Tom Bedlam

by George Hagen

  “And I would suggest you go to hell!” Mansworth smiled, his eyes skating to his other guests. “I have no intention of giving up the very things that make my life tolerable!”

  “You have a beautiful wife, a precious daughter,” replied Tom sharply. “What else is worth dying for?”

  Mansworth flinched; sentiment was apparently more painful to him than his physical infirmities. “Help me up the stairs, Doctor.”

  With Tom flanking him, Mansworth slowly ascended the winding staircase of his mansion. He paused at the top, turned his scrutiny to the guests lingering in the dining room, and leaned closer to Tom. “I have something to say to you in confidence,” he said. “I shall look into bringing your son back. It may take some time. In return, I would appreciate it if you would do me the favor of resisting Oscar's inquiries. I won't have him blacken my name.”

  Tom stared at Mansworth. “Very well,” he said. “If you bring my son home.”

  “What's the boy's name?”

  “Arthur Chapel.”

  “Arthur?” Mansworth frowned. “You didn't name him after Arthur Pigeon, did you?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I did it to remember him,” replied Tom. “He was like a brother. I betrayed him for my own gain—and yours.”

  Mansworth said nothing but led Tom into his lavish bedroom. Tom recognized Eve's touches—a small framed Corot of the Grand Canal hung at her side of the bed, and a photograph of Josephine stood on the table. A heavy brass telephone sat on the table at Mansworth's side.

  The war minister removed his jacket, wrapped a silk robe around his bloated frame, and lay down on the bed. He looked at Tom. “Arthur Pigeon,” he mused. “How far we've come since then. Think of the good you've done, Tom. You're a doctor. You've saved lives, I'm sure. My father gave you that education.” He smiled. “I'm war minister.” He nodded slyly. “Your role in my destiny has not been forgotten, Tom. Look what we've achieved together!”

  “Together?” Tom stared at him.

  “I think Eve loved you once,” replied Mansworth. “We married sisters. You must admit that our lives are curiously linked.”

  “There is no comparison between us,” Tom replied. “I heal the sick. You commit men to die. My son is at war. Your daughter is safe at home. If you had any compassion, Mansworth, you would end the war. End it tomorrow. Bring them all home. Pass the order. Retire. You'll change the lives of thousands in a day. Give back the sons to their mothers, the husbands to their wives, the children to their families.”

  Mansworth chuckled, amused by Tom's fervor.

  “How poetic you sound,” he murmured. “First you ask me to save your son, then you ask me to save every boy in uniform. Don't you know, Bedlam, that half of the country would tar and feather me if I brought our men back without victory?”

  “The other half would thank you.”

  Mansworth closed his eyes. “I'd like to be prime minister one day. You see, I have to do more than run the war effort. I have to make sure we do it with honor.”

  “How many more men will die while you maneuver your political career?”

  Mansworth grunted. “Remember our bargain, Doctor,” he replied, smiling faintly, and then he began to snore. A dark shadow crossed the doorway; it was the valet, coming to pick up the clothes and hang them in the wardrobe. For a quiet moment, Tom marveled at a missed opportunity: if only he'd brought his medical bag, he could have given the wretched man an overdose of morphine and ended the debate for good. But he had made a bargain for the life of his son.

  AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, Eve was waiting for him.

  “Is he dying?” she asked.

  Tom knew better than to reply to such a direct question. “You must encourage him to go to hospital. He's very ill.”

  Eve shook her head. “He'll never agree to that,” she replied. “To enter a hospital would be an invitation to his enemies to bring about his retirement from government.”

  “Eve,” Tom began, “I understand that you wish him to succeed, but he will not live to be prime minister if he doesn't receive treatment.”

  She flinched at his words. “Can you truly believe I'm that ambitious? I have no influence upon him. I've proposed many dinner guests, but you're the first person he's agreed to see. He suggested inviting Oscar and Penelope. What did he ask of you? There must have been something. Some favor.”

