Dodger (9 page)

I had woken in a black mood due to the words of Bracken the night before and my already sore back was still stinging from his manhandling. But now I was moving again through the rush of the city and, although much encumbered with our luggage, I could feel myself getting lighter. It seemed that in the six years that I had been away London had grown rich. I could see it in the people who brushed past us moving in the other direction; they was finer, handsomer, even more bejewelled than I remembered them. The carriages what raced past us was sleeker and more beautiful, the streets was cleaner and even the pigeons was looking plumper. By the time we had loaded our bags into a shiny two-wheeled cabriolet I was feeling that London buzz again.

‘To Saffron Hill!' I told the cabman once Warrigal and myself was seated ‘the Field Lane end'. The cabman stopped readying the horses and turned his pockmarked head to me.

‘A cab like this, to a place like that?' he said as though I was mad. ‘It'll be another shilling.'

‘What for?'

‘Well, I'll never get a fare back for one thing,' he replied, ‘and for another, robbers.'

‘You're the robber,' I said, but agreed to the shilling. Then he drove the horses out into the fast stream of carriages and I was on my way home.

‘This here is Fleet Street,' I said to Warrigal as we sped along, ‘where our many great writers live and work. And that great building up there –' I pointed proudly towards the blackened dome ahead – ‘is St Paul's. A man named Wren built it. And up that alley there is where a prostitute named Cracked Alice almost bit the pipe off some magistrate.' I thought it was important to give Warrigal as much information about the city as I could, if he was going to find his way around. Whether he was taking any of it in was hard to tell. ‘We'll be nearing Newgate soon,' I added darkly, ‘where they hang people.'

The closer we got to Saffron Hill the narrower and dirtier the lanes became and we saw fewer horse-drawn carriages and more donkeys and dog carts. There was many street urchins darting about, in gangs of three or four, and they was all dressed in clothing two sizes too big for them. Halfway up Shoe Lane I saw a boy leaning against a wall eating an apple and wearing a hat that he had twitch back into place more than once. He was a dirty, snub-nosed boy and he was eyeing our cab, eyeing me, with a smirk like he knew something I didn't. We locked eyes as the carriage passed and then I turned my gaze to the other side of the road. And there I saw someone that I knew, someone I recognised, walking ahead of us in the same direction. A woman, red-haired and full-figured, wearing that green cotton dress that she always wore and moving with that same pleasing wiggle. I leaned out of the cab and whistled to her.

‘Nancy!' I called out. ‘Nance! It's me, girl. The Artful. I'm back at long last!' I told the driver to pull alongside her as she hadn't
heard me and I adjusted my clothing to its full advantage. I was excited for Nancy to see me returned and looking prosperous as I was always her favourite. The cab drew close enough for me to tap her shoulder with my cane. She turned and looked at me unsmiling. She had a harelip.

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘I thought you was someone else.' She stared at me with stony eyes that was nothing like Nancy's and I wondered how I ever mistook her. I got back in the cab and the driver pulled away. Behind us, down the street, I heard the snub-nosed boy laughing about something.

The old vicinity seemed smaller than I recalled. The driver, white-livered beggar that he was, refused to take us further than Holborn now that it was growing dark and so Warrigal and I walked our heavy luggage down the stone steps into Saffron Hill. The crooked lane ran ahead of us like a rabbit warren and out of the many dirt-smeared windows I could see faces peering from the darkness. They may have been looking at me, they may have been looking at Warrigal. Most likely they was looking at our luggage and guessing at its value.

‘This is Fagin's,' I told Warrigal as we came to a numberless, knockerless door. ‘It don't look like much, true, because he likes to keep things low. But inside it's full of treasures.' I held my cane against the grey-painted door and knocked the secret knock. No one answered. ‘They must have changed the secret knock,' I said to Warrigal. ‘I'll try another.' I tapped out another secret knock, which was meant to signify that the knocker had urgent news, but was surprised when nobody answered this one either. ‘Plummy and slam!' I then shouted. This was one of the watchwords we had back in the old days and I hoped it would alert him to who was calling. Still no answer. ‘I know a way in through the upstairs back window,' I said to Warrigal. ‘But it involves climbing up the
guttering and I don't want to get my new clothes all slimy. Maybe you could have a go.' Warrigal said nothing but pointed up to the top windows. One of them was boarded up with wood, as was many of the windows along the lane, but through the other a light could be seen burning. ‘So they are in,' I said, most aggrieved. ‘They deaf or something?' I stepped back, put my fingers to my lips and whistled loud enough to set dogs barking.

