Dodger, Page 2

  Charlie laughed. ‘“You have to goeth”? I’ll wager that you have never attended church or chapel in your life, young man! You can’t read, you can’t write; good heavens, can you give me the name of one single apostle? By the look on your face, I deduce that you cannot, alas. But, nevertheless, you came to the aid of our young lady upstairs when so many other people would have looked the other way, and so you will have five sixpences if you undertake this little task for me and Mister Mayhew. So ask around, search out the story, my friend. You may find me by daylight at the Morning Chronicle. Do not look for me anywhere else. Here is my card if you should need it. Mister Dickens, that’s me.’ He passed Dodger a pasteboard oblong. ‘Yes, you have a question?’

  Dodger looked more uncertain now, but he managed to say, ‘Could I see the lady, sir? ’Cos I never really clapped eyes on her – I just saw people running away, and I thought you fine gentlemen was with them. I ought to know what she looks like if I’m going to ask questions around and about, and let me tell you, sir, asking questions around and about can be a dangerous way to make a living in this city.’

  Charlie frowned. ‘At the moment she looks black and blue, Dodger.’ He thought for a moment and went on, ‘But there is some merit in what you say; the household has been turned upside down by this, as you must understand. Mrs Mayhew is getting the children back to sleep and the girl is in the maids’ room for now. If you are to go in there, make sure your boots are clean, and if those little fingers of yours . . . You know the ones I mean, the kind I am aware of that are adept at finding other people’s property in them, and “Oh, dear me, and stone the crows”, you had no idea how it got there . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Do not, I repeat not, try that in the house of Mister Henry Mayhew.’

  ‘I’m not a thief,’ Dodger protested.

  ‘What you mean, Mister Dodger, is that you’re not only a thief. I will accept, for now, your story about how my pocketbook ended up in your hands . . . for now, mind you. I note that the slim crowbar you have about your person is designed for opening the lids of drain covers, from which I deduce that you are a tosher; a grubber in the sewers – an interesting profession, but not one for a man hoping for a long life. And so I wonder how you still survive, Dodger, and one day I intend to find out. Don’t come the innocent with me, please. I know the backside of this city only too well!’

  Although he gasped at this and protested that he was being spoken to as if he was a common criminal, Dodger was quite impressed: he’d never before heard a flash geezer use the term ‘stone the crows’ and it confirmed his view that Mister Dickens was a tricky cove, the sort who might bring a lot of nastiness down on a hardworking lad. It paid to be careful of flash geezers like him – else they might find someone to do something with your teeth, with pliers, like what happened with Wally the knacker man, who got done up rotten over a matter of a shilling. So Dodger minded his manners as he was led up and through the dark house and into a small bedroom, made even smaller by the fact that the doctor was still there and by now was washing his hands in a very small bowl. The man gave Dodger a cursory glance which had quite a lot of curse in it and then looked up at Charlie, who got the kind of smile that you get when people know you have money. Just as Charlie had surmised, Dodger hadn’t had a day’s proper schooling. Instead, his life had mostly been spent learning things, which is surprisingly rather different, and he could read a face much better than a newspaper.1

  The doctor said to Charlie, ‘Very bad business, sir, very nasty. I’ve done the best I can; they’re pretty decent stitches if I say so myself. She is, in fact, a rather robust young woman underneath it all and, as it turned out, has needed to be. What she needs now is care and attention and, best of all, time – the greatest of physicians.’

  ‘And, of course, the grace of God, who is the one that charges the least,’ said Charlie, pressing some coins into the man’s hand. As the doctor left, Charlie said, ‘Naturally, Doctor, we will see that she gets good food and drink at least. Thank you for attending, and good night to you.’

  The doctor gave Dodger another black look and hurried back down the stairs. Yes, you had to know how to read somebody’s phizog when you lived on the cobbles, no doubt about it. Dodger had read the face of Charlie twice now, and so he knew that Charlie had little liking for the doctor, any more than the doctor did for Dodger, and, from his tone, Charlie would be more inclined to put his trust in good food and water than in God – a personage that Dodger had only vaguely heard of and knew very little about, except perhaps that He had a lot to do with rich people. This, generally speaking, left out everybody Dodger knew (except for Solomon, who had negotiated a great deal with God somehow, and occasionally gave God advice).

