The Menagerie

Don Benway and his father were regulars at the hospital’s oncology department and on familiar terms with Gerry, the head porter. 

‘Morning, handsome,’ Gerry would say as he approached. ‘How are we today?’

‘A darn sight better than you,’ Walter would say, muttering behind his bandages.

Walter had undergone regular surgery for over three years and during that time they’d snipped, sliced and cut away so many facial lesions he was almost unrecognisable.

‘Your usual seat, sir?’ Gerry would ask, smiling as he pushed Walter’s wheelchair.

‘Do I have a choice in the matter?’ 

The plastic surgeons couldn’t keep pace with Walter’s disfigurement and, as a result, he’d retreated from life and deteriorated both physically or mentally. 

#

Don was nine years old, back in 1977, when his family moved to the house that became their long-term family home. The Benway family attended a viewing the week before they moved in. It was the first time Don had visited the house and met Mr and Mrs Jollie. The couple had lived there most of their adult lives and cherished their old place. Despite their advanced years, they’d maintained the garden, and the Benway family would inherit an impressive collection of mature trees, shrubs, and plants, not to mention a curious menagerie of assorted wildlife.

While Mr Jollie escorted Don’s parents around the interior, Mrs Jollie showed the lad all the secret nooks and crannies in the garden, concluding her tour with an introduction to her tortoises, Thomas and Tabatha. Don’s face beamed like an early morning sunrise when he met the wrinkly old reptiles. Their cold scaly flesh and severe faces were both characterful and hideous at the same time. The old lady encouraged Don to offer them lettuce. His hand trembled as he offered the crisp leaves, and he laughed out loud when they recoiled into their gnarled shells. 

‘Oh, no! What did I do?’

‘Don’t worry, they’ll get used to you.’

‘Are you leaving them here?’

‘It’s their home,’ she said. ‘And they’ll bring good luck.’

She held Don’s hand and, holding his gaze, made him promise to look after them.

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said.

‘Let’s meet the other creatures.’

‘Yes, please,’ he said with twinkling eyes.

Mrs Jollie introduced Don to the other inhabitants of her garden, explaining how to care for the small aviary of chirruping canaries and the modest, ornamental pond containing a dozen lethargic goldfish. 

#

At the exchange of contracts, the conveyancing solicitor notified Don’s parents about the deal breaker. ‘It’s “yes” to the menagerie or no sale.’

Don’s father’s jaw sagged in disbelief and he voiced his objections, saying how much he couldn’t abide pets. The lawyer shrugged and made it clear he got paid either way. 

However, Don’s mother, Anita, had fallen in love with the house and fought her corner. Mr Benway backed down for once and agreed to sign, providing he had no responsibility for “the damn beasts.” 

So said, so done.

#

The completion date went ahead as planned, despite Walter’s issue with the caveat, and he refused to acknowledge the animals.

‘I can’t see the point of those ugly old creatures,’ he said, shaking his head. 

‘They’re supposed to bring good luck,’ Don said. ‘If we look after them.’

‘But they look half dead to me,’ said Walter. ‘And they’re so slow.’

‘You’ll be old and creaking one day,’ said his wife.

‘Nobody would miss them if they were dumped in a hole and covered in soil.’

Don’s mother rolled her eyeballs and sighed. She knew how to pick her battles and when to walk away from a pointless conversation. The solicitor completed the legal arrangements and Don assumed charge of his new animal companions.

#

Prior to marriage, Anita Benway had enjoyed the company of an excitable terrier called Dougal, who now lived with Don’s maternal grandmother. 

‘Don’t you miss Dougal?’ Don asked his mother one day. 

‘Why, yes,’ she’d said. ‘But I can’t look after him here, dear.’

‘Why not?’ 

‘Your father’s not keen,’ she’d said, sighing. ‘Besides, Dougal’s splendid company for Granny.’

Under the circumstances, Don was fortunate his father granted him any time to care for the motley collection in their new garden. The new found responsibility was a life-enhancing experience Don would remember forever, however short-lived.

#

It was the goldfish that vanished first. Mr Benway blamed the local heron for their disappearance. Don accepted his father’s explanation without question and it wasn’t until years later that he queried events. It was possible the beady-eyed predator had spotted the listless fish basking in the warm summer water. But had it swooped down and skewered them? It was doubtful because they’d covered the water with a strawberry net, designed to prevent such an occurrence. There was little chance of the bird reaching beneath the mesh, unless somebody had removed it.

#

Walter’s skin complaint started with one or two minor blemishes he couldn’t stop scratching. He had dry patches on his cheek bones, forehead and temples that irritated him; the long-term result of a casual indifference to the perils of sunburn and skin protection. Don noticed him digging at them with his finger nails while he read his newspaper, watched TV and during mealtimes at the dining table. Walter’s urge to scratch was an instinctive and almost unconscious reaction. His tiny weeping sores would bleed, scab over, dry out, and itch like mad again. 

#

The aviary remained intact for about a year until the last of the canaries vanished. It never occurred to Don that their dwindling numbers might be associated with his father’s activities in the garden. Don was diligent about shutting the wire mesh door after feeding times and couldn’t work out how it was often ajar or why Mephistopheles, the neighbour’s tabby, looked so pleased with himself; licking his moist claws as if he’d enjoyed a three-course meal.

