Difficult? Dodger thought, his temper rising. They were treating Simplicity like she wasn’t a person, just some kind of bargaining counter in a game of politics. Even the Crown and Anchor man would give you better odds of winning! Suddenly his face was in front of Disraeli, who had been forced back into his chair. ‘There is nothing complicated, sir, not one thing,’ he cried. ‘A lady what has been beaten up by her old man and doesn’t want any more of it ain’t going back to where she is going to get more of the same. My word, that happens in the rookeries all the time and nobody waggles a finger exceptin’ the old man who suddenly has to wash his own unmentionables.’
Before Disraeli could speak, there was a welcome comment from Charlie, who said, ‘Ben, surely it is possible for you to delay a decision on this for a little time, give us all the opportunity to consider the best next move. But there is a matter that clearly does need to be resolved right now. Dodger here lives in Seven Dials with an elderly landlord and an . . . interesting dog. It is no place for a lady, and there is no doubt that we have a young lady here. One in fear for her life. If she’s unlucky enough, she could even be killed in the light of day, because our Mister Dodger, swift as he is, cannot always be everywhere. So we have to make a decision right now, you understand? That is to say right now, Ben, as to where this lady – a princess, Ben – will lay her head in the certainty that she will have one when she wakes up. You and I know the one person we could call on in these circumstances.’
Disraeli looked up as if someone had handed him a bucket of water when his foot was on fire. ‘You are, of course, talking about Angela?’
‘But of course.’ Charlie turned to Dodger, now standing by Simplicity like a guardsman ready to strike at any moment, and went on, ‘We have a useful friend who I am sure will be delighted to offer shelter, faithful guards and lodging to Miss Simplicity. I, for my part, am absolutely sure that she will rise to the occasion, because I believe that she is a woman who never, ever has to care what politicians think, or kings for that matter. We could get there in a growler in less than an hour, if the traffic isn’t too bad. You too must accompany us. I will come with the pair of you and explain matters.’
‘How do I know I can trust you, Charlie,’ said Dodger, ‘even if we can trust this mysterious lady?’
‘Well,’ said Charlie, ‘on a number of matters you probably can’t. I was telling you the truth of it. And the truth, you know, is a fog – but do you believe, truly believe, that I am not trustworthy in this? Where else are you going to take the lady? Down into the sewers?’
Before another word could be uttered, the ringing voice of Simplicity said, ‘I must trust you, Dodger. Maybe it’s time for a little bit of trust on your behalf.’
There were always growlers waiting around the Parliament buildings, and they were soon heading west, as far as Dodger could make out.
They travelled in silence until Simplicity said, ‘Mister Dickens, I do not much like your friend Mister Disraeli; he is like somebody who sees that there are two sides to every question. He kind of floats, if you get me; it’s like everything was, well, like some cloth you could shake and pick up again. And my mother said such people were innocent but dangerous.’ After a pause she added, ‘I do apologize, but I think what I said was true.’
Charlie sighed. ‘People must have invented politics as a means for preventing wars and in that respect politicians are useful, most of the time. It is very hard to see what else we have. But Ben’s hands are tied. There are things he simply cannot do in his position, things that he would not wish to be known to be involved in. It may surprise both of you to know that agents of foreign powers roam around in this country all the time, just as we ourselves send people to spy on those other countries. Both sides know this happens, and again, generally and unbelievably, a fragile peace is maintained. However,’ he added, ‘when the kings and queens find themselves in checkmate, a pawn might win the day.’
This was all news to Dodger, who said, ‘So we are always spying on our enemies?’
In the darkness of the coach there was a chuckle. ‘Generally, Dodger, no, because we know what our enemies are thinking; it’s friends you have to be careful of. It can be like a seesaw. One day our enemies might be like our friends, and another day our friends may turn out to be an enemy. Oh, everybody knows about the agents. The agents know about the agents. I must confess, though, I am at a loss to see what even diplomacy can do in this case. Undoubtedly Simplicity could be allowed to live here, but I cannot believe that this would be the end of the matter, since the other government, on behalf of her father-in-law, seems to be very adamant. Perhaps we could smuggle her onto a boat to the Americas or possibly Australia, although this is me now thinking as a novelist.’
