Dodger (11 page)

It took me some seconds to catch on to his meaning. The wild screams I had heard in my dream was still carrying on now and they was dreadful upon the ears. ‘Smithfield meat market,' I told him as I buttoned my shirt. ‘Must be slaughtering day. Those poor beasts are having an 'orrible time.' I searched around for my shoes and then looked to him. ‘Can you remember where I left my hat?' I asked him.

I had put it downstairs with our trunk in Fagin's old kitchen with these Froggat people. When we got down there we found the man and his mother at breakfast. There was two pots bubbling over the fireplace, one what smelt of oats and another what they was using to boil up some more watery tea. Mother Froggat was spreading mouldy butter over a hard bread roll for blind Uncle Huffam, who was still in his rocking chair and lost in his own little world. He seemed put out when she offered him a plate of almost nothing, and the cat was nowhere to be seen. He must have been off getting his own breakfast if he had any wits.

It had been weighing upon my mind that the night before I had given this family the wrong impression of myself. They could have been forgiven for thinking, on account of all the fuss I had been making, that I was some sad creature deserving of their pity. I wished to correct this impression as I strutted into their kitchen.

‘What a dreary old dump you poor beggars are living in,' I said.
‘These are dismal surroundings, I do say!' I ran my finger along the dresser and pulled a face like I had never before been in such a filthy hovel. My hat was hanging from a chair and I picked it up and started blowing upon it as though it was covered in dust. John Froggat looked up from his bowl of stodge and asked if I could ever find it in my heart to forgive his humble family.

‘Because if we'd 'a known Your Lordship was going to grace us with your presence, we'd 'a tidied up a bit.' He looked to his mother, who laughed her hacking laugh, although I found the joke to be weaker than her tea. Uncle Huffam joined in too, though it was doubtful he knew what he was supposed to be chuckling about. Then John turned his head round to Warrigal all slow and serious. ‘Mr Whatever-your-name-is,' he said, ‘if you have a tongue in your head perhaps you can remind this young prig that we know he grew up in this very house and by what class of people he was raised.'

‘Thieves!' cried Mother Froggat, making poor old Huffam jump and ask where. ‘And murderers! The criminal class!' She held up her head as if posing as a figurehead for some ship called the
Grumpy Trout
and went on. ‘We may not have much,' she told me, ‘but we're not to be looked down upon by the likes of you.'

John took another swig from his pot and looked at me steady. ‘Make another flash remark,' he said, ‘and my next answer will not be so jolly.' I saw that his hands was covered in these little cut marks and that on the table next to him was his tray of metal objects. I decided not to enter into a quarrel with him as this would have been lowering behaviour for a quality gent such as myself, especially considering he was within reaching distance of several sharp knives.

‘Don't go misunderstanding me.' I smiled at Mother Froggat while avoiding her son's steely looks. ‘I wouldn't look down my
nose on a nice old bird such as yourself, honest I wouldn't.' I cast my eyes about the barren room, with its empty shelves and cupboards what I knew was empty without even opening them. ‘But I remember this kitchen when it was stocked full of tasty eatables: penny pies, sweetmeats, crumpets, Chelsea buns …' I wandered over to the grate and pointed to a wire what overhung it that she was using to hang socks off. ‘My friend Fagin, dear old soul that he was –' I ignored her scoffs – ‘used to hang rashers of streaky bacon from that before sunrise and let the smell of them cooking fill up the whole house. Us boys would all tumble out of bed and be down here ready for the day.' I picked up a skillet and spun it by the handle. ‘These was always cooking eggs or herrings or juicy great sausages. The food we had in those days was …' I searched for the right word, ‘… glorious.'

‘What's that?' said Uncle Huffam, and he sniffed the air. He had only pecked at his bread and was now letting the plate just rest on his lap. ‘We having sausages, are we?' In his excitement he was causing his plate to slide down to his knees. It was about to fall off but I grabbed it before it could shatter on the floor. Mother Froggat did not thank me for rescuing her crockery though.

‘Now look what you gone and done!' she said instead. ‘You've gotten him all excited. And for what? Nothing!' She took the bread roll which had fallen on to the floorboards, brushed it with a napkin and put it back in his unsteady hands. I snatched it straight out again.

