by Amy Cross
“Whatever will become of you next, eh?” he asks, as I smooth my soaking wet hair away from my face.
Looking up, I see Father framed against the gray morning sky, and his features are red with excitement.
“She's coming for me!” I stammer, filled with panic. “She wants me! She's alive! She's going to get me, she's trying to -”
Before I can get another word out, Father slams his knee against the side of my face, sending me crashing down against the muddy ground. This, at least, makes me shut up, and I take a moment to check that my jaw isn't shattered.
“You should have heard yourself,” he continues, “screaming like a woman, ranting about the old bitch coming back to life and clawing at your body. I was tempted to leave you down there a while longer, but I began to worry what the neighbors might think.”
Turning, I see that the coffin is down in a shallow grave, its lid no more than a couple of feet from the surface. With the lid open, Grandmother's body is exposed to the light, and her dead eyes still stare at me. Startled, I pull back, terrified in case she moves again. I'm shaking with fear, and all I can think about is the sensation of her hand touching my face in the darkness, and then...
And then what?
I barely remember what happened next. It's as if my terrified mind was unable to retain the memories. I know I screamed, and I know I lit more matches, and I know Grandmother's dress began to burn. I know I saw her face in the flames, and I felt her hands grabbing at me, and I heard Father yelling as he tore the lid off the coffin, and then...
I remember the sound of my own horrified, rambling voice as Father dragged me to the water trough.
“You didn't have to set fire to her,” he mutters, stepping around to the other side of the grave and peering down at her. “Good job I got you out when I did, or the pair of you might have burned down there. I trust you've learned your lesson now, at least. No son of mine is going to live a life ruled by fear. You're a wretched lad, to be sure, but we'll make a man of you yet. Whatever you think you saw and felt down there, I hope you know it was all in your head.”
“It was a test,” I stammer, as my whole body shivers in the cold morning air. I stare at Grandmother for a moment longer, before looking up at Father again. “You did that to me on purpose!”
“Aye, and I'll do it again if you're not careful.” Still grinning, he seems to find me highly amusing. “In all seriousness, let this be a lesson to you. There's no point letting your fears run out of control, because they'll only deceive you further. If you truly thought the old woman was coming back to life, you only have yourself to blame. It's a weak mind that perceives such things, Maurice, and you must be stronger. Promise me you won't get like that again.”
“You put me down there with her,” I whisper, feeling a rising sense of anger in my chest. After a moment, I start getting to my feet, and I swear I have a new strength in my chest. I am no longer scared of Father. Instead, I hate him with a passion. “You fooled me.”
“You can't fool a man if he's not already a fool,” he replies smugly. “Still, at least you are a man now. I hope so, anyway. If you're not, there's nothing more I can do for you. You won't make much of an undertaker if you're scared of the dead.”
With that, he turns and walks away, leaving me standing at the edge of the grave. I cannot help staring down at Grandmother's body, and I still feel certain that she truly moved while I was trapped with her in the coffin. The mind might be a powerful thing, but it cannot possibly conjure up such horrors.
“Come on, lad!” Father calls out. “We've got work to do!”
***
“Will he even fit in that thing?” I ask, as I wheel the next body through. “He's a big man, and I'm not -”
“Don't be stupid,” Father replies with a chuckle, leaning under the table and pulling out an ax. “Now you're working with me full-time, I can let you in on a few tricks of the trade. First things first, you don't waste time building a large coffin for a man like Henry Corner. Hell, his family can barely afford to pay for him to be buried in the first place. All you do -”
He swings the ax down, cutting Henry's left arm clean away and letting it fall to the floor.
“All you do is prune the man down until he fits the coffin,” he continues, heading around to the far end of the table. “He was a tall bastard, wasn't he?”
He hesitates, before raising the ax and then chopping one of Henry's feet off. He does the same to the other foot, and then he kicks them both across the room as he steps around the table. “That oughta do it, don't you think? We'll give him a try and see.”
Staring in horror at the severed body parts on the floor, I feel a sense of nausea rising once more in my gut.
“You're not still thinking about those few hours you spent in the coffin, are you?” Father asks. “You need to get over it, my boy. That was just an initiation into the family business, so to speak. Don't take these things so seriously. My father did something similar to me once, and I turned out alright.”
He starts laughing, as he sets the ax aside and drags Henry Corner's body to the side of the coffin.
“Are you gonna help, or what?”
Figuring that I have no choice, I head around to grab Henry's feet, only to remember at the last moment that his feet are no longer attached to the rest of him. I hesitate for a moment, before grabbing hold of his stumpy legs and helping Father haul the corpse into the coffin.
“In America,” he mutters, “they've taken to having the coffins open at funerals. Can you believe that? People actually want to see the faces of the dead bodies. God help us if that ever catches on in England.” He grunts as we squeeze the body into the coffin. With his left arm missing, and both feet cut away, Henry just about fits. “See?” Father continues. “Problem solved. And now for your second lesson of the day.”
Reaching down, he picks up the feet and arm and tosses them unceremoniously into a crate.