The light in the top window began to glow all the brighter as someone came towards it with a candle. Then a face appeared, just as it got close, but the light was snuffed out as though the person was on purpose trying to hide their features. It was too dark to tell who was looking down on us.

‘I'm looking for Fagin,' I shouted up. ‘Mr Fagin, the old Jew. He used to live here, about six year ago. Him and a gang of kinchins. Open the door so I can talk.' The face drew away from the window and the glass went black.

As I waited in hope that this person would answer the door I looked at the old house more close. The door was a different door, heavier than the one I remembered. Someone had been drawing pictures low down on the walls in black chalk. ‘See, Warrigal,' I said, pointing at them, ‘children will have done that. I used to draw etchings on the walls too when I first came to live here. Birds and snakes and the like. Fagin used to blow up something terrible when he saw them.' I looked again at the chalkings. ‘Never drew teardrops though.'

Then came a woman's voice from behind the door, high and strangulated, like that of a parrot. ‘Who is it?' she shrieked. ‘What d'ye want?'

‘A gentleman by name of Jack Dawkins,' I replied. ‘And I want to talk about Mr Fagin.' At the very mention of his name the woman groaned aloud.

‘Leave us be, why don't you? We're Christians in this house. Honest Christians. Leave us be.' She began this hysterical sobbing and I looked to Warrigal in wonder at it. He was now sat on the trunk, his coat buttoned all the way up to his chin on account of the wind, and his hands was rubbing together. I had forgotten how this lane channelled wicked gales on these dark winter days.

‘Look here, my lovely,' I said with firmness. ‘If you was a houseful of prizewinning nuns it wouldn't impress me. Just open the door so we can converse like respectable types. We're at the mercy of the elements out here.'

‘Can I help you fellas?'

I turned to see a large, burly man walking towards us down the steps from where we had just come. He was carrying a tin tray with other metal items in it, knives, forks, tools and such. He had a serious head on him and his expression was that of a man who had no clue who we was but was going to do something about us anyway. He marched up to Fagin's door and demanded to know what was our business.

‘I'm glad you've asked,' I said. ‘I am here making enquiries about a man named Fagin what once lived at this here address. He's an elderly gent of the Hebrew persuasion. You'd know him if you'd met him – he's a merry old boy.'

‘I never met him,' said the man, his voice a solid boom, ‘and nor did Mother. If you've come here to cause trouble I won't stand for it. It's honest Christians who live here now. You go away and tell the others that. You go and tell how John Froggat said
no more
.'

I was taken aback by this outburst. ‘No more what?'

‘No more bricks,' he said, pointing to the wooden window. ‘No more taunts. No more persecution. No more of this!' He pointed to the chalk tears. ‘Your man Fagin has been gone nigh on six years. Leave us be, why can't you!'

‘Six years?' I said. I was feeling sick again. The wind was blowing through my open collar and felt sharp against my neck. ‘But …' I was stumbling my words, thinking of Bracken, ‘where did he go?'

‘You mean you don't know? You haven't heard?' I had not, I told him. But I was starting to get an awful feeling inside of me. ‘To Newgate he went. To the gallows. They hung the man in punishment for his evil. Hordes of people came by here soon after the murder of the woman Nancy. A great mob they were, and they smashed in the door and dragged the devil out by his beard. They pulled him into this here street and crowded round him, men and women, spitting and tearing at him and throwing stones at his head. He begged like an animal, so they tell me, and when the police arrived he was so bleeding and desperate that – in the name of Almighty, son, steady yourself!'

