The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) (32 page)

His regrets would come later – if he failed to steal the body before the coffin was planted in the churchyard.

It is not my intention to suggest that stealing one’s grandfather from his coffin is a nice thing to do – but worse deeds have been performed in the name of science. Also I am of the opinion that enterprise should be encouraged no matter in what field it raises an enquiring head. It may be asked what were Charlie’s qualifications for monster making? Well, he had some surgical experience, having worked in the local butcher’s shop for the best part of a year, during which period he skinned innumerable rabbits, dismembered sheep, uncovered the murky secrets of ox hearts, liver and kidneys; was able
to pinpoint the exact location of sirloin, rump, silverside, topside, shoulder, leg and stewing steak. Few surgeons know more – many far less.

Then – having so to speak completed his medical training – he entered the field of auto-dynamics. In other words he became for a short while a petrol pump attendant with engine messing-about-duties at the
Quick-In Quick-Out Garage
. There he was initiated into the mysteries of what takes place under a car bonnet; the dark secrets of carburetter misbehaviour; the mind boggling consequences of seeping batteries; the soul-disturbing results of erring sparking plugs.

It does not take much imagination to realize that the marriage of these two professions must sooner or later give birth to something very unusual.

After the family had retired to its individual beds – with the exception of Uncle George who was sharing with Cousin Marion – Charlie crept downstairs, went out to his laboratory (the disused potting shed), armed himself with two coal sacks, the larger portions of a dismembered mangle and one screwdriver, then returned to the house and prepared to acquire his monster-making material.

Removing the screws did not present any great problem. Getting Grandad to leave his coffin was quite another matter. Charlie heaved, shook, punched, pulled – all to no avail, for it seemed as if the corpse was determined to retain its wooden overcoat and defeat the cause of science.

Finally Charlie solved the problem by upending the coffin and tipping Grandad out on to the hearth-rug, where he lay, looking like a squatter who has been forcibly evicted from a suburban house. Then the latter-day-Frankenstein arranged mangle parts in the coffin, padded them with coal sacks and screwed the lid back into place. There only remained the task of getting Grandad into the potting-shed-cum-laboratory, where he could be bedded down in a barrel of brine, and left to acquire the pickled quality of salt-beef.

He lifted the uncooperative body up over his right shoulder and staggered out into the passage.

The funeral was a great success.

The Reverend Masters said some very nice things about the deceased, even if they were rather embarrassing to someone who knew exactly what was being interred.

“You must not think,” the worthy clergyman stated, “that my old friend is in this wooden box. Believe me, he has been removed to a place where the worm cannot consume, age cannot wither, corruption destroy. Friends, we are about to commit to earth
that which is no longer of use; that which has done its duty nobly and well, in fact – if I may coin a phrase – has served its turn.”

Charlie almost had a heart attack when they lowered the coffin into the grave, for he heard one pall bearer whisper to another, “’Ere, Harry, the old bugger’s rolling about in there!” but fortunately the recipient of this alarming information merely shrugged and said, “Yeah – well the old ’uns do – don’t they?”

Back in the house everyone sat down to a slap-up high-tea and generally gave the impression that having discharged an unpleasant, but necessary duty, they were now going to enjoy themselves. Uncle George helped himself to a very large whisky from the sideboard, then winked suggestively at Cousin Marion. Aunt Matilda gave Aunt Mildred a generous helping of sausage and mash, then instructed three-times-removed Cousin Jane to pour out the tea.

“You’re not decorative, so you might as well be useful,” she observed cheerfully. “Something hot inside us will help drive out the churchyard chill.”

“Went off very nicely,” Great-Aunt Lydia said, while spearing a boiled potato. “I thought the Reverend Masters gave a lovely sermon. I like that bit about dear Arthur not being in that coffin. It was so uplifting.”

“Have a pickled onion,” Aunt Matilda invited.

“I won’t, dear, if you don’t mind. They repeat.”

For a while the only sound was that of rattling cutlery and Uncle George’s occasional belch. Then twice-removed-and-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-family-Cousin Daniel who had spent the previous night in the box room, remarked darkly:

“He’s still here.”

Charlie shuddered and Aunt Mildred snapped:

“What are you talking about? Who’s still here?”

Cousin Daniel nodded slowly and gave the impression that he knew much, but was prepared to reveal little.