“You'll be taking those down the street in a bit,” he explains, “to old Warner's place.”
“The butcher?” I reply, shocked by the suggestion.
“You don't seriously believe his cheapest lumps of meat are all from pigs and cows, do you?” he asks with a grin. “Why do you think I always said never to buy the mincemeat from that place? Half of it's from rats, and the other half's from... Well, let's just say we don't waste anything around here. And frankly, I'm starting to think we should send the whole bloody body over to Warner. It's not as if anyone's gonna check who or what is getting lowered into the ground in these boxes.”
“You mean people are eating...”
My voice trails off as I realize exactly what he means. I've never trusted Mr. Warner, and I always suspected that he was passing off vermin as decent meat, but now my stomach turns as I come to understand the truth. Feeling a little dizzy, I lean against one of the tables and try to get my head straight, although after a moment I become aware that Father is watching me intently. Turning to him, I can't help worrying that he might be contemplating another lesson that I need to learn, and I think I might have had enough of those for one day.
“You look sick to the gills,” he mutters.
“I'm not,” I reply, swallowing hard. “Honest.”
“I almost believe you. Now make yourself useful and fetch some more coal. I won't be cold this afternoon. And drop those chunks off at Warner's on the way, and mind that you bring back what I'm owed. He'll take one look at you and try to cheat you, seeing as how you look like a vacant string of piss. I want half a crown off him, on account of him owing me from last time. See that you get the lot.”
I stare at the body parts for a moment, before turning to him.
“Well?” he continues. “What's confusing you, boy? You know your job. Get to it.”
“Of course,” I stammer, heading over to the other table and picking up the crate. It's surprisingly light, considering the body parts it contains, but I have to focus in order to keep from vomiting as I carry the crate to
ward the door.
“And don't take too long!” Father calls after me. “I'll be waiting, boy!”
By the time I get out into the yard, I'm starting to feel dizzy. I can't bring myself to look down at the arm and feet in the crate, but at the same time I can't stop thinking about them. I think I can even smell the pale, dead flesh and the congealed blood, and I once again feel as if my head is spinning. Reaching the gate at the yard's far end, I hesitate for a moment before grabbing some rags and placing them over the body-parts. At least that way, passersby in the street won't see what I'm carrying.
“Get moving!” Father calls after me. “There's still plenty of work still to be done when you're back!”
“Of course,” I mutter, slipping out into the alley and then making my way along the street. The idea of ever going back to the workshop, of even hearing Father's voice again, is profoundly nauseating, yet at the same time I know I have no other options. I am destined to work for Father, and then to one day take his place as head of the family business, and then perhaps even to become like him. One day, I might have a son of my own, and I might be equally harsh and cruel.
By the time I'm getting close to the butcher's back door, I can't shake the feeling that nothing I ever do will be enough to rise above the squalor and filth of this world. If we are born in the mud, we can never entirely rinse ourselves clean. Lost in these thoughts, I make my way along the alley, trying to avoid eye contact with a beggar who sits hunched next to one of the walls. Just as I pass the foul old man, however, I trip against a broken cobble, and I drop the crate as I crash to the floor.
In an instant, the beggar lunges forward, pulling the rags from the crate and grabbing the arm and feet.
“Stop!” I shout, but it's too late and he makes off with his prizes, scampering along the alley and quickly disappearing around the corner.
Getting to my feet, I feel a sharp pain in my ankle, but I still run after the old man. There's no sign of him in the next street, or the next, and I'm about to give up when finally I spot him huddled in the shadows at the side of a public house. I clench my fists, ready to go over and demand that he returns what he stole from me, but then my stomach turns as I see that he has already begun to chew on one of the feet.
For a moment, I feel as if the rest of the world has disappeared entirely, and all that is left is this gruesome scene. I can't even look away as the old man uses his teeth to tear loose a strip of flesh, or as he sucks the meat into his mouth and starts chewing. Somehow fascinated by this vile display, I feel a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I realize that I have been wrong all along.
It's not just Father.
The whole world is miserable and foul, and yet...
And yet there is one beacon of decency and honesty.
Turning, I stagger back along the street, making my way toward the lights in the distance. With each step, I become more and more aware of my own stench, as if the smells of the workshop have become entangled in my clothes. Even though I'm now only a few corners from the spot where the beggar sat chewing on a stolen foot, already the buildings around me are starting to look grander and more stately, and I can't help noticing that the people seem much better dressed. It's almost as if I've reached another world.
Finally, stopping at the next corner, I look across the street and see the vast, blazing lights of the Moorchester. I know it's just a hotel, but somehow this place represents the best that the world has to offer. It's so close, and yet at the same time I feel I cannot approach.
Men in suits and women in beautiful dresses are dining on the other side of the windows. I don't go too close, not this time, since I would rather not disturb such elegant people. Still, I can't help but watch as a horse-drawn carriage pulls up outside the main entrance, and as a smartly-dressed man steps out before helping a woman down. They look so perfect and so graceful, and I can't help thinking that I belong in their world. I belong among the upper classes.