‘Yes, we are having sausages, Uncle Huffam!' I announced. ‘Big juicy saveloys. And bacon if you fancy it. And the tastiest rumps in Smithfield!' On hearing this old Huffam clapped with delight as if he was being paid a visit by the breakfast fairies and I gave the last grey hairs on his head a good rustle. I turned to Froggat and went on. ‘I for one am starving and so I'm sure is my valet
over there.' I tossed the roll over to Warrigal who caught it in one hand. ‘I promised him a decent British breakfast for our first morning in London and that is what we're getting. You fine people have been so generous that I shall be happy to get victuals for the lot of us.' I stretched out my arms, hat in hand, like a politician making big promises at the hustings. I cannot say I expected John to jump up and dance a jig of glee at my words but I was hoping for a bit of a thank-you. But he just carried on eating his porridge.

‘Last night, Mr Dawkins, you said you only had foreign money about you,' he said after a time. ‘It was why you couldn't pay for your lodgings. I should be interested to know how you mean to go about paying for this breakfast.' He leaned back in his chair and sipped at his tea. ‘They don't take Australian coin at Smithfield, you know.'

I waved it off and put my hat on. ‘Don't you go worrying your handsome head on that score, Johnny my new-found friend. You leave those messy particulars to me. And please,' I added as I made towards the coat pegs, ‘call me Jack.' I took down the coats and weighed the difference. Mine was lighter and was this very dark blue what would hide any bloodstains but it was also of a tight cut. It could take bacon or leaner steaks but would not be much use for hiding thick slices of meat. Warrigal's coat was more suited to our purpose though. It was heavy, brown and loose on the insides with wide and deep pockets. You could hide a whole pig in that, I thought. I was feeling most pleased at the prospect of this spree and the thought that I would be sharing my findings with these Froggats made me feel a proper Robin Hood. I then made to pass by where John Froggat was sitting, when I found my path was blocked by the rude obstruction of his leg. He had put his foot up on the wall and spoke in a way that I found most menacing.

‘But I do worry, Mr Dawkins,' he said, removing his tree trunk of a leg from out of my way and standing tall in front of me. My eyes came up to his chest. ‘In this house we earn our breakfast the honest way. By working and spending. We don't take what ain't ours.'

‘We're Christians!' his mother squawked, in case I'd forgotten.

‘Just so,' John said. ‘Mother takes in laundry. I sell metalware. Uncle Huffam, when he's feeling up to it, plays his fiddle on street corners for pennies. We may not have much but what we have is ours, fair and square, let no man deny it. This meat you're telling us of,' he said in a heavy voice, ‘we won't be wanting it.' Uncle Huffam leaned over from where he sat and patted his nephew on the arm.

‘Well said, boy,' he nodded. Then he looked back to where he thought I was still standing. ‘Nick us some kippers instead, son.'

‘No, Uncle!' said John with much firmness. ‘We won't be accepting nothing stolen from this young man.' There was a wail of despair out of Huffam. ‘I'm sorry,' John said to him, ‘but it won't be honestly bought and so would turn rotten in our stomachs.' He stepped out of my way so I could get to the door. ‘I will ask you not to come back here once you have left, Mr Dawkins,' he said. ‘This is no longer a house of thieves.'

*

It was wet, London wet, and close by I could hear the horrible screaming of wild beasts.

‘You're starting to stink, Warrigal,' I said as we lugged the trunk through Cow Cross Street towards the sound of a thousand bellowing butchers. We was up to our shins in mud, had still not breakfasted and I was finding the noise of tortured cattle coming out of the ring-droves to be most upsetting. Warrigal was in as dirty a mood as I and gave me a look to answer that I was no rose
in bloom either. Neither of us had taken a bath since our last night on the
Son and Heir
two days ago and our rain-drenched clothes was now in need of a good wash. The marketeers was pushing past us with dead carcasses over their shoulders and, even though the rain had stopped, the puddles on the uncobbled streets was dark pink from the dripping blood.