  With the man’s ample bulk out of the way, Dodger got a better look at the girl. He guessed her age at only about sixteen or seventeen, although she looked older, as people always did when they had been beaten up. She was breathing slowly, and he could see some of her hair, which was absolutely golden. On an impulse he said, ‘No offence meant, Mister Charlie, but would you mind if I watched over the lady, you know, until dawn? Not touching or nothing, and I’ve never seen her before, I swear it – but I don’t know why, I think I ought to.’

  The housekeeper came in, casting a look of pure hatred at Dodger and, he was happy to see, one that was not much better towards Charlie. She had the makings of a moustache, from below which came a grumble. ‘I don’t wanna speak out of turn, sir. I don’t mind keeping an eye on another “author of the storm”, as it were, but I can’t be responsible for the doings of this young guttersnipe, saving your honour’s presence. I hope no one will blame me if he murders you all in your beds tonight. No offence meant, you understand?’

  Dodger was used to this sort of thing; people like this silly woman thought that every kid who lived on the streets was very likely a thief and a pickpocket who would steal the laces out of your boots in a fraction of a second and then sell them back to you. He sighed inwardly. Of course, he thought, that was true of most of them – nearly all of them really – but that was no reason to make blanket statements. Dodger wasn’t a thief; not at all. He was . . . well, he was good at finding things. After all, sometimes things fell off carts and carriages, didn’t they? He had never stuck his hand into somebody else’s pocket. Well, apart from one or two occasions when it was so blatantly open that something was bound to fall out, in which case Dodger would nimbly grab it before it hit the ground. That wasn’t stealing: that was keeping the place tidy, and after all, it only happened . . . what? Once or twice a week? It was a kind of tidiness, after all, but nevertheless some short-sighted people might hang you just because of a misunderstanding. But they never had a chance of misunderstanding Dodger, oh dear no, because he was quick, and slick, and certainly brighter than the stupid old woman who got her words wrong (after all, what was an ‘author of the storm’? That was barmy! Somebody who wrote down storms for a living?). Nice work if you could get it, although strictly speaking Dodger always avoided anything that might be considered as being work. Of course, there was the toshing; oh, how he loved that. Toshing wasn’t work: toshing was living, toshing was coming alive. If he wasn’t being so bloody stupid he would be down in the sewers now, waiting for the storm to stop and a new world of opportunity to open. He treasured those times on the tosh, but right now Charlie had his hand firmly on Dodger’s shoulder.

  ‘Hear that, my friend; this lady has you bang to rights, and if you emulate Genghis Khan in this household and I hear of it, then I will set some people I know onto your tail. Understand? And I will wield a weapon that Genghis himself never dreamed of and aim it straight at you, my friend. Now I must leave the stricken young lady in the care of yourself, and the care of you to Mrs Sharples, upon whose word your life depends.’ Charlie smiled and went on, ‘“Author of the storm”, indeed; I must make a note of that.’ To the surprise of Dodger, and presumably to the surprise of Mrs Sharples, Charlie took out a very small notebook and a very short pencil an
d quickly wrote something down.

  The housekeeper’s eyes gleamed with a cheerful malignance as she regarded Dodger. ‘You can trust me, sir, indeed you can. If this young clamp gets up to any tricks, I shall have him out of here and in front of the magistrates in very short order, indeed I will.’ Then she screamed and pointed. ‘He has stolen something of hers already, sir; see!’

  Dodger froze, his hand halfway to the floor. There was a very anxious moment.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Sharples, you indeed have the eyes of – how can I say . . . Argos Panoptes,’ Charlie said smoothly. ‘I happened to notice what the young man was picking up and it has been by the bed for some time – the girl had been clutching them in her hand. No doubt Mister Dodger was concerned that it should not be overlooked. So, Dodger, hand it over, if you please?’

  Wishing earnestly for a piss, Dodger handed over his find. It was a very cheap pack of cards, but there had been no time to look at it with Charlie’s eyes on him.

