomed to being an outcast. The idea of belonging was too sweet to be believed, and perhaps in defense of being wounded again, his skepticism gave vent.

  “I don't see how it is likely,” Arthur replied. “We don't look a bit alike.”

  “Haven't you known brothers who looked as different as strangers?” Tom replied.

  “I have,” Arthur conceded thoughtfully. “My father has often reminded me that I am adopted. When I misbehaved, he threatened to return me to my parents; he told me they were ruined, desperate folk and assured me that I would come to great harm in their company.”

  Tom was quite dismayed by the element of truth in these words— what was his mother, if not ruined by abandonment and poverty? Was there a more desperate man than William Bedlam, who stole from his estranged wife and child?

  “But you hardly seem the ruined, desperate sort,” Arthur added. “I wondered why you protected me,” he said, “because I didn't think anybody was, by nature, kind. A brother, though, is different—a best friend and a guardian—a trustworthy soul.” For a moment he pondered this idea. “So, if indeed I was to choose a brother, you would be my first choice.”

  Tom felt relief at this, for the evidence of their bond, however flimsy, was strengthened by Arthur's approval. He sincerely wished it to be fact, and Arthur seemed at least willing to consider it so.

  Arthur extended his hand to Tom, who smiled with relief. They shook hands.

  It was an odd scene: the smoky kitchen, the blackened walls and ceiling, Arthur's bloody collar and shirt, and the sober handshake. The fire in the hearth suddenly flared brightly and seemed to roar in celebration of their kinship.

  Mrs. Brasier approached, her face shiny with sweat, smelling of old potato peelings while sweat stains blossomed at her waist and armpits. “What are you two so happy about all of a sudden?” she cried. They laughed while she stared at them, baffled.

  “I'm a little better,” Arthur replied eventually.

  She took a bottle of fish oil out of her apron pocket. “It always does me a world of good. Will you take a little more?”

  Arthur adamantly declared himself quite well, so Mrs. Brasier replaced the bottle and sent him, with Tom as escort, to Mr. Goodkind's study.

  “What will you say to him?” Tom asked.

  “I don't know,” Arthur replied. “But I'll recommend the fish oil.” At the headmaster's doorway Arthur took a breath, knocked, and entered. Tom stood alone in the corridor, smiling to himself. All at once he had an ally, a friend, and a brother.

  “YOU'RE IN FOR IT!” cried Privot. “You should never have touched him. He's mine!”

  Tom had walked into an argument between Mansworth and Privot in the attic. Privot was doing frantic knee bends on the floor while Mansworth lay upon his cot, arms folded, echoing Privot's vigorous gestures with casual disdain—yawning, for example, when the red-faced boy spat out his next caution: “Mansworth, if he points the finger at me, I shall point it at you!”

  “It's not as though you haven't tormented the fellow too!” replied Mansworth.

  Suddenly, footsteps came up the winding staircase, and all eyes fell upon Arthur Pigeon as he entered, followed by Mr. Phibbs. He walked to his bed and lay down.

  “You wretched scoundrels,” began the little man as he surveyed the boys. “Demons! Hooligans! You'll have your comeuppance!” From Phibbs's tirade, one might have thought that original sin was born in the faces before him. For their part, the boys stared downward with anything but contrition. They had heard all of this before.

  Mansworth stood up, walked over to Phibbs, and murmured a private question. Phibbs shrugged. Mansworth placed a coin in the master's waistcoat pocket, which inspired him to depart.

  He struck the rafters two times with his stick, cried out “Hooligans!” and went down the stairs.

  Arthur rested facedown upon his bed while Privot and Mansworth approached him. Tom rose to his feet to protect the boy but Mansworth put a gentle hand on Arthur's shoulder, and Privot sat on the bed without offering threat or provocation.

  “I'm sorry, Pigeon. It should not have happened,” said Mansworth.

  “And it never will again. I'll make sure of that,” said Privot.

  Arthur said nothing. Though his visitors waited, hoping for some intelligence on his meeting with the headmaster, he remained prone and silent.

  “I suppose Mr. Goodkind was upset,” said Mansworth.

  “Furious, even,” offered Privot.

  Arthur turned his head. He stared at his interlocutors but offered no word.

  With each second of silence, Mansworth and Privot seemed to weaken. Eventually they withdrew to their cots. But Lopping, Winesap, and Cooper were excited to see the pair vulnerable for once. Tom, however, was gazing at Arthur.

  He was now convinced that Emily Bedlam's righteous stoicism had been reborn in Arthur Pigeon.

  MR. NEITHER/NOR

  THE NEXT MORNING IN THE DINING HALL, MR. GOODKIND DID NOT acknowledge Arthur, but at the conclusion of his meal, he shared a word with Mr. Phibbs and left the room. Almost immediately, Mr. Phibbs struck his staff upon the floor.

  “Two boys shall report to the headmaster's study forthwith!”

  Arthur's hillside assailants ducked under the table. Mr. Phibbs marched right past them, however, surveyed the assembled boys, and with a nervous gulp said: “Mansworth and Privot.”

