Thompkens Jenkins, Master of Disguise

     The act of getting dirty as a child is often the first instance in which a young person is exposed to the satisfaction of rebellion. A desire to be clean is an intrinsic part of human nature. Our mothers demanded it of us, society requires and expects us to be staunch practitioners of hygiene. Thom had never known his mother, and Bob Thompken wasn’t always the most hygienic person himself, but there was still something liberating to Thom in knowing he was doing the exact opposite of what society expected of him. In allowing his body and clothes to become grimy — in revelling in the filth like a Snorkel, a common swine — Thom was defying anyone, challenging even his own natural instincts, to tell him what he could or could not do. And Thom liked being defiant.

     Mud puddles, thank badness, were in plentiful supply on Dowderby Street, and in Neovia in general; especially in wintertime. Thom quickly found a sizeable one, a right foetid little pond, behind a house two buildings over from Old Bob Thompken’s shop; and using all four hands he besmeared his face in muck, taking care to cake it extra thick under his eyes and around his mouth.

     Then he found a stick, and in the nearest reflective shop window he began to draw lines — wrinkles. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, great bags underneath them, creases in his cheeks, laugh lines, frown lines, whatever other signs of facial decomposition he imagined the old lady to manifest. (“It’s just the Jenkins boy again,” said the owner of the shop when his wife fainted at the sight of the swamp creature in the window.)

     Having marked up his face to his own satisfaction, the next thing Thom needed was a replica potato crate. He betook himself to the grocers. Ideally, he would have a crate from the same farm as Mrs. Dinsley’s, but as Thom did not know which farm that was, he found himself in a bit of a tight fix.

     “Potatoes are all very much the same... sir,” said the grocer, unsure what to make of the customer with the elder’s face and the child’s voice. “All Gracious Grady’s produce comes from top-grade farms, I assure you. It should make little difference which farm they come from.”

     Well, Thom reckoned Mrs. Dinsley was far more likely to lose the label off her famous crate than get a new one altogether. Settling for the second-best option, the Ruki set his sights on a wooden crate without a label. “What’sh in thish one, shonny?” he asked the purple Ogrin grocer. He whistled through his teeth extra hard and sharp. All ancient gentlemen whistled through their teeth, did they not?

     “These are grapes, sir,” said the grocer patiently. “But you’re looking for potatoes, aren’t you? If you’ll just come over here there are some red ones—“

     “Oh, no, shonny, the grapesh will do just fine. If you’ll kindly empty them for me?”

     The grocer transferred the grapes to a brown paper bag, and handed them to Thom. “I won’t be takin’ the grapesh today, shonny,” the old gentleman interposed.

     “But you said—“

     “I shaid nothin’ of the short. It’sh the crate I be wantin’.”

     The Ogrin staggered. “Just the crate?”

     “Why, yesh! I ushe them to furnish me room at the old age pensionersh’ home!” Thom smiled a closed-mouth smile, careful not to reveal his all-too-sound teeth.

     The Ogrin’s expression of surprise tinged with frustration was immediately washed away by one of sympathy. “Oh, my dear father! Are you sure that is quite comfortable?”

     “Comfort? Pshaw! Comfort carriesh a paltry weight when pitted againsht fashion, laddie.”

     The Ogrin quirked an eyebrow. “Fashion, sir?”

     “Why, of coursh! Crate furniture ish all the rage at the Home Over the Hill! Crate tablesh and chairsh, crate cabinetsh and dresshers — and of coursh the ultimate shymbol of shtatush and propriety, the crate bed!”

     “A crate bed? No!” protested the Ogrin with a shudder.

     “A crate bed, yesh!” cried Thom, his excitement escalating. “I plan to ushe thish little grape-shmelling beauty for me pillow!”

     “It’s too horrible!” the soft-hearted grocer moaned.

     “Ohoho, yesh, I’ll be the talk of Over the Hill and Far Away!” The old man slapped a Neopoint on the counter, and the grocer reluctantly relinquished the crate. “I can’t help but feel I’m abetting your inevitable injury, old man.”

     “Nonshensh, nonshensh!” insisted Old Thom. “Come shee me at the Home shometime! I’ll show you crate decor done proper! Gracioush Grady, ish it?”

     “Grover,” corrected the grocer. “Gracious Grady’s grandson.”

