Tom Bedlam

by George Hagen

  Oscar Limpkin looked startled to see him. “Oh, hello, Tom. On your way somewhere?”

  “Mansworth's house.”

  “Oh?” Oscar averted his eyes. “News of your son, perhaps?”

  “As far as I know, there hasn't been any news about Arthur,” Tom replied.

  Oscar frowned. “Mansworth is a liar. Ask him about Arthur,” he said. “See what he says. Press him, Tom. He owes you that.”

  Alarmed by Oscar's tone, Tom dismissed the cab. He studied his old friend. “Oscar, what are you doing here? Were you coming to see me? What do you know?”

  Oscar groaned. “Look,” he said. “I've the worst news. Arthur may be dead, Tom. A fellow I know heard that they found some of Arthur's kit after an explosion near Vermelles. It's most likely that he's been killed.”

  Tom stared at his old friend. “Oscar,” he said. “Lie to me. Tell me my son is coming home. Spare me this misery.”

  Oscar looked feebly back at Tom and shook his head. “I'd like to be wrong, Tom, you know that.”

  TOM WAS USHERED into Mansworth's study without being aware of his cab ride to Bedford Park or the greetings of the police officers. Grief stricken, he clung to one source of hope—the man Mr. Griff had identified as his brother.

  “Eve has taken Josephine to the theater,” Mansworth explained; he was looking particularly vulnerable this evening. His ankles were bloated and swelled around the edges of his shoes. His eyes were puffy, his skin pale. “Brandy?”

  “No, thank you,” said Tom. “And you shouldn't have any either.” “Good heavens, you're not here to discuss my health again, are you?” Tom searched Mansworth's face. He was looking for some shared trait, some signal of their kinship, some reason to like the man. “Have you a birthmark here?” he inquired, pointing to his own collar.

  Mansworth mirrored Tom's gesture and revealed a faint red spot. “Yes, why?”

  “I have it on good authority that we are brothers. Geoffrey, you were given away by my father shortly after you were born in a Vauxhall slum. Bronson Mansworth adopted you.”

  Mansworth laughed softly. “Oscar didn't tell you this, did he? It sounds like something he would dredge up.”

  “No, not Oscar—your adoption certificate at the General Register Office, with a small notation of your former parents, William and Emily Bedlam. Were you ever told of your adoption?”

  The war minister paused—it seemed an implicit acknowledgment. “How long have you known?” he growled.

  “Just a few days,” Tom replied.

  Mansworth nodded. “We should toast. But you wouldn't approve, would you, Doctor?” He sat down and rubbed his ankles. “As a boy walking with my father, I sometimes passed the time looking for kinship in passing faces. It was a careless pastime. I had a fine home, everything I could want. I never wished for a brother—or a sister, for that matter. Now I have both. How lucky I am.” The detachment in his voice belied this last remark.

  Tom stood, rigid and unamused. “How lucky, indeed.”

  Mansworth's smile faded. “You can always count on me, Tom; you know that, don't you?”

  “I'm glad to hear it,” Tom replied. “Have you any news?”

  “News?”

  “Of my son.”

  Mansworth took a cautious sip of brandy and issued a nod. “As a matter of fact, I've learned that Arthur is safe and well.”

  “He is?” Tom felt a sickly wave of relief—it was not conviction but desperate hope. “Can you bring him back?”

  Mansworth examined his brandy glass. “No, but I assure you, he's perfectly safe. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I've no idea, but my sources guarantee that he's perfectly safe. Perfectly safe”

  The odd repetition was dismaying. It reminded Tom of Bill Bedlam's assurances of his brother's safety. Then, he became struck by Mansworth's expression: it harkened back to the summit of Hammer Peak, that same starkly calculating stare, waiting for Tom to believe that Arthur was safe. But now, he was assuring him of his own son's safety. It was just as transparent.

  “You're a liar, Geoffrey. I think you're leading me on. You haven't a clue where my son is.”

  “Tom, honestly, you can count on me.”

  “I've learned from Oscar that Arthur probably died in an explosion in Vermelles.”

