Writing for Fun
March 2017
More Than My Job's Worth - Jan Osborne
Henry brought his battered hansom cab to a stop just outside the gates of Kensal Cemetery in Mayfair, the overhanging limbs of a gnarled old cedar tree nearly swallowing the coach and Henry’s beloved but ancient horse Rufus. The night was moonless and swirling, thick yellow smog completed the camouflage begun by the tree. Rufus now completely unnerved by being out in such weathers and missing his stable pawed the ground and whinnied his protest.
Desperate to keep the old nag quiet Henry jumped down and fed Rufus an almost unheard of treat – an apple. Quiet now except for the sound of chomping Henry flung open the door of the cab.
‘Come on lads for Christ’s sake; shake a leg. You know which body – Barnaby Bradshaw, buried this afternoon – Doc says ‘e needs ‘em fresh for ‘is new surgeon to practise on.’
Jawbreaker gathered their spades and implements whilst Irish lit the hooded lantern. Together they jumped down from the cab and disappeared through the gates into the graveyard.
Henry, by now almost beside himself with fear, scrambled back atop his cab and, pulling his muffler high about his face, hunkered down to wait it out.
Irish was in the lead with a crude map of the cemetery and with lamp aloft, set off at a lope with Jawbreaker hanging tightly onto his coat-tails, blind in this smog and desperate not to lose touch with his mate. Time was of the essence with this job.
With a scream Irish disappeared down an unseen, freshly dug grave. Jawbreaker, in serious danger of wetting himself with fright managed at the last minute to throw himself sideways and avoided landing on top of him. Irish screamed abuse until Jawbreaker, dragging him out of the pit, clamped a bear-like hand over his mouth and threatened to make the grave his last resting place unless he corked it. Once on their feet again, lamp relit and map consulted, both set off again but this time at a somewhat slower pace.
There it was, the burial they were looking for – plot 312, Barnaby Bradshaw, 34years old – buried this very afternoon. The fresh grave was topped by a bell in a miniature bell tower. A rope from the bell hung down and passed through the soil into the coffin below – a Bateson’s Life Revival Device.
The fear of being buried alive was prevalent in this age where premature deaths were not unknown. If the occupant of the coffin revived, the theory was he could ring the bell and summons help.
Suddenly the bell rang; Jawbreaker felt warm liquid running down his leg and begun to whimper. Irish fell to his knees and began a fervent prayer to Holy Mary, Mother of God.
Jawbreaker was the first to regain his senses.
He screamed at Irish, pummelling him hard on his back to make him move.
‘The bastard’s still alive; ‘ere we’ve gotta dig ‘im up quick and get ‘im to the Docs. He’ll know ‘ow to ‘elp.’
Earth flew everywhere. Both worked like demons. Crashing blows splintered the coffin lid and both hauled out the booted and suited and not quite dead Barnaby Bradshaw – alive but now almost comatose again. The two men struggled back to the cab with their limp cargo. Dumping him on the pavement they flung open the door and then dragged Barnaby onto the seat and into an upright position. Straightening his clothing they shouted to Henry that the corpse was still alive and to make haste to the Doctor’s mansion. He would know how to save him.
Henry thrashed the reins against his nag’s back. Rufus looked over his back in hurt surprise and started backing up.
‘No you stupid nag. Forward not back,’ and Henry used his whip for the first time. Rufus, shocked at such brutality, reared up in his shafts and screamed protest.
Suddenly, amidst the confusion, man appeared from out of the mist and staggered drunkenly towards Rufus, grabbing the reins and taking both Henry and the horse by surprise. ‘Take me to St James’ Square my good man.’
Henry swore at the inebriated fop.
‘Can’t mate; matter of life ‘n deff. It’s more ‘n me jobs worff to take another fare. Can’t stop now and bandy words wiv you.’
With that he leaned over and gave the fellow a shove. Falling heavily the man let out his own impressive stream of invectives but Henry had used his whip again and was now far away.
* * *
Sometime later Dr Fraser and his young apprentice surgeon stood back and pronounced that Barnaby was truly alive but needed a lot of nursing. They would do all that they could for the poor soul.
He praised Henry, Jawbreaker and Irish for their quick thinking and paid them very handsomely for their trouble.
When the door had shut on Henry and company Dr Fraser turned to his colleague.
‘Well, we said we wanted them fresh. He has already been pronounced dead. Who will know? ’