  Tom noticed that Eve's alabaster makeup faded at the base of her neck to reveal her true skin color. Under the circumstances it seemed an appropriate flaw. “Was it about me?” she continued. “I told him I loved you once. Did he show any concern? Any jealousy? He's a possessive man.”

  The poor woman, Tom thought. Had she invited him merely to light some jealous spark in her husband? How mercenary we are in the name of family. But he couldn't lie to her about Geoffrey Mansworth. He had lived with one devastating lie for thirty-five years.

  “Eve,” he replied. “Geoffrey doesn't want me to tell Oscar about events in his childhood. He's afraid it will ruin his political prospects.”

  Eve paused; then her composure snapped. “Damn him,” she sobbed. “God help me, Cortez,” she whispered. “If it were not for Josephine, I'd wish him dead.”

  MARTINE

  MANY NIGHTS AFTER DINNER AT THE BARRACKS THEY PLAYED brag, a game of poker with three cards. One evening, Garson had the bank and was telling a joke when they heard a gas shell whistling overhead. Everybody tumbled down the steps of the cellar as it burst. They emerged a few minutes later to find Garson still seated, covered with dust, his arms spread across the table, protecting the cards and the money. The fumes had blown away quickly in the breeze. The men cheered Garson for his bravery, though McCormick took a different view.

  “You're a blasted idiot, Garson,” he said.

  All Arthur had thought about during those few minutes in the cellar was Mar tine's safety. “I worry about you during the attacks,” he told her later.

  “When the bombs fall, we go to the church of Saint-Agnant.”

  “What makes you think it is safe?” he asked.

  “It hasn't been touched yet,” she replied, “and the crypt is deep and made of stone. Everybody still in the town goes there. They have beds, food, everything.” She put her lips close to his ear and whispered lustily, “Maybe I'll take you there sometime.”

  the next week the company was moved to Vermelles, a small town seven miles from Béthune. Arthur could visit Martine only once a week, but Madame d'Usseau permitted her daughter to leave the estaminet in his company for an hour. It was enough time to walk to the wheat fields, disappear among the swaying stalks, cautiously arouse each other, and lie in each other's arms, staring at the limitless sky and entertaining daydreams of life after the war. But with each week that went by, their moments together became darker and more desperate.

  Without Madame d'Usseau as an impediment to their lovemaking, their encounters became serious. They made love, then argued. The tension stemmed from their frustration, a desire for stability, a yearning for an existence beyond food shortages, thunderous barrages, shattered houses, and heaps of rubble.

  Once, when Arthur whistled “Rule, Britannia” after Martine reached her climax, she cried, “Be serious! I love you!”

  As they threw on their clothes, he promised her everything would be all right, but his assurances meant nothing. Nothing would be all right.

  On the fourth weekend, Martine led him silently into the fields, and when he put his hand playfully over her breast, she struck his cheek. “Make love to me as a husband makes love to his wife,” she said. They had never done this before; she had been afraid of becoming pregnant.

  “Are you sure?” said Arthur.

  Martine led him into the middle of a field of golden sheaves beneath a sky of puffy storybook clouds. They removed all of their clothes. His army coat served as a mattress and her shawl as a blanket. Arthur hadn't seen Martine's bare shoulders before, and he was astonished that she looked so pal
lid and vulnerable beneath him.

  “You're covered with freckles,” she remarked, caressing his arm with similar astonishment.

  Arthur paused, as if their nakedness might put her off the whole venture, but she pivoted her hips impatiently, and in a few moments he had penetrated her, and they forgot the swooping magpies and the soaring cumuli above them, imagining themselves as husband and wife in another place, far away. When Martine didn't reach climax, Arthur made an effort to change position, but she insisted that he enter her again. She kept her hands on his back, digging her fingernails into him. Finally, he reached a third, painful climax. Martine indicated that he should stay inside her. As they lay together, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Martine,” he said.

  “Again,” she replied.

  “This is not pleasure,” he began.

  “Again” she insisted. “Fuck me.”

  It was then that he realized she had an entirely different motive. “I want to be finished with you. I want not to want you anymore!”