  Mansworth looked away. “Well, Oscar is hardly a reliable source. His books are pure fabrications!”

  “I should believe you, then?”

  “Well”—Mansworth smiled—“I'm responsible for thousands of soldiers, a nation at war, our collective future—”

  Tom could bear it no longer. “Spare me the hustings speech, Geoffrey!” he cried. “You're a murderous scoundrel and a liar. Oscar would never lie to me. He's more of a brother to me than you could ever be.”

  Mansworth shifted uneasily. “How dare you? I made you a promise. That should count for something. Oscar and I have our differences, but you and I are bound, now, as brothers—”

  “Bound, yes, but by lies. By a murder you committed! And Oscar can rely on me as a knowledgeable source. People must know what a wretched creature you are, Geoffrey. God help us if you become prime minister.”

  CHARISMA

  IN A NARROW MUSIC HALL, ON A STAGE BATHED IN WARM INCANDES-cence, Iris sang her paean to peace before an audience of scruffy and youthful Londoners—students, teachers, actors, poets, artists, and other good-for-nothings. She was dressed as Victory, her breasts barely concealed by bandoliers, her hips draped in pistol belts. In a soaring soprano, she sang—

  When this lousy war is over, Oh, how happy I shall be, I will welcome all you soldiers, Bid you sleep awhile with me. Lie with me on England's hilltops, Cast your guns into the sea, We'll make love for e'er and always, Make the war a memory …

  Tom guessed that Iris had recrafted the song's lyrics herself: it had her bawdy touch. Just in case anybody missed the point, the dead soldiers who were lying onstage rose to reveal white wings on their backs. They hoisted Iris onto their shoulders, while she casually shed her helmet, sword, bandoliers, and pistol belts, and was carried naked—save for a pair of large, feathery white wings—offstage.

  The audience stamped, whistled, and cheered lustfully. Tom admired his daughter's considerable stage presence, though he wished she had worn some vestige of clothing when she was marched offstage. He knew it wasn't great theater, but she had rallied the youthful idealism of her audience. After the curtain fell, the cast came out to take a bow. Iris received whistles and cries of “I love you!”

  She beamed, delighted with the fuss, and Tom wondered if the sight of all those boys from St. Peter's cheering at Margaret on the hockey field had inspired his second daughter's desire to become a figure of lust herself.

  “Oh, Papa,” Iris insisted later in the hallway as she dressed, “the audiences are always with us! People are tired of having their children coming home in bandages and boxes. The war will be over very soon. Mark my words! Arthur will be back before—”

  “Iris, please listen to me.” Tom steadied himself by putting a hand to her shoulder. “I've had news that Arthur has been killed. There was an explosion, and some of his clothing was found; his company has assumed the worst.”

  Iris blinked at her father. It took a few moments for the information to register. “His clothes? You mean, they haven't actually found a body? How can they assume—”

  “Iris, please. This is very hard for me to accept, but—”

  She shook her head. “I refuse to believe it.”

  “They conducted a service for him; they seem sure—”

  “I don't care,” she interrupted. “Piglet was always getting into trouble, but he had a funny way of turning up all right in the end.”

  “Yes, he did. But this is a war!” Tom stared at her, angry now that she was challenging him on a point he had been struggling with for some time already. “Iris, I have to go back for Margaret. The wedding is in two days, but I hoped that yo
u and Charity might come with me.”

  “Papa! You can't give up!”

  Perhaps somewhere else, Tom might have tolerated Iris's protest. But not in a theater corridor full of grown men and women darting about in greasepaint and silly clothing. Enough artifice, enough nonsense, he thought. “Iris, you mustbe realistic!” he cried. “Your brother is dead. You and I have a responsibility to the family we have, not the one we wish we had.”

  Though his admonishment was directed as much at himself as at his daughter, Iris suddenly burst into tears. It seemed to make her all the more obstinate. “Well, then, I must keep performing,” she cried angrily. “And Margaret should keep her knickers on until the war is over. What's her hurry, anyway?” she added fiercely. “She's only going to make that poor man miserable for the rest of his life!”