“Him. Grandad. I heard him wandering about last night.”

All the ladies squealed with either real or affected terror and Cousin Marion fainted and had to be helped to the best bedroom by Uncle George. Great Aunt Lydia voiced her indignation.

“How dare you say such a thing! The very idea! Tain’t respectful. Apart from the fact you’ve frightened everyone. Apologize at once.”

Cousin Daniel nodded again. “I heard what I heard. He thudded, then thumped – then went staggering along the passage. Mark my words – he won’t rest.”

During the ensuing storm Charlie popped out to the ex-potting shed
and piled a heap of sacks over the brine tub. Not before, however, he had taken a quick peep inside. Grandad’s bald head was already assuming the appearance of tanned leather.

Aunt Matilda was entertaining her best friend Jennifer Grandlee to tea.

“Charlie has got himself a hobby,” she said with a certain amount of satisfaction. “I must say it’s a real treat for him to have an interest.”

“Every man should have a hobby,” Jennifer remarked with deep profundity. “What kind of interest is he taking, dear?”

Aunt Matilda giggled. “I don’t know. He’s so secretive and just won’t let me into that old potting-shed. It’s something to do with sawing.”

“Woodwork,” Jennifer nodded. “They have to saw when they do woodwork.”

“And a fair amount of chopping,” Aunt Matilda continued. “There again, I’ve heard a fair amount of hammering.”

“Probably a bookcase,” Miss Grandlee suggested. “Or maybe a nice bedside cabinet. Of course he may be going to surprise you with something unusual. Such as a night-commode.”

Aunt Matilda frowned and gave the impression she was trying to think. “But why should he want a needle and thread? And twenty yards of copper wire?”

Jennifer shook her head. “I honestly don’t know, dear. I’m sure they don’t use a needle and thread in woodwork. At least I don’t think so. But of course Charlie has always had a sort of inventive streak. Remember that time he soled and heeled his shoes with a bit of fried steak? I know they got a bit smelly after a bit – but you’ve got to admit it did show an original mind.”

“Oh, he’s original all right,” Aunt Matilda agreed. “Ah, here he comes now.”

Charlie entered the room and started when he saw the visitor. Dressed in mud-stained overalls, he looked as every genius should, but rarely does.

“Don’t sit on the sofa in those muddy things,” Aunt Matilda instructed. “Spread a newspaper over the cushion first. What have you been doing?”

“Getting rid of surplus requirements,” Charlie answered thoughtlessly. “That is to say – I’ve been digging a hole.”

“All part of your hobby?” Jennifer enquired with a certain coyness. “Matilda tells me you’re making something in that shed of yours.”

But Charlie was lost in a world where half-legs met rump,
spare-ribs needed certain adjustments, liver required replacement, kidneys had lost their suet, lights had to be exchanged for a battery – and the entire thing was still too large.

“A smaller top and a rolling base,” he muttered. “And arms – who the hell wants arms? A couple of cut-down crank-shafts should do the trick. Excuse me.”

And without further explanation he jumped to his feet and raced from the room. Aunt Matilda sighed. “Whatever it is he’s making, he’s certainly wrapped up in it.”

“You know, dear,” Jennifer said after a while, “I think I’ve got it. He’s making a rolling chair with metal arms. It will be very useful if you want to move about without getting up.”

Uncle George was so annoyed he choked on his third glass of whisky and expressed his righteous indignation by banging a clenched fist down on the chair arm.

“Why? That’s what I want to know – why?”

“It’s all this television,” Aunt Matilda exclaimed. “Sets the young a bad example. What with
Z Cars
and that awful bald-headed man who will ruin his teeth with lollipops, it’s a wonder we aren’t all murdered in our beds.”

“That goat was a good friend to me,” Uncle George said with a sob in his voice.

“But it was dead,” Aunt Matilda pointed out. “I mean to say it wasn’t as though it was a up and around goat. It had passed over.”

“That’s no reason for someone to pinch its flipping head,” Uncle George roared. “I left the corpse in the outhouse, laid out as tidy as you please. Then this morning when I took the wheelbarrow in, so as to transport it to its last resting place – no head! Some ghoulish bleeder has cut it off. Now tell me this – why should anyone want to nick a goat’s head. Must be a nut case.”