  Charlie got on Dodger’s nerves, but now the man said, ‘A children’s card game, Mrs Sharples; rather damp and rather juvenile, I would consider, for a young lady of her age. “Happy Families” – I have heard of it.’ He turned the pack over and over in his fingers and said at last, ‘This is a mystery, my dear Mrs Sharples, and I shall put it back into the hands of someone who will move heaven and earth to take that mystery by its tail and drag it into the light of day; to wit, Mister Dodger here.’ With that, he handed the cards back to the astonished Dodger, saying cheerfully, ‘Do not cross me, Dodger, for I know every inch of you, I will take my oath on it. Now, I really must go. Business awaits!’

  And Dodger was certain that Charlie winked at him as he went out of the door.

  The night passed fairly quickly because so much of it had already slid away into yesterday. Dodger sat on the floor, listening to the slow breathing of the girl and the snoring of Mrs Sharples, who managed to sleep with one eye open and fixed on Dodger like a compass needle that steadily points north. Why had he done this? Why was he freezing on this floor when he could have been snug and curled up by Solomon’s stove (a marvellous contraption, which could also be a furnace if there was a lot of gold to melt)?

  But the girl was beautiful under her injuries, and he watched her as he turned the damp pack of stupid grubby cards over and over in his hands, staring at the girl whose face was a mass of bruises. The swines had really done her up good and proper, using her like a punchbag. He had given them some handy smacks with his crowbar, but that was not enough – by God, it was not enough! He would find them, he surely would, and see the bastards in lavender . . .

  Dodger woke up on the floor in a semi-gloom illuminated by just one flickering candle, totally disorientated until he recognized his surroundings, which included Mrs Sharples in her chair, still snoring like a man trying to saw a pig in half. But more importantly there was the sound of a very small and trembling voice, saying, ‘May I have some water, if you please?’

  This caused in Dodger a near panic, but there was a jug of water on the basin and he filled a glass. The girl took it from him very carefully, and motioned for a refill. Dodger glanced at Mrs Sharples, refilled the glass, handed it to her and whispered, ‘Please tell me your name.’

  The girl croaked, rather than spoke, but it was a ladylike croak, such as might be made by a frog princess, and she said, ‘I must not tell anybody my name, but you are most kind, sir.’

  Dodger was aflame. ‘Why were those coves beating you up, miss? Can you tell me their names?’

  Once again there was the sorry voice. ‘I should not.’

  ‘Then may I hold your hand, miss, on this chilly night?’ It was, he thought, a Christian thing to do – or so he had heard. Slightly to his amazement, the girl did indeed reach out and take his hand. He clasped it and very carefully looked at the ring on her finger, and thought: a lot of gold here, and a crest; oh my word, a boy can get into trouble with a crest. A crest with eagles on it and foreign lingo. A ring that meant something, Charlie had said; a ring that somebody most certainly wouldn’t want to lose. And somehow those eagles looked rather vicious.

  She noticed his interest. ‘He said he loved me . . . my husband. Then he let them beat me. But my mother always said that if anyone got to England, they would be free. Do not let them take me back, sir – I do not want to go.’

  He leaned over and whispered, ‘Miss, I ain’t no sir, I’m Dodger.’

  Sleepily, the girl said in what Dodger figured was a German accent, ‘Dodger? One who dodges, which is to say, moves about a lot? Thank you, Dodger. You are kind, and I am tired.’

  Dodger just managed to catch the glass as she slumped back into the pillows.

  1 Contrary to what he had said to Charlie, Dodger could read, having had some tuition from Solomon the watchmaker, his landlord, and the Jewish Chronicle – but it was never in anyone’s interest to tell anybody anything that they didn’t need to know.

  CHAPTER 2

  In which Dodger meets a dying man and a dying man meets his Lady; and Dodger becomes king of the toshers

  AS THE BELLS tolled five o’clock, Mrs Sharples woke up, making a noise that could best be expressed as Blort! Her eyes filled with venom when they alighted on Dodger and subsequently scoured the room for indications of malfeasance.