I had never liked Smithfield; it was a place what held unpleasant memories for me. Many years ago, when still doorknob high, I had spent a night in the pens there. I had run away from my mother's home in the Dials after another one of her screaming fits and had hid under some tarpaulin with the urchins. We had awoke to find ourselves surrounded by bullocks, sheep and other livestock all crushed and tethered together and suffering many cruelties. It was a nasty scene of drovers goading their cattle, cracking their hocks, twisting their tails, breaking off their horns and stabbing their eyes to get them to move. The following morning I walked the streets of Clerkenwell hoping to pick enough pockets to afford lodgings for myself and the other lads when, and this was the only time it had ever happened in my distinguished career, I was grabbed by the arm as my hand was deep inside a coat pocket. The hand and coat belonged to a man who introduced himself as Mr Fagin and I never had to sleep in that market again.

*

‘It was rotten ingratitude, is what it was!' I moaned to Warrigal as we passed the market stalls selling sirloins, ribs, rumps and veiny parts. I was still on about the ignorant Froggats – I had been ever since we had been pushed out of Fagin's front door – and about the grievous mistake they had made by refusing my offer of free meat. ‘It's Uncle Huffam I pity,' I went on as our noses followed the smell of fried sausages. ‘To go on starving a hungry old man like him when there is all this for the taking –' we approached
the sausage man, who was shouting loud, boasting of the quality – ‘is a cruelty I could never inflict.'

But it was not Uncle Huffam I pitied but my poor orphaned self. I had not wanted to be cast out of my once happy home and in truth I had hoped that the Froggats would let us lodge in the dead brother's old room until we had made other arrangements. I had said this to John Froggat as he had pushed us down the staircase and out into the street but he answered that he would never trust that our money was clean. Just as he was about to slam the door on us I asked if this was Christian of him. Should he not be prepared, in the name of all things Jesus, to give me a second chance? While he was ruminating on this I pressed on. Would he at least let me buy one of his metal saws which I had spied in his tin tray and for which I had enough English coins to pay? I swore within the sight of God that there was nothing dirty about these coins, they was honestly come by and that he could accept them in good conscience. He asked me what I wanted to do with a metal saw. I tapped my nose and said that I needed it for secret business. The door slammed shut.

It was not true that we had no English money about our persons, Evershed had given us pursefuls to make our task easier once we was over here, but I did not want to hand them over to a simple sausage man. Here was I, so young and artful, blessed with the talents to pinch from any stall I cared to, but now, because of this burdensome trunk, I was reduced to paying for my breakfast like some law-abiding commoner. I bristled at the indignity of it.

We fed ourselves under some shelter by an alley, with Warrigal sat upon the trunk, and watched the bustling market. Bloody cleavers was everywhere, cutting up swine, and I considered the chances of stealing such an implement. The market still stank of dead animal but it grew quieter as the slaughtering neared its end
and I was gratified by this. The sounds of squealing pigs being all of a sudden silenced was ruining my meal and my thoughts turned to poor doomed Nancy. I was finding the vision of Bill, and what they say he did to her, to be most disturbing. She was beautiful, at least in my memory she was, and I had dreamt of her often while away. I was wishing that Bill had not been so clumsy as to have fallen from that rooftop so that I could have had the satisfaction of pushing him off myself.

‘My goodness!' I then heard someone say. ‘It's the Artful Dodger!'

It was a girl's voice, sweet and happy, and for a second I thought it was Nancy herself calling out to me. I looked across the road to where the streaky bacon was hung and saw instead a beautiful young woman dressed in red and twirling a matching parasol to shake off the raindrops. ‘Jack Dawkins,' she said. ‘It is you!'

‘It's me all right,' I called back to her, my gloomy mood vanishing the very instant I saw her. ‘I've come back to you at last. Come over here and kiss me.' On hearing this she laughed in delight and came running straight over, dancing her way around the puddles. I opened my arms wide to catch her and she threw herself into them and kissed me on the cheek. Some watching washerwomen scowled to see her behaving with such brazenness but we was both too happy to care.

‘But they sent you to Australia!' she said.

‘Didn't care for it,' I told her. ‘Missed you too much.'

‘Missed you too, Jack,' she said, squeezing me tight. ‘I so hoped I would see you again. Are you back for good now?'