John Froggat was interrupted in his narration by the sight of me staggering over and collapsing against the wall of the house with my hands over my face. I seem to remember Warrigal jumping up from the trunk and stopping me from falling further. There was a terrible wailing noise that shot through the lane which may have been the wind or may have been made by me, and a clatter of metal as John Froggat dropped his tray in order to help revive me. I sank down the wall to the level of the black chalkings, which I now saw was not meant to be of tears at all. They was of nooses.

We was all silent for a bit and then the timid voice spoke from behind the door. ‘They cleared off yet, John?' it asked.

‘No, Mother,' replied Froggat. ‘Perhaps you should open the door now. This young feller could use the warmth of a fire.'

*

‘I thought you said you was a Jew?'

‘I did, my dear.'

‘Then how come you're allowed to eat pork?'

‘How come you're allowed to pick pockets?' He winked and turned the sausages over with his toasting fork. We both laughed and I took a swig from my coffee pot while waiting for my breakfast. I liked these mornings when the other boys was out and it was just us.

‘I'm very glad we've got this chance to have a little talk, Dodger,' he said, placing a sizzling plate of bacon, eggs and sausages on the table in front of me. ‘Very. We seldom get the chance these days, what with all the comings and goings. How many Christmases have you spent under my roof now?'

‘Dunno.' It was four.

‘Do you, by any chance, remember that present I gave you two Christmases ago? Not the snatching presents, my dear – ha ha, you took plenty of them for yourself. No, I mean the special present that I told you to keep safe.'

‘The prince,' I said.

‘That's him. The prince. Tell me you've still got him, Dodger. Tell me you ain't given him away to one of the younger boys.'

‘I've still got him somewhere. Why? He ain't valuable, is he?'

‘Dear me, no. There's nothing valuable about a rattly old wooden doll, no matter how handsomely it's painted. No, its only value is of the sentimental kind. But I would hate to think you'd lost him, Dodger. I told you to keep him safe now. He had a spell put on him that wards off evil spirits.' I scoffed to show him that I was too old for that sort of talk. Fagin chuckled. ‘You think me a silly old fool, don't you, my dear, with my old superstitions? Well, maybe you're right. But you just keep him handy, Dodger. He'll bring you good luck if you do, and bad if you don't.' I'd finished my plate and he took it away to be washed while I drained my cup. ‘You're a good lad, Dodge, the sharpest there is. Why,
if all my students were as sharp as you we could all retire young and do the genteel.' He put the plate in a bucket of soapy water and went over to the clothes horse to count the handkerchiefs. ‘Talking of which, we could always use more pupils around here. There are plenty of poor unfortunates lying in the streets just starving to death. It breaks my heart, really it does. If you see any hungry lads out and about who you feel might benefit from the education that we provide, don't hesitate to make an introduction.' I told him I'd keep an eye out. ‘Good boy, Dodger. After all, what harm can it do?'

That was the last time we ever spoke, myself and Fagin, just the two of us.

*

‘I thought he said he was a gentleman?' Mother Froggat said to her son.

‘He did.'

‘Then how come he grew up in this crap-house?'

Mother Froggat was boiling cabbage and a pig's head in pots over her fireplace, the same fireplace Fagin was forever cooking his sausages over. She said she didn't like the look of either Warrigal or myself but had agreed to let us into her home after John Froggat had said something to her about Christian duty. She was now doing us our supper as we warmed ourselves near her fire but still could not bring herself to speak straight to us. She was a short teapot of a woman in cheap cotton and was snappish and unfriendly in the way that frightened people often are.

‘I would guess that he was one of this Fagin character's boy thieves, Mother,' said her son, who sat at the wooden table watching us close. ‘Is that right, Mr Dawkins?' I nodded and just looked into the flames. I had not said much for most of the hour that I had been back in that house, just answered some of their questions
and asked some of my own. We was all drinking this tasteless tea out of pewter pots and I was feeling ashiver. John Froggat had told me I looked unwell and I could feel the sweats coming on. Once he had learnt that we had travelled all the way from Australia and had no other lodgings he had said that we could stay the night if we promised to behave ourselves.

‘I knew he was a thief,' said Mother Froggat. ‘I could tell it in his eyes as soon as I saw him out of the window. He has the look.'