“Same as Alfie’s go-cart,” Cousin Jane said. “Some thieving hound pinched the castors off that. Had springs on them. Came off my mother’s tea trolley. Poor little devil cried his heart up when he found it on its uppers. Well – he likes to chase the milkman down Parson’s Hill. Boys will be boys, I always say.”

“Like Charlie,” Aunt Matilda said proudly. “He’ll chase anything that moves.”

“You spoil that boy,” Uncle George growled. “Let him do what he likes and no regular job! He’ll come to a bad end.”

“Aunt Matilda folded her arms and shook her head in shocked reproof. “You mind your business, George Brownlow. Isn’t Charlie me own brother’s boy and with no parents to speak off, his father having passed away and his mother run off with the Prue man?
He’s a good boy to me, bringing his dole money home regular as you please and not wasting it in the betting shops as some I could mention.”

“But what’s he doing with himself all day?” Uncle George demanded. “Mucking about in that shed – a ’ammering and a sawing and muttering to himself. If you ask me he’s going round the bend.”

“No one has asked you,” Aunt Matilda retorted. “If you must know he’s making something for me that’s going to be a surprise. Something in the chair line, Jennifer thinks.”

There might have been further argument if Cousin Jane had not pointed out that it was seven-thirty and time for
Coronation Street
. Mid-way through the performance Charlie entered and slid into the armchair where he sat staring with glazed eyes at the bright screen and occasionally incurring Uncle George’s wrath by low, but disturbing muttering. His appearance was by now well in keeping with the popular concept of a genius; long hair, unshaven chin, wrinkled clothing and fingernails that were in mourning for their last close relationship with soap and water. But there was a certain air of fulfilment that only comes to a man who has found a tiny nugget of success in a ton of back breaking endeavour. Suddenly the television screen trembled and Annie Walker appeared to be in danger of decapitation by a bright flash. Charlie jumped to his feet and yelled, “Thunder storm!” then dashed from the room.

Uncle George delivered his sincere and considered opinion.

“There’s no getting away from it – he’s gone up the wall. Slipped his braces. Next thing you know he’ll stand on his head when the sun comes out.”

Aunt Matilda waited until a mighty clap of thunder had done its worst – which meant sending Cousin Jane whimpering under the table – before saying quietly:

“Because the boy has brains that are a bit different to ordinary people’s, that’s no reason for suggesting he’s crazy. Mark my words – Charlie is going to shock all of us one day.”

“But what the hell is so special about a thunderstorm?” Uncle George demanded.

“I expect he revels in the doings of nature. Jane, come out from under that table this instant. If the house is struck you’ll be no more safer there than anywhere else. I’ll make a nice jug of cocoa . . .”

She was interrupted by another peal of thunder and a loud cry that began somewhere at the bottom of the garden and grew louder as it approached the house. When the back door cracked open the cry took on a higher pitch and assumed the semblance of drawn out words.

“I . . . I . . . v . . . e . . . d . . . o . . . n . . . e . . . i . . . t . . .”

Charlie exploded into the room. Sent the door crashing back against the wall, knocked an occasional table over, bumped into the sideboard, then pulled Aunt Matilda from her chair and danced the flustered old lady round the room, while still shouting at the top of his voice:

“I’ve done it! It’s complete in every detail. And it moves. Moves . . .”

Aunt Matilda managed to pull herself free, then pushed her still prancing nephew into a chair. She patted her hair, made certain that her cameo broach was still in its rightful place, then said quietly:

“You really must control yourself, dear. But I’m very pleased that you have completed – whatever it was you were doing. I’m sure it will be very comfortable.”

But Charlie obviously had not been listening, for he clasped shaking hands to his head and stamped his right foot three times on the carpet.

“I forgot what I came for. Can . . . can I have one of Grandad’s woollen vests? I don’t think there’s any danger of it catching cold, but some joins ought to be hidden. Not that it’s not beautiful – in an irregular sort of way – but I’m not very good with a needle and thread.”

Aunt Matilda looked like a lady who has lost her way and is not certain if it is wise to go on any further.

“In the wardrobe, dear . . . upstairs . . .”

Charlie leapt to his feet and jumped over Cousin Jane who had decided it was now safe to come out from under the table, and ran from the room. The heavy thud of his feet could be heard ascending the stairs.