Dodger burst out, ‘The Americas? I’ve heard about them! Full of savages. You can’t possibly send her there! She won’t have any friends! And I don’t know very much about Australia, but Sol told me it’s the other side of the world, so the way I see it that means that they must walk around upside down. And even if we did put her on a boat, there will be people who know that happened: you know that, Charlie; there’s people who watch everything that happens on the docks – I used to be one of ’em.’
‘I’m quite certain she could go in disguise,’ said Charlie. ‘Or,’ he added, ‘it might just be sensible to lie low until said father-in-law finally has an apoplectic fit. As I understand it, from what Disraeli has gleaned, the rather unpleasant son might be more easy to deal with.’
In the corner where Simplicity was sitting, a voice said, quietly and firmly, ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. All I want to do is stay here in England where my mother was born. There are no other sides to this question and talking about it won’t create one. I have no intention of going anywhere else.’
Dodger listened very carefully to this. Simplicity had been beaten up very badly, and she had been an invalid, and ever since then Dodger had thought of her in those terms, but now a distant memory struck him. He said, ‘Charlie, I remember someone telling me once that when the Romans were over here building the sewers, there was some girl who chased them around the place with chariots with wheels that cut their legs off; you’re a reading type of cove – can you bring to mind what her name was?’
‘Boadicea,’ said Charlie, ‘and I think you have made a point. Miss Simplicity is a young woman who knows her own mind and she should be allowed to stand firm against those who oppose her.’
Then the coach slowed, and stopped outside what seemed to Dodger to be a very large and well-lit house. A butler opened the door when Charlie knocked. There was a whispered conversation, then Dodger and Simplicity were ushered into a small neat room by the door, while Charlie went away at some speed with the butler, whom he had addressed as Geoffrey.
Within less than a minute, Charlie was back, accompanied by a lady whom he introduced as Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts. She looked quite young, Dodger thought, but she dressed quite old, and what he could see was sharp. It was rather like Charlie. You saw at once with this lady that you would need to be either direct or silent: she had the look of somebody who inevitably won arguments.
The woman held out her hand. ‘My dear, you must be Simplicity, and I am very pleased to meet you.’ She turned to Dodger. ‘Ah yes, the Hero of Fleet Street. Charlie has told me about your exploits at the Chronicle, and everyone is talking of your bravery this morning, and you must believe me, I do have a notion as to what is going on – people can be so talkative. Clearly the thing to do right now is to get this young lady’ – she corrected herself – ‘young woman a meal and a chance to sleep in a warm and, above all, secure bedroom.’ She added, ‘Nobody comes into this house without my leave, and any intruder who came in with malice aforethought would wish they had never been born, or perhaps, if they were able to think more selectively, that I had never been born. Simplicity is entirely welcome or, I should say . . . I am welcoming the daughter of an old friend from the country, who is staying here in safety while she learns to
navigate her way in this wicked city. I am sure that you, Mister Dodger, have all your work cut out as it is. Heroes are always such busy people, I have found, although I would be very grateful if you would attend me here at a dinner party tomorrow.’
Dodger listened to this, open-mouthed, until Charlie pushed past him and said, ‘Dear Angela, would it be in order to allow this young man, busy though he is, to come tomorrow with his friend and mentor, Solomon Cohen? An excellent and renowned maker of jewellery and watches.’
‘Capital. I would be most happy to meet him. I believe I have heard of him. As for you, Charlie, you know you are invited anyway, and I would like to have a quiet word with you after Mister Dodger has left.’