     “Ah, Gracioush the Younger!” bawled the venerable old gentleman. “I’m Thom.” And he gave a little bow, getting stuck halfway and crying out in pain, “Thom the Much, Much Older!”

     On his way out the door Old Thom stopped suddenly, as if he had forgotten something (or perhaps as if his back had seized up on him again). He turned, and on the spur of the moment flashed a broad smile showing all his white teeth, before skipping out the shop with his new crate in tow.

     Having possessed himself of wrinkles and his own crate bench, the only thing left for Thom to do now was to make his way to the corner of Mackintosh and Wellington Street. About a block from his destination the Ruki removed the folded Tyrannian fur cloak from his jacket and draped it over his body. With the hood on, only his face from the nose down was exposed — and, of course, his antennas peeked out, though they could be easily tucked in if he wanted to take the extra precaution.

     “Mrs. Dinsley sure was a fortunate girl,” thought Thom. “This cloak’s worth a deal more than twenty-five measly Neopoints! Bub will be so pleased.” Thom was so warm under the mound of fur, he felt comfortable enough to reach deep into his coat and pull out the sports page of yesterday’s Neovian Herald. He barely noticed the temperature drop at all!

     Thom began to read, but after a moment he said, “This won’t do,” and instead fished out the ladies column from the depths of his undergarments. Finally it occurred to him that Mrs. Dinsley may not be able to read at all (many working class Neovian citizens couldn’t). So he stuffed all the papers back in his clothes, wiped the sweat that was pooling on his brow, and plopped down on the overturned potato (which was a grape) crate, waiting for his first donor— er, visitor, to arrive.

     At length, they did. A checkered Yurble in a tweed suit and bowler hat made his jaunty approach across Wellington Street. Thom could see the beaming smile on his face before they were within ten paces of one another. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Dinsley,” sang the Yurble, taking hold of Thom’s hand and shaking it madly. “Forgive my abruptness, but I wanted you to be the first to know that I took your advice.”

     When ‘Mrs. Dinsley’ showed no sign of recollection as to what this advice had been, the Yurble elaborated, “I’ve resigned from my job.”

     Thom felt his heart skip a beat. So this was the beggar lady’s true intention! She was creating a beggar army! “You did what, sir?” Thom managed to choke.

     “Yes, ma’am, I’ve resigned from my job,” said the Yurble with a self-satisfied chuckle. “That crotchety old Mr. Fingle will be looking for a new clerk to abuse as of today. I’ve made contact with that old school fellow of mine I was telling you about. He has agreed to be my partner in a business venture: Messrs Bruckle and Shmuck, Pure Water Salesmen.”

     Thom actually found himself at a loss for words. Granted, it was a good idea if one had the resources — everyone knew how hard clean water was to come by in Neovia! But surely Mrs. Dinsley hadn’t been the one to offer this shrewd business advice? Thom wanted to ask, “Did I tell you that?” but decided against it. After all, he wasn’t sure what level of senility Mrs. Dinsley had achieved before her disappearance...

     “Is something troubling you, Mrs. Dinsley? You seem awfully reserved this afternoon.”

     Thom wheezed. “I’m havin’ a bit of trouble with me throat,” he replied in a thin, craggily, old lady voice.

     “In that case, I insist you take a lozenge.” And the Yurble withdrew a candy twisted in red shiny foil from his pocket. “Cherry flavoured.” He gave it to Mrs. Dinsley who popped it in her mouth immediately, without even pausing to remove the wrapper.

     The Yurble made as if to go then, but he stopped as if suddenly struck by a thought. “I can’t help but wonder, Mrs. Dinsley—“ Thom held his breath. Had he been discovered already? “—I can’t help but wonder if Shmuck and Bruckle doesn’t have an altogether nicer ring to it. The business was my idea, of course, but there is something so solid sounding about Shmuck and Bruckle, so strong.”

     With the great throat lozenge on her tongue, one could barely make out Mrs. Dinsley’s words when she said, “Eda one shounds fwine to me.”

     “I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Dinsley,” said Mr. Bruckle, largely gratified. “Bruckle and Shmuck is a perfectly sound title. And I suppose it’s only natural for the senior partner’s name to go first...”

     In a moment the checkered Yurble sprung erect as if he’d had a snowball dropped down his coat, or as if he had just remembered somewhere else he needed to be. “Well, good day to you, Mrs. Dinsley!” And he took Thom’s hand and wrung it once more. “Thanks for all your good advice.”