  They walked back to town in silence. Martine wouldn't look at him; her hair was loose and wild, and she wouldn't speak. Arthur felt sick to his stomach. He begged her to talk to him, but in her torment she remained silent. He worried about returning her to Madame d'Usseau in such a state.

  “I would rather be alone,” she answered, when he offered to see her to her door.

  “Next week, then?” he asked.

  “No. Don't come again,” she answered, adding, “Don't come ever again. It's over. I can't stand it anymore.”

  MARGARET'S LETTER

  October 1, 1918

  Dear Father,

  I am doing my best to cope with your patients. They all want to know when you are coming back, as I do.

  Dr. Green is doing an adequate job as your substitute, though he is a little timid. When old Mrs. Muerling came in with an infection (below the waist), he insisted that I conduct the examination while he stood at the far end of the consulting room and stared at the wall. I had to walk back and forth, whispering in his ear, then reexamining her, then answering his questions. All the while, the poor woman had terror on her face because the doctor wouldn't go near her.

  Yesterday the little Coxton boy came in with a rubber duck stuffed up his you-know-what. This must be the fourth time. I don't know how the boy walks around comfortably. His mother simply shakes her head when I inquire what inspired him to do this.

  I asked John to speak to him, and he wisely told the boy that God wouldn't have given us pockets if he meant us to keep things in our you-know-whats. Have no idea whether this made an impression.

  We are very excited about the wedding. You will remember that it is on November 11th. It is my hope that you will bring my sisters back with you. They both claim to be in London (addresses enclosed).

  No news from Arthur. I pray that our fighting forces may be victorious.

  Sincerely,

  Margaret

  THE END IS NEAR∼REJOICE!

  IT WAS A SQUALID EXISTENCE. CHARITY'S ROOM WAS FIVE FEET wide and eight feet long. The Pendleton philosophy dictated that people sleep alone but spend all the rest of their time in the company of the group. Charity had lost twenty-five pounds. She knew this only because she had to take in her dresses by inches every few months; her only personal possession was her sewing box, stowed secretly beneath her bed. The hall sister allowed her to keep it so that she could secure the loose buttons of her brothers and sisters. “Remember, Sister Charity, vanity is a sin,” she reminded her.

  She had been in London for six months but had seen little of it besides her lodgings off Piccadilly Circus and the mission hall. She played with the chorus every evening at the rallies and then there were the trips around the country. Birmingham, Leeds, Sheffield, Bristol—the rallies attracted the solitary, the lonely, and those who had lost loved ones to the war. There were plenty of those. Time was running out, and there were so many people to be saved.

  Charity didn't have much of an appetite lately. Perhaps it was the food, which wasn't very good, or perhaps it was simply that the days had a wearying banality. Reading the newspaper was discouraged. “Let us not be distracted from our purpose,” Isaiah Pound reminded them. Books, newspapers, letters, postcards were all distractions.

  Sometimes she couldn't bear it, and would try to slip out for a walk, but someone always joined her—Sister Amelia, usually. She always seemed to be on the lookout for Charity. She often peered into her room, and always turned up to eat with her. Once Charity asked Amelia if she had sisters.

  “You're my sister.” Sister Amelia smiled.

  “But what about your family?”

  “This is my family,” Sister Amelia replied matter-of-factly “No other family matters.”

  Sometimes they walked together around Piccadilly Circus, looking for people to invite to the rallies. Solitary souls were the most receptive. One evening Sister Amelia spotted a nurse who appeared to be talking to herself; she wore a uniform, with white shoes and a white cap that draped to her shoulders.

  When Sister Amelia greeted her, the woman's lips seemed to stop in midconversation. Startled, she stared at the two young women and abruptly buried her trembling hands in her pockets.

  “I'm Sister Amelia, and this is Sister Charity. Are you lost?”

  “No,” replied the woman. “My husband's lost, but I'm not.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help?” said Charity.

  The woman's chin bobbed with emotion, and she shook her head. “He died.”

  “Oh, you poor dear,” said Sister Amelia. “You must be so lonely.”

  The woman's eyebrows rose pitifully.