  “Iris, be reasonable. Your mother would expect us to look after each other.”

  Iris blushed at the invocation of her mother's memory. “Papa, I must be at a festival in Brighton this weekend. It's very important. Artists, musicians, church groups—it's a chance to get the word across to thousands!”

  An actor dressed in a flowing robe, a white wig, and a beard that hung to his knees nodded agreeably to Tom. He put down two stone tablets and removed the beard, revealing a familiar pink face.

  “I saw your sister last week,” Tom told him.

  The Orfling gave him an appreciative nod and planted a wet kiss on the top of his head.

  TOM MADE ANOTHER ATTEMPT to see Charity at her lodgings. Sister Amelia heard him asking about his daughter and joined the other Pendle-tons at the counter to explain that Charity was on tour on the coast and that she wouldn't be back for a while.

  “On what day will she return?”

  Sister Amelia hesitated to answer this question. “It doesn't really matter,” she replied finally.

  “It matters to me,” Tom replied. “She's my daughter, and I haven't seen her for a very long time.”

  “She returns on Monday, November eleventh, which happens to be humanity's last day on earth.”

  Tom looked at their serious faces. “Well”—he smiled—“just in case, expect me on Tuesday,” he said.

  The Pendletons stared at the man who clung foolishly to the philosophy of the damned.

  “God save you,” one called after him.

  NOVEMBER 10, 1918

  ON THE EVENING BEFORE THE APOCALYPSE, THE PENDLETONS' RALLY at Brighton's Palace Pier drew their largest crowd ever. They held a mass prayer between the arcades and flashing lights; hundreds were baptized in the water below. Joyous faces clambered to the shore, freed by Isaiah Pound and ready for the Rapture.

  In the bingo hall, a company of actors performed a dramatic protest against the war. A man dressed as Moses presented a woman dressed as Winged Victory with a tablet carved with the words THOU SHALT NOT KILL; Victory put down her weapons and gave up her garments in an extended striptease as she led the crowd along the pier until they spilled into the streets of the seaside town singing “When This Lousy War Is Over” into the wee hours.

  It was a warm evening for November. The water lapped gently at the pilings while a salty breeze provoked lovers to cling together and friends to cluster in tight groups, savoring the energy in the air and the hope and faith provoked by the festivities. There were stragglers in the streets, chattering, joking, and singing in the twilight, waiting for something important to happen—love at first sight, perhaps, or a quick encounter with a stranger beneath the pier, or even news of the war's cessation or the opening of heaven's gates.

  Anything seemed possible tonight.

  Charity sat in her hotel room, hungry, tired, dizzy from the rally and most of all anxious that she should see Isaiah Pound before the trumpet of angels and the drumbeat of the Apocalypse.

  Outside her door, she heard people singing.

  When this lousy war is over, Oh, how happy I shall be, I will welcome all you soldiers, Bid you sleep awhile with me.

  It must have been those actors. They were walking the streets, laughing and chattering the night away. One of them sounded like Iris, but that could only be wishful thinking. Charity missed her family dearly—the banter, Margaret's temper, Iris's wit, Arthur's gentle presence, even her father's strangely placid glow as he witnessed their most energetic and furious arguments. This familial turmoil suddenly appeared wrenchingly preferable to the cool ritual friendship of the Pendletons.

  Charity shivered and considered her four-walled cell. There was a knock at the door. Brother Isaiah smiled at her; he was holding two glasses and a bottle of wine.

  “I thought we were not allowed to drink,” she began.

  “On the eve of Armageddon, I think it's permissible,” he replied, pouring a glass for each of them. “The war might be over tomorrow,” he told her. “This, Charity, is an evening of portent for the world.”

  She stared at her glass.

  “Join me, Charity,” he said, raising his glass. “God has led us this far, but tomorrow is a mystery, even to me.”

  She took a reluctant sip, but Pound insisted that she drink more.

  “I admire your self-discipline, Charity, but this is a special moment for us both.”

  “How so?”