     When Mr. Bruckle had crossed the street, Thom heaved such an immense sigh of relief he began to choke on his lozenge. How, oh how, had he reckoned this to be some master plan? To think! It had only occurred to Thom during this first encounter with another person that he didn’t know the first thing about Mrs. Dinsley! Not the way she talked, the sound of her voice, the things she knew, or the conversations she had had with her patrons in the past. Sweet Fyora, how could he have imagined wrinkles to be the most important aspect of a person?

     “Mrs. Dinsley, are you alright?” came a soft voice at Thom’s elbow. He turned to see a woman, a Ruki like himself, but a faerie one, balancing a baby on her hip. She looked at the poor choking beggar lady with a face full of concern.

     “Just got a twinge in me throat,” croaked Thom, slapping himself on the back and gasping for air.

     “Poor dear!” exclaimed the woman. “You should take a spoonful of honey. It worked for my Alexander, just as you recommended.” (Thom guessed that Alexander was the baby Ruki in the woman’s arms from the way she turned her eyes lovingly toward it as she spoke.) “I think his cold is almost gone now. He hardly coughs at all, and his throat isn’t red anymore. When he cries I give him honey, just a drop on the tip of a spoon as you told me, and he stops straight away.” The woman gave a little laugh. “Now if only I’d known to do that with the other four!”

     “Good boy, Alexander!” rasped Mrs. Thom, tweaking the baby’s antenna. Then, to the mother, “Good show listenin’ to me, lassie. You should always listen to me. I’m known to give very good advice, I am.”

     The woman chortled shrilly, as if taken by surprise. “I know that, Mrs. Dinsley! Everyone knows that! And you’re very humble, too.”

     “Oh yes, the ‘umblest around,” bragged T. Dinsley.

     “Have you had your supper yet, mum?” As she posed this question, the woman unbuttoned the satchel she carried on her free hip and produced a folded paper bag, which, upon unfolding, emitted the most wondrous smell to bless Thom’s nose in a very long time. “John took his supper with a client tonight, so we had extra,” she explained with a smile.

     “Your husband’s a very lucky man,” said Dinsley-Thom as he/she graciously accepted the bag. “He must eat like a king every night.”

     The woman blushed in gratitude. “Oh, not every night, I’m afraid. He spends so much time at the office... But thank you just the same.”

     The woman soon departed, leaving Thom alone to devour his free supper, a Snorkel chop on a thick slice of homemade bread. Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all! Though Thom was grateful for the current lack of activity on the street corner, just the same. There was nothing at all ladylike about the way Thompkens Jenkins ate!

     The evening wore on. A few more Neopians came and went, though admittedly there was not nearly as much action as Thom had expected. The lateness of the hour could have been a factor; that in combination with the foul weather. But young Thom was not discouraged, oh, no! The lapse in conversation afforded him a moment to review his experience so far.

     He had not received a single Neopoint — not a one. But he had been given a throat lozenge and a free supper, which were the next best things. Mrs. Dinsley seemed to have a sort of magnetic quality about her. Of the two people Thom had spoken to, both had once been offered indispensable advice from the old beggar lady, which they were clearly very appreciative of.

     A thought occurred to Thom then. Was this how Mrs. Dinsley supported herself? Was she working — what was the term? — under the table, as a sort of streetside counsellor?

     “What a good life,” thought Thom as he shifted his weight on his wooden crate bench and stretched out all his arms. “What a good life, and what an easy one.”

     By this time it had begun to snow again. The sun was indeed upon its descent, but the sky had grown so overcast with snow clouds one gave no thought to the sun. Straggling carriages still clattered and splashed through the streets as Neovians made their evening commute home from work; but as for pedestrians, Thom had not seen one this quarter of an hour.

     Six o’clock chimed by the great clocktower that kept the time for the whole of the great city. For the first time that night, Thom shivered in his cloak. He took the paper bag from his lunch and stuffed it inside his shirt, next to the sports section. It was no help at all.

     “It’s a mite lonely and miserable out ‘ere...”

     Thom was just considering going home for the night when a silhouette came forth out of the blowing sleet. The Ruki squinted in the gloom to make out its shape. The figure stood still under the streetlamp...

      To be continued…