  Every boy was surprised, but the two addressed were the most surprised of all. They followed Mr. Phibbs out, and the ensuing conversation in the hall took on an excited, joyous tone.

  Winesap couldn't help but exclaim, “Well, isn't that a puzzlement ! Methinks they're in for an upcommance!”

  Tom glanced at Mr. Grindle, but the master's expression indicated neither surprise nor satisfaction. He turned to Arthur. “What did you tell him?”

  “What did you tell him?” echoed Lopping.

  “I told him the truth,” replied Arthur.

  About what happened on the mountain?” said Tom.

  “Why was Privot hauled up, then?” added Winesap.

  “Mansworth said to me that he and Privot run the school” said Arthur, “so that was what I said.”

  IN ANY INSTITUTION, especially o
ne in which there is a vicious struggle for power, only the naïve think that the spoken truth can work like a thunderbolt from the heavens and mete out justice. Thus, the younger boys were sure that Mansworth and Privot would receive their deserved punishment and peace would result, while the older boys at Hammer Hall doubted this. They knew that Mr. Goodkind wished for order, not justice.

  More than an hour passed, and Mansworth and Privot were not released. During Latin class, however, Lopping pointed (through the grimy windows) at two figures—one with a red face, one with flowing hair—walking ahead of Mr. Goodkind towards the stable.

  “Definitely for the crop!” remarked one boy.

  Winesap turned to Tom. “Mr. Goodkind has a nickname.”

  “What's that?”

  “Mr. Neither/Nor”

  “Neither/Nor? Why?”

  The boys all shared a knowing glance, and Lopping whispered, “Neither good, nor kind.”

  A FEW MOMENTS LATER, the headmaster commenced the dispensation of justice in the stables. The harsh snap of the crop and the subsequent cry of pain echoed between the trees and across the courtyard. In the classrooms of Hammer Hall, the boys flinched with each blow; it was impossible to savor the ritual. Justice was one thing, but the sound of Privot and Mansworth begging for mercy was wrenching.

  A CHANGE OF SUITS

  AFTER MANSWORTH AND PRIVOT HAD BEEN PUNISHED, THEY DID not linger on the summit of Hammer Peak anymore; they shunned the other boys and each other, sharing not a word or glance. Each brooded upon his humiliation, the loss of his supporters and status.

  One day Winesap joined Arthur and Tom on the run and asked when they would start enlisting.

  “Enlisting?”

  “Side,” said Winesap. “Your side and Arthur's side.”

  “No,” said Tom. “No more sides.”

  There were several inquiries like this—now that the boys were liberated, they seemed incapable of thinking in terms other than those of their recent oppression.

  Arthur shook his head. “The first thing they do after getting rid of tyrants is look for new ones,” he despaired. “What's wrong with them?”

  More attempts were made to split the boys into camps. Mansworth spread rumors of insults directed by Arthur against Tom, but Tom quashed them by announcing that he and Arthur were brothers. A new spirit of comity emerged. Mansworth found himself on the fringe again.

  One day, as they ran up the peak, Arthur asked to know more about his past. He probed Tom for details about Emily Bedlam and Bill Bedlam's career and the circumstances of his birth. His own adoptive family consisted of an enormous array of uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, and cousins, so he was disappointed by the estranged nature of his family of origin. As for Bill Bedlam's decision to put him up for adoption, he was devastated. He asked plaintively, “He told her I was dead? Did I mean nothing to him?”

  “My father was afraid his career would be ruined.”

  Arthur stopped running, as if his own value in the world had suddenly been reduced to some meaningless fraction. “But I was a baby! I was helpless!”

  “Aren't you better off,” said Tom, “with parents who want you?”

  Arthur, however, was shaken by the idea that he had been given away for any reason. He asked Tom more questions: “Was I given a name? Where would I be now if I had not been given away?”

  With his answers, Tom conveyed to Arthur a sense of Bill Bedlam's selfish pragmatism, the desperate piety of Emily Bedlam's existence, his own job feeding the furnaces of Todderman's factory, and the arrival of Mr. Shears.

  These revelations were shocking and changed Arthur's perspective on Tom. Sometimes Arthur would stare at him from his cot in a way that unnerved him, as if Arthur were weighing the value of Tom's life against his own, and the value of an adoptive family of caring relations over a natural family of estranged and eccentric persons.

  “I am glad to have you as a brother, but I pity you, Tom,” Arthur remarked one day. “You have so few friends.”

  This amused Tom, for he felt the same about Arthur. “But I have friends,” he replied. “Haven't I told you about the Limpkins?”

  Arthur shook his head, so Tom described his games with Oscar and Audrey, the lemon tarts, and the Orfling. When he next received a letter from Audrey, he read it aloud to Arthur to prove that he was not so alone.

  The letter, however, brought shocking news:

  My dearest Tom,

  Forgive my silence, but much has happened; it is only now that I find myself free to write to you.