  “I consider myself lucky to have you by my side. You're a remarkable woman, one of my pillars. You have no flaws.”

  Outside, there was a burst of laughter. Charity thought again that she recognized the voice. Then that silly song began again, with new lyrics.

  Lie with me on England's hilltops, Cast your guns into the sea, We'll make love for e'er and always, Make the war a memory …

  “Flaws? Of course I have flaws,” she replied, taking another sip. “I'm vain, and I indulge in foolish thoughts.”

  Pound poured more wine into her glass. “Foolish thoughts? Of what foolishness might you be guilty?”

  Charity paused. Her hunger combined with the wine was having a peculiar effect. She felt irritated; his flattery struck her now as condescending. If he admired her, why would he tempt her like this?

  “Impure thoughts,” she replied.

  “You? I doubt it.” He laughed. “Tell me.”

  Charity shook her head, wrestling with a desire to shock the amusement off his face. “I would be ashamed,” she said. “And you would be embarrassed.”

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Pound insisted with a half smile. “Nothing you say will surprise me.”

  “Very well,” said Charity, taking another sip of her wine. “Once I removed my clothes, wearing only the pendant you gave me. Then I imagined myself in your arms.” She wiped a drop of wine from her chin and looked at him.

  Pound refilled his glass and nodded, as if the fantasy didn't surprise him. “Symbolically, you are opening your soul to me.”

  “Am I?” she said.

  He poured more wine for her, but she set down her glass. “No more,” she said. She was feeling dizzy; the wine was turning her hunger to nausea.

  Pound put the bottle down, satisfied with its effect. “Charity,” he began, “we are souls locked in a mission before God. Are we not?”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “Flesh means nothing. Besides, tomorrow we may not even be flesh, just the essence of the human spirit.”

  “I suppose,” said Charity, rubbing her temples as her head began to throb.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Charity.”

  “I'm not ashamed,” she replied. “It's just that my head is hurting.”

  “Indulge my point for one more moment. Remove your clothes, and I shall remove mine, and you will see how little it means.”

  Charity stared at him for a long moment. Her clothes? Her clothes had always been her pride. She stared at the stark walls of the room, the wineglasses, and reconsidered his request. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Show me that you have no shame.”

  “Shame? I need something to eat. I'm tired,” she answered. “I have no desire to— I don't ca
re about shame”

  He smiled again. “Remove your clothes.”

  Despite the haze of her nausea, Charity couldn't mistake the shift in his tone. It was a command. His stare had become predatory, his small eyes piercing, and she was aware now of his hairline, white at the scalp, black at the tips.

  “We've been leading up to this moment, Charity,” he said. “I've sensed your desire. God has plans for us.”

  She looked at Pound with disbelief. “What?”

  “I am Adam and you are Eve.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her.

  Charity held her breath as he kissed her mouth, her neck, and unbuttoned her blouse at the collar. He kissed her shoulder and the spot between her breasts. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “It's all right,” he assured her.

  But it wasn't all right, she thought. She felt no desire. A fantasy was one thing, but now, she felt disappointed. He ran his finger down her neck, and she shivered.

  Was something wrong with her? Should she submit? Did love come after a conquest? Then another question struck her: Had he been preparing her for a seduction? The pendant, the long waits, the confessions, and finally, tonight, the wine. His clumsy effort to compromise her was compounded by this idiotic attempt to get her to remove her clothes, a ploy no less awkward than a youth's first grope. It was maddening. Pathetic. Humiliating.

  “I shall leave,” she said, trying to stand, but he pushed her back roughly, planting his palm at the base of her throat. Suddenly Charity felt she was going to be sick.

  “You will stay until I say you may go,” he replied.

  Charity searched his face. She had always forgiven the cruelty in his features as the unfortunate luck of birth (she'd never felt that she deserved her face either), but now it seemed true to the mark, and she felt a fool.

  “Brother Isaiah, please,” she murmured, shifting her tone to conciliation and imagining that he couldn't possibly want to hurt her.

  His fingers adjusted around her throat. “Take off your clothes.”