The word ‘left’ had an air of finality, but Dodger found that he had raised his hand, and since it was up there, he said, ‘Excuse me, miss, would you allow me to see where Miss Simplicity is going to sleep?’
‘Why, pray?’
‘Well, miss, I reckon I can get through most windows in this city, and if I can, then so can someone more nasty than me, if you see what I mean.’
He was expecting a reproof, but what he got was a broad smile from Angela. ‘You acknowledge no master, do you, Mister Dodger?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, miss, but I want to know that Simplicity is safe, you see.’
‘Well done, Mister Dodger. I will get Geoffrey to show you the room and the bars on the window. I too do not like intruders, and even now I’m wondering whether I shouldn’t employ you or some of your contemporaries to find a hitherto undiscovered way in. We might talk about this on the morrow. But now I must speak at length to Charlie.’
CHAPTER 10
Dodger uses his head
DODGER RAN TOWARDS home feeling in some way buoyed up by the meeting, especially since Charlie had whispered to him as he left that Angela had more money than anyone who wasn’t a king or queen. A nobby party sounded like a difficult crib to crack, though. He sped at a steady pace until he reached the first drain cover: an entrance to his world. A moment later, despite his smart attire, there was a distinct absence of Dodger and the sound of a drain cover falling back into place.
He got his bearings by feel, by echoes and, of course, by smell – every single sewer in the city had a smell that was all its own; he could taste them like a connoisseur of fine wines, and so he plotted the way home, changing direction only once when his two-note tosher whistle was answered by another already working that particular tunnel. It was still light, which helped when you passed the occasional grid or grating, and the walking was easy – not so much as a trickle today – and he almost absentmindedly explored as he passed a secret niche. He found sixpence, a sign that somebody or something was watching over him.
Overhead in the complicated world was the noise of hooves, the echo of footsteps and occasionally a carriage or a coach, and out of nowhere a sound that made him freeze: there was an eerie metallic squeal of metal in extreme distress, as if something was wrong, or maybe something had got stuck in a wheel, causing it to drag noisily over the stones with a sound that seared the soul and, once heard, could never be forgotten.
The coach! If he could see where it went, he might find the men who had battered Simplicity. He clenched his fists in anticipation – wait until they were on the receiving end of a set of brass knuckles . . .
The coach was running along the street above him, and he cursed the fact that the next drain cover in that direction was some way away, luckily in a usually moderately clean sewer which he told himself would save wear and tear on the shonky suit. He ran along the sewer, not stopping at all, not even for a shilling, and didn’t halt until he saw the gratings of the drain cover above him. He got out his crowbar, but just as he was about to fling the cover away there was a sound of heavy hoofbeats and the jingle of harness. Something huge covered that little circle of light that had been salvation with a great and glorious smell of dung, as a brewer’s cart pulled up on top of the drain and settled down like an old man finding a privy at last after a long wait. The likeness was assisted by the fact that the great steaming shire horses that had been pulling the cart decided, as one, very hygienically to empty their bladders. They were large animals and it had been a long afternoon, and so the shower was not over in the space of a moment, but rather an elegant duet to the goddess of relief. Regrettably, since the only way was down, there was simply no time for Dodger to dodge out of the way, not now.
In the distance, gradually merging with all the rattle and clamour of the streets, the screaming wheel could barely now be heard. In any case, the beefy men who worked for the brewers were unloading the heavy casks down wooden ramps, and the rumble of the great barrels drowned out every other sound that was left.
Dodger knew the routine of these men; once they had shifted all the empty barrels from the pub and replaced them with full ones, they would as sure as sunset drink a pint of beer. They would be joined in this cheerful enterprise by the landlord himself, the ostensible reason for this being that they would all agree on the quality of the nectar concerned, although in truth the likely reason was that, after heaving great loads around for any length of time, well, a man deserves a beer, doesn’t he? It was a ritual that was probably as old as beer itself. Occasionally, the brewery men and the landlords would have another beer, so great was their determination to make sure that the beer was in the best possible condition. In fact, Dodger could smell it, even above the scent of the horses, and even with a certain essence of horse to contend with, it still made him thirsty.