  ‘All right, you young castle, you have had your nice warm sleep in a Christian bedroom, as promised – and, as I suspect, for the first time. Now just you get out of here, and mind! I shall be watching you like a fork until you’re out of the back door, you mark my words.’

  Nasty and ungrateful oh those words were, and she was as good as them, marching him down the grubby back stairs and into the kitchen, where she flung open the door with such force that it bounced on its hinges and slammed itself shut again, much to the amusement of the cook, who had been watching the pantomime.

  As the door hung there reproachfully, Dodger said, ‘You heard Mister Charlie, missus, he is a very important man, and he gave me a mission, and I have a mission so I reckon, and a missionary gets a bite of breakfast before he is slung out into the cold. And I don’t think Mister Charlie would be too happy if I told him about the lack of hospitality you’ve shown to me, Mrs Sharp Balls.’

  He had mangled her name offensively without a thought, and was rather pleased, even though she appeared not to have noticed. The cook, however, had, and the laugh she laughed had a sneer in it. Dodger had never read a book, but if he had ever done so he would have read the cook just like it – and it was amazing how much you could glean from a look, or a snort, or even a fart if it was dropped into the conversation at just the right place. There was language, and there was the language of inflections, glances, tiny movements in the face – little bits of habit that the owner was not aware of. People who thought that their face was entirely blank did not realize how they were broadcasting their innermost thoughts to anyone with the gumption to pick up the signs, and the sign right now, floating in the air as if held by an angel, said that the cook did not like the housekeeper, and the dislike was sufficient enough that she would make fun of her even though Dodger was standing there.

  So he carefully made himself look a little more tired and a little more frightened and a little more pleading than usual. Instantly the cook motioned him towards her, saying in a low voice, but not so low that the housekeeper couldn’t hear it, ‘OK, lad, I’ve got some porridge on the boil – you can have some of that, and a piece of mutton that’s only slightly on the nose, and I dare say you’ve eaten worse. Will that do you?’

  Dodger burst into tears; they were good tears, full of soul and fat – there was a certain amount of body to them – and then he fell on his knees, clasped his hands together and said, with deep sincerity, ‘God bless you, missus, God bless you!’

  This shameless pantomime earned him a very large bowl of porridge with a very acceptable amount of sugar in it. The mutton wasn’t yet at the stage when it was about to start walking around all by itself, and so he took it than
kfully; it would at least make the basis of a decent stew. It was wrapped in newspaper and he shoved it in his pocket very quickly for fear that it might evaporate. As for the porridge, he pushed the spoon around until there was not one drop left, to the obvious approval of the cook, a lady, it might be said, who wobbled everywhere one could wobble when she moved, including the chin.

  He had written her down as an ally, at least against the housekeeper, who was still glaring at him balefully, but then she grabbed him sharply by the hand and shouted, much louder than necessary, ‘Just you come down here into the scullery and we’ll see how much you have stolen, my lad, shall we?’

  Dodger tried to pull out of her grip, but she was, as aforesaid, a well-built woman – as cooks tend to be – and as she was dragging him she leaned towards him and hissed, ‘Don’t struggle. What are you, a bloody fool? Keep mum and do as I say!’ She opened a door and dragged him down some stone steps, into a place that smelled of pickles. After slamming the door behind them, she relaxed a little and said, ‘That old baggage of a housekeeper will swear blind that you must have picked up a lot of trinkets when you were here last night, and you may be sure that the picker-up of said trifles will be that lady herself. Therefore it would be very likely that any friendships you have made here will vanish like the morning dew. The family are decent sorts, always a soft touch for a hard luck story from a broken-down artisan or fallen woman who would like to get up again, and I’ve seen them come and go. Quite a lot of them are genuine, let me tell you; I know.’

  As politely as possible, Dodger tried to remove her hands from his person. She seemed to be patting him down rather more than was warranted and with a certain enthusiasm and a gleam in her eye.

  She saw his expression and said, ‘I ain’t always been this old fat baggage; I fell once and bounced back up again. That’s the way to think about it, lad. Anyone can rise if they have enough yeast. I was not always like this; oh my word, you would be amazed and probably quite amused – and I might say in one or two cases embarrassed.’