  Father had been in worsened spirits after the new year, and by February, he had sunk very low. He walked with his hands in his pockets, eyes barely straying from the cobblestones directly ahead. He took to reciting his accounts as he walked, in the hopes of finding some solution to our debt.

  When Mother announced that another baby was on the way, it was the final straw. “But the Orfling was to be our last!” he cried. “Wasn't his arrested condition a message to us?”

  Indeed, the Orfling hasn't changed since you left, Tom. He's still the sweetest thing, though he remains a red-cheeked little darling, unable to walk or fend for himself.

  I reminded Father that he would never be lonely with so many children in the house, but this only brought tears to his eyes. “My dear,” he replied, “I pray you keep such a good spirit in the face of adversity, for I am defeated!”

  Father had never spoken so before, and we were all moved to silence. Even the Orfling curled up in my arms without a word. I began to walk Father to his offices, fearful that he might consider taking his life, but after a week, he was brighter. I imagined that the recitation of our accounts had presented him with a solution.

  One Friday evening, Father didn't return from his office at the Mercantile Exchange, so I went to find him, but they told me he had left at the usual time, whistling as he stepped onto the street. I followed his path home, unable to find any sign of him. Then, on Sunday evening, Oscar went to the police station and learned that a man had been struck by horses on Chancery Lane. He was so badly injured that nobody could identify him. I went with Oscar to see him, but Oscar refused to let me see the body.

  He had no doubt that it was Father.

  Oscar took a collection from his friends at the paper to bury Father. We laid him to rest last week. But the matter of our survival weighed heavily upon me; Mother was due in six weeks, and Oscar couldn't support us with his job.

  Seeing no alternative, I presented myself at Father's offices to replace him. They turned me away, declaring that a female could not possess the intelligence to count sums all day, and urged me to send my brother. That evening we wept—Mother, the twins, and even the Orfling seemed to grasp our dilemma. We Limpkins had always been wanting for money but wealthy in children. How ironic that we should now be wishing for another son.

  After a sleepless night, I came upon the only possible solution: the following day I returned to the offices; but this time my hair was cut short (with Eloise and Elsie's help), and I dressed in Oscar's old clothes—shirt, waistcoat, tie, Father's shoes (two sizes larger than mine). I slumped my shoulders and kept my hands in my pockets as Oscar always does. And after I took their silly exam, I was declared competent to apprentice as a clerk!

  I am now to begin my professional life in London as “Edmund” Limpkin! I wear trousers, stockings, and shoes, as befits a young “man” of my station.

  Audrey

  “What fools not to let her work in the first place,” Arthur said.

  “Well, of course,” said Tom, “but she has been dishonest. Edmund Limpkin doesn't exist. You can't go about pretending to be somebody you're not.”

  “William Bedlam makes a career of it,” rejoined Arthur, bitterly.

  “Agreed,” said Tom. “But he is a scoundrel.”

  “Audrey however, is supporting her siblings and her pregnant mother,” Arthur added. “She may pass herself off as the Queen if it puts food on the table.”

  “Don't y
ou believe there's something wrong about having to pretend to be somebody you're not?”

  Arthur's lips formed a smile. “You've never told anyone else here that you worked in a factory, that our mother died, or that our father was an actor.”

  TAKING ARTHUR'S PERSPECTIVE TO HEART, Tom wrote an answer to Audrey's letter:

  Dear Audrey,

  I think what you have done is courageous and admirable, but I hope that it is a short-lived circumstance. I miss you, and hope to see you soon.

  Tom

  “What about ‘affectionately,’ or ‘sincerely,’ or ‘fondly’?” added Arthur, reading over Tom's shoulder.

  “I don't love her,” Tom replied.

  “Oh,” Arthur sniffed. “I must have been confusing her with the girl who never writes to you.”

  “Is there anyone you love, Arthur?”

  “No,” Arthur replied after some thought. “But if one comes along, I shall expect you to be brutally candid.”

  POLLY PECKAM

  NOW THAT PRIVOT AND MANSWORTH HAD BEEN HUMILIATED INTO submission, Mr. Trent was allowed to teach mathematics, and Cooper rose to the occasion, answering questions as frequently as possible. Mr. Barby enjoyed a similar liberation and made progress with the boys on the subject of crustaceans.

  Later in the week, Mr. Trent was alarmed when eight boys solved their equations correctly; he visited Mrs. Brasier, fearing that he was ill with a sustained delusion. The cook dispensed fish oil, and Mr. Trent spent most of the night in the privy. The next day he returned to the classroom with an eager smile, though discomfort compelled him to teach standing up.

  Mr. Grindle, who was still in the habit of taking his morning walks in the countryside, was picking bramble thorns from his trousers when Tom greeted him.

  “How are you, Bedlam?”

  “Well, sir,” Tom replied. “Particularly since Pigeon spoke to Mr. Goodkind.”

  Grindle nodded. “Be careful, my boy” he advised. “The headmaster's solution is temporary. Those boys won't give up easily.”