He had always loved the smell you got in the sewers by the breweries. A geezer called Blinky, who was a rat-catcher by profession, had once told him that the rats in the sewers underneath the breweries were always the biggest and fattest anywhere, adding that the rat-catching fancy would pay extra for brewery rats because they had a lot of fight in them.
Whatever he did now, though, Dodger knew he wasn’t going to catch up with that damned coach. The men above him were being very assiduous in deciding on the quality of the beer, and while he could, of course, run along to the next grating, his quarry by then would have got lost in the street noise of London, as sure as Heaven. All he could do was seethe at an opportunity lost.
He trudged on anyway, mostly because the large shire horses also did other things than piss – that’s why some of the street urchins used to follow them with a bucket. You often heard them shouting their wares among the nobbier houses, where people had gardens, with the refrain ‘One penny a bucket, missus, well stamped down!’
The only thing to do now was hurry along to the next drain cover and get out there. And so, after a day of dodging, he traipsed through the maze of streets, tired, hungry and well aware that there was indeed not one mark on the shonky suit; it was now, in fact, made up of marks. Jacob and his sons were pretty good at cleaning things up, but they would have their work cut out on this. No hope for it, though; he would have to take his lumps.
Gloomily he walked on, paying attention all the time for heads that dropped out of sight as soon as they knew that they had been made, or people who very swiftly disappeared into alleyways. This was what a geezer did; a geezer knew that most of the hurrying, scurrying crowd would be simply minding their own business, although with the option of minding somebody else’s business as well if the opportunity arose. What Dodger was looking out for was the interrogating eye, the eye of purpose, the watchful eye, the eye that read the street.
And right now the street seemed clear, in so far as any street could, and at least Simplicity was safe for tonight, he consoled himself. Although not safe if she went out. It was dreadful the things that could happen on the street, in full view.
Not so long ago, he remembered he had dressed up as a little flower girl; he was young enough to pull it off with his auburn hair sticking out fetchingly from a scarf, and it wasn’t even his hair because he had borrowed it from Mary-Go-Round, who had pretty good blonde hair. Mary’s hair grew like a mushroom and looked like it to
o. But she made good money every few months or so by selling it to the wig-makers.
The reason he had been doing this favour was that the flower girls, some of whom were as young as four years old, had been having a certain amount of . . . harassment from a particular kind of gentleman. The girls, who mostly sold violets and daffodils in season, were a decent bunch, and Dodger quite liked them and cared for them. Of course, they had to make a living as they grew older, just like everyone else, and it might be said that in certain circumstances a little bit of hanky-panky might just be acceptable to the older ones, provided that they were in control of the hanky, not to mention the panky. However, they were furiously protective of their younger sisters, at which point Dodger had been persuaded to don his first dress.
And so when the sharp-suited gentlemen who liked to go down among the poor flower girls to see if there were any new blossoms they could pluck came to ply them with strong liquor until they could have their wicked way with them, they would actually be subtly directed to the shrinking and simpering violet who was, in fact, Dodger.
Actually, he had to admit that he had been incredibly good at it, because to be a geezer was to be an actor and so Dodger was better at being a shrinking violet than any of the other flower girls who had, how could you put it, better qualifications. He had already sold quite a lot of his violets because his voice hadn’t broken then and he could make himself a real little virgin when he wanted to. After a few hours of this, the girls tipped him off to the whereabouts of a particularly nasty dandy who always hung around the smaller girls, and who was heading towards him with his nice coat and his cane, jingling the money in his pockets. And the street applauded when a suddenly rather athletic little flower girl grabbed the smarmy bastard, punched him, dragged him into an alley and made certain that he would not be able to jingle anything in his pockets for some time to come.
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