Walter dismantled the rickety wooden structure after the last resident disappeared and burned the remains at Hallowe’en. Don asked for a replacement. It wasn’t an option. 

‘You’ll just have to be happy with the tortoises, son,’ said his father, smirking. ‘And make the most of them while they’re alive and kicking.’

It was after Hallowe’en when Don first noticed the tortoises had vanished. There was no obvious explanation for their disappearance. He didn’t suspect the heron, and Mephistopheles was nowhere to be found.

‘No point in worrying,’ said Mr Benway. ‘I’m sure they’ll return to trouble us again.’

#

Don’s mother was a brave soul, bless her, and always gave sound advice based on common sense and astute observation. Anita had warned Walter about the dangers of scratching himself years before she passed away. She told her husband he was making his complaint worse and threatened to either clip his finger nails or knit him woollen mittens to prevent irritation and subsequent infection. Walter tutted with exasperation at her remarks despite acknowledging she was correct. 

But would he stop? 

No way. 

In Anita’s absence, Walter persisted against her advice and his condition deteriorated.

#

After fifteen years of itching and scratching, the affected areas of skin expanded beyond all expectation, screaming out loud for medical intervention. 

‘It’s standard practice to have sun-damaged skin removed,’ Walter’s consultant said, recommending an initial series of minor operations to remove the first malignant lumps. The surgeons described the offending growths as blossoms as if they were intriguing botanical discoveries to be dissected, examined and archived for future generations of horticulturists to study and discuss in their PHD essays.

#

Three years ago, Walter’s consultant found a lump on his neck that looked like cancer. He took a sample and the lab results were indisputable. It was serious. They had to take positive action. The hospital rushed Don’s father to the front of the queue. Within two weeks, they admitted him to hospital and started a month-long course of radiotherapy, resulting in emergency surgery. They removed a golf ball sized tumour growing on his neck between his clavicle and jaw bone. Walter’s condition had started as sun damage and developed into galloping melanomas. 

It was the turning point for Walter. The oncologist gave him a low percentage chance of surviving another year. Contrary to his prediction, however, they prolonged Walter’s life a further three years, but at a cost.

Don’s father took on an uncanny appearance. His once inquisitive and bright features disappeared after countless amounts of invasive surgery. The tip of his left ear was the first item to be snipped off. His attitude was stoic at that point. 

‘It’s you lot that have the problem,’ he’d said, brushing aside the issue. ‘I don’t have to look at it and I’m not worried about losing it.’

Very brave, Don thought, until the other ear faced the same treatment. 

Walter was much less philosophical at that point. He often pondered on cause and effect and cursed his years of pottering about in the sun and dodging his wife’s factor twenty. 

#

Two years later and he had both ears removed and eighty per cent of his nose; both nostrils were bloody gashes above stretched and scabbed beak like lips. Both eyes stared, unblinking, out of lidless sockets, and they’d reconstructed his forehead and eyebrows with pale and ill-matching flesh grafts. In places, the new skin flapped like an unfurled sail in the doldrums and in other locations it was tight like a snare drum at a state funeral. His entire head had become a work in progress, because the surgeons had struggled to keep pace with malignant outcrops. They passed him around the department for every aspiring surgeon to add to the disfigured conglomeration; rebuilding his features as if he were an ancient building in need of a face-lift; bashed back into shape and finished with a few quick licks of skin-toned emulsion. 

#

It’s easy to underestimate the psychological damage inflicted. Walter’s habits changed to accommodate the process of assessment, consultation, and surgical procedure. He seldom ventured out during daylight and then, with a great coat and a raised collar; his own shell-like protection, like a reptilian secret agent, disguising himself and hiding from the world lest he draw aghast reactions or pitiful tight-lipped expressions of sympathy. It was painful to watch the slow transformation unfold and heart-breaking to witness him become a wretched creature hobbling about like the monstrous denizen of Geneva that Mary Shelley transformed into a famous fictional creation; stitched together from ill-matched body parts and second-hand components, and destined to a lonely existence or hounded by ignorant townsfolk baying for blood.

#

For the last year, every part of Walter’s life revolved around the work required to fix him up and restore some degree of his former dignity. Given the state of his face since they started tweaking and tinkering with his facial lesions, he would have been better off employing Cecilia Giménez to restore his looks. At least her work was consistent, as poor as it may be. In Walter’s case, it looked as if they’d invited a dozen Cecilias to have a go. 

Don couldn’t help looking at his father and thinking about the absent tortoises; their unblinking eyes, angular beaks and scaly reptilian skin. He didn’t believe in reincarnation, but Don couldn’t help wondering if the missing amphibians had made their presence felt in some awful and grisly fashion; creatures embroiled in karma’s stealthy activities; visiting the family, perhaps in some other guise to remind everyone that life in all its forms matters.

#

It was after Mr Benway’s recent funeral that Don discovered the remains of Thomas and Tabatha. He was turning over the soil to the rear of the old family home when his spade hit something hard. After further investigation in the immediate area, Don unearthed not one but two hollowed out tortoise shells; their former inhabitants long reclaimed back to the earth. With the grim remains at his feet and the childhood memories of the menagerie’s quiet demise, Don clenched his jaw and drew a long breath. What would drive any creature to burrow into the ground to die?

A question he had long abandoned returned to haunt him. 

Surely it wasn’t deliberate?

THE END