I must find a way to reach them. Either that, or I shall die trying.
***
“Is that you? Boy? Are you finally back with the coal?”
I can hear Father stomping through the house, heading this way, but I don't bother turning. Not yet. Instead, I continue to go through the box on the dresser, picking out anything that looks like it might be valuable. I know there's not much here, but there has to be at least something I can pawn. These items belonged to Mother and Grandmother, so I feel they're as much mine as Father's now. I don't need much money, but I need a small sum so that I can get far away from this wretched place.
Far away from London, even.
“Boy! What are you doing?”
Hearing the door crash open, I realize that Father is going to want answers. I wait until he's right up behind me, and then I feel his hand on my shoulder.
“Where's the coal?” he asks. “What -”
Before he can finish, I turn and punch him square on the side of the face, sending him crashing back until he slams down against the floor. I step toward him, ready to hit him again, but I quickly see that I managed to knock him out cold with my first strike. My right hand hurts a little, but I can move the fingers well enough, and I cannot help but feel rather satisfied that I managed to cut him down so easily. Perhaps I am more of a man than he realized.
“I'm getting out of here,” I stammer, turning back to the jewelry box and scooping out everything I can hold, quickly shoving the various rings and necklaces into my pocket. “I was born in the wrong world, but I can find my way to where I'm supposed to be.”
With that, I step over Father's unconscious form and head toward the door. I don't know where I'm going, or what I shall do when I get there, but I am sure of one thing.
One day, I shall be a great man. The world will bow down before the great Maurice Mecklethorpe.
Part Four
Ruth Maywhistle - 1935
Chapter Ten
“I'm not selling this land!” Pappa shouts, slamming his tool-bag against the kitchen table as he marches through to the other room. “Jobard Nash will own this plot over my dead body!”
“Why's Pappa so angry?” I whisper, turning to Mamma.
“Quiet,” she replies, keeping her voice low. She's scared. I've seen her scared before, but usually only when Pappa has been drinking. This time, he's sober and she's still scared. “Ruth, perhaps you can go and play with your sister for a little while.”
“But -”
“Go to your sister!” she says firmly, and I can tell that something's really wrong.
Without even waiting to make sure that I leave the room, she hurries to the counter and grabs a glass, and to my horror she pours Pappa a whiskey. Her hands are trembling, and she's muttering to herself under her breath.
“Please don't give him that!” I stammer. “Not when he's already mad!”
“It might help this time,” she replies, before turning to me. “Go!” she shouts. “Now! Don't you dare answer back!”
She takes a moment to adjust her dress, and then she makes her way cautiously through to the next room, where Pappa seems to be still stomping about in a fury. This isn't the first time he's been angry about Mr. Nash, but it is the first time he's flown into such an absolute rage, and it's definitely the first time Mamma has looked like she's scared of him while he's sober. I want to believe that Pappa would never hurt Mamma, but deep down I worry about these fits he's started to get. It's almost as if he's slowly losing control of his temper.
At the same time, he brings less and less back each time from his hunting trips.
“I won't speak of it!” he shouts suddenly from the next room. “There's no discussion to be had! Get out of my sight!”
“What was the offer?” Mamma asks him, as I watch the empty doorway. I can see their shadows on the far wall, and it sounds as if Pappa has at least stopped storming about. “If it was enough for us to buy a house in town, perhaps we should at least consider the -”
“Are you on his side?�
� Pappa snaps, loud enough for me to flinch slightly. “Did he come to you while I was out working? Did he persuade you to work on me?”
“Of course not! I'm simply saying that it's been several years since we've been able to make this land really pay. I don't know what's wrong, but -”
“I've told you what's wrong!” he yells. “It's that cursed hotel that Nash built up the hill. Ever since he first broke ground on the place, the soil down here has been dry as bone. That man single-handedly made all our land infertile, and now he thinks he can swoop in and buy us out for a pittance!”
“What does he want our land for?” Mamma asks.
Even though I'm scared, I step closer to the open doorway.
“I didn't even bother to listen,” Pappa mutters darkly. “Evidently he aims to expand his hotel, hoping to lure more unsuspecting customers. The man would be better off shutting that place down, tearing it apart, and going to seek his fortune somewhere else. This land was fine before he showed up, and it'll be fine after he's gone.”
“You don't know that,” Mamma replies. “The damage might be irreparable, at least in our lifetimes.”
“You don't have a clue what you're talking about. And now, to add insult to injury, he says that he's rescinding my hunting rights! He wants to starve us into submission! You should have heard the way he talked to me! He said he was running out of patience, and that soon he'd have to take matters into his own hand. The man actually threatened me!”
“How much did he offer, Charles? I'm not saying I want us to leave our home, but times change and perhaps we must simply -”
Suddenly there's a loud slap, and Mamma falls silent. I take a step back, my heart pounding as I tell myself that there's absolutely no way Pappa would have struck her, but a moment later Mamma steps into view and I see that not only does she look pale and shocked, but she's holding a hand to the side of her face, as if she's in pain.