  “Do you need somewhere to stay? Something to eat, perhaps?”

  The woman shook her head. “I have a home. I have a job. I'm a nurse.”

  “Sometimes it's comforting to share your feelings,” said Amelia.

  They bought her a cup of tea and inquired gently about her life. The woman explained that she worked at a local hospital, that she used to nurse children, and that she wanted children, but that was impossible now.

  “We all seek to fill a void,” Isaiah Pound repeatedly reminded his followers. This nurse was a potential Pendleton. If they could get her to a rally, she would probably join.

  The sisters offered the woman gentle sympathy. “I'm so sorry about your husband. Was it an accident?”

  The nurse hesitated. “Oh, no, dear, it was murder.”

  “Murder?” cried Sister Amelia. “How terrible!”

  “Yes.” The woman nodded. “It was a terrible way to die. He was pushed off a mountain when he was just a little boy. The shepherds found him. Poor thing.”

  Sister Amelia smiled nervously. “A little boy? But I thought he was your husband—”

  “Yes, dear,” said the woman, as though there was no apparent contradiction in this logic. “And one day I'll avenge his death. The minister of war killed him, you know—Geoffrey Mansworth.”

  It was evident that the woman was a little confused, so the two Pendletons quickly wished her well and parted ways with her.

  “Poor dear,” said Sister Amelia. “I didn't know what to believe of her story. And such a strange name—Polly Pigeon.”

  SANCTUARY

  VERMELLES STOOD A MILE FROM LOOS, WHICH HAD SUFFERED INTENSE destruction at the beginning of the war. Norkin said that the British had accidentally poisoned many of their own troops there during a botched gas attack. Because of their exposure on the flat plain, the CO. directed camouflage netting to be strung in front of the artillery placements. It did little to assuage the soldiers' sense of exposure in the flat countryside. Strict orders were issued to extinguish all lights at dusk for fear of giving the Germans a mark.

  Arthur's melancholy provoked sympathy from the others. Garson tried to commiserate with a little speech about the duplicity of women, but Arthur believed Martine was simply trying to protect herself.

  The devastation in Vermelles echoed his d
espair; houses stood without roofs and walls, just the leaden window frames intact. An enormous stone crucifix stood at the entrance to the town graveyard, and the many crosses marking the graves stood upright in orderly rows—a stark contrast to the shambles in town.

  One morning Arthur was awoken by Hartwell yelling in his ear: “Chapel! The Fritzes are on the move!”

  Arthur staggered out of the barracks to see the street full of a battalion of Highlanders marching in formation on their way back from Loos. The skirl of bagpipes filled his ears; each piper led a platoon in steel helmets and full battle gear. The sight of their grimly magnificent faces filled him with a burst of envy. These men didn't piss in their trousers, he was sure of it.

  Behind the Highlanders, black smoke rose and guns thundered.

  The artillery group met to discuss strategy. “We suspect that the Germans will advance today,” explained the CO. “Our company will keep firing until they appear a quarter mile away. If they advance, we cannot let them claim our artillery. We need four men to destroy them while the rest of the company leaves.”

  Arthur volunteered with Hartwell, Norkin, and Garson.

  “You'll have to blow up the guns by inserting one shell into the breech,” explained the gunner, “and another into the muzzle, fuse first. Then you fire the gun with a lanyard from about fifty feet away. The gun will blow itself to pieces.”

  The gunner gave Arthur a length of telephone wire for the lanyard, and Arthur took a service rifle and a few clips of ammunition, and waited with the other men.

  At 4:00 P.M., beneath a sunless, gray sky, the German advance commenced with a salvo of woolly bears—soldier slang for shells that explode overhead in billowing clouds, raining shrapnel on their victims. The company cleared out, leaving one truck for the last four men. Suddenly, the Number 1 and 4 guns exploded in direct hits. Both Norkin and Garson died instantly. Arthur and Hartwell dragged their bodies to the trucks and set about detonating the remaining two guns. As Arthur put the first shell into Number 3 gun, he saw movement on the horizon—an eerie column of men merged with machinery.