Another Twist in the Tale

by Catherine Bruton

  “Why, cos we is robbin’ from the rich to give t’ the poor,” said the pungent young lady called Fleet.

  “The poor?”

  “Tha’s us!” said Dodger.

  “An’ all the Sisters,” said Angel. “Dodger says we are like the band of merry men – only girls! Merry girls!”

  “Ex-act-ly!” said Dodge. “It’s redistribution of wealth. The government oughta be thanking us for it.”

  Twill wondered what her beloved Baggage would make of her choice of new occupation. The life of a pickpocket was certainly not what Baggage Jones had in mind for her … but then she had made Twill promise not to return. Which meant she would have to find a new occupation – and a new place to live – if she could prove that she was up to it.

  She was pondering how she might do so as they made their way through Smithfield Market, where they were confronted with the wall of odour from the slaughtered pigs. The steam rising from the recently despatched carcasses mingled with the vapour rising from the horse dung and made Twill gag.

  “Come on, Camberwell!” said Dodger, wrinkling his face. “Afore me nose drops off cos a the smell!”

  Then down they went through Little Britain, past St Bart’s hospital, through the square that Dodger told her was haunted. “Some lady queen – long time ago – built a giant bonfire here an’ burned a load of old priests for sport,” he told her. “Sat up there, they say.” He indicated a small window above the entrance to the old Tudor church of St Bartholomew.

  Twill felt herself shiver in the dank and murky morning air. She could almost feel the breath of the ghosts hovering about her. But this was no time for cold feet and bogey tales. Chelsea had explained the importance of picking out your “mark” – and as they made their way past the ancient church of St Bart’s, Dodger pointed out a flamboyantly dressed young gentleman with an elaborately tied neckcloth, shirt points starched so high he looked like he could barely breathe, and a waistcoat of a violent salmon colour that clashed horribly with his overly tight camel hessians. The young gentleman was berating a young flower seller angrily over the price of a bunch of violets.

  “Just the man!” said Chelsea. “Your challenge is to relieve that gentleman of ’is pocket watch.”

  Over the years, the Butterflies had taught Twill the tricks of their trade – how to use nimble sleight of hand to slip rings from fingers; pocket watches from chains; coins from the deepest of pockets – for Madam Manzoni insisted that her girls learn to rob the customers blind in as many ways as possible. But this – on the streets of London in broad daylight – was a different matter altogether.

  “Allow me to assist,” said Dodger, slipping his arm though Twill’s in a most presumptuous manner. “You just need to act like youse in love wiv me.”

  “What?” Twill exclaimed.

  “Shoutn’t be too hard!” said Dodger, tugging her in the direction of the flower seller. “You just gaze into my eyes…”

  Twill shot a fiery glance in his direction, which could hardly have been described as loving.

  “Then when I goes in for a kiss, you grabs the ticker!”

  Twill ground to a sudden halt. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Oh, woutn’t I, South o’ th’ River?” said the Dodger, who appeared to be enjoying the charade far more than Twill considered seemly.

  “Just you try and you’ll find yourself in that pile of pigswill over there!” Twill indicated to a farmer driving his hogs down to Smithfield Market.

  Dodger just grinned, undaunted by the threat. They were closer to their mark now, and as Twill heard the gentleman berating the old flower seller in the vilest terms, she felt a flash of anger on behalf of the poor defenceless woman, and a sudden desire to see Pink Waistcoat get his just deserts.

  “Fine!” she said to Dodger. “I’ll do it, but my way – don’t you try nothing funny!”

  She could see Angel and Chelsea on the other side of the street, keeping a lookout for the long arm of the law, and she wondered if Dodger tried this particular tactic with all the girls.

  She positioned herself close to the pink waistcoat, who smelled of a sickly sweet eau de cologne, surveying his salmon-pink bulk and contemplating the best way to relieve him of his possessions. But before she had a chance to put any such property redistribution plan into action, she felt an arm around her waist and heard Dodger declare, “Here goes, my pretty one!” and then he was pulling her close and puckering his lips in a most alarming manner. Luckily Twill’s reflexes were as quick as Mr Dawkins’, and she had unhooked his presumptuous arm and slapped him on his puckered face before she’d managed to get out the words, “How dare you – unhand me, sir!”

  “But I loves you with all me ’eart, me darlin’!” Dodger declaimed, lunging enthusiastically for a second embrace.

  An indignant Twill staggered back towards Pink Waistcoat, who was blurting something about “unmannerly youths” and “young ruffians”. Across the road Angel and Chelsea were in fits of giggles but, recalling what she was here for, Twill turned to grab Pink Waistcoat, clutching him for protection, crying, “Oh, help me, good sir!” while slipping her hand into his pocket to relieve him of his timepiece – and his wallet at the same time.

  “Unhand me, woman!” Pink Waistcoat declared, shoving her backwards into the arms of the Artful Dodger, who took advantage of Twill’s momentary discomposure to plant a kiss upon her protesting lips.

  Red-faced and fuming, Twill turned round and slapped his grinning face, declaring to both Pink Waistcoat and Dodger, “All men are pigs!” before storming off around the corner, with Dodger following, begging for forgiveness – and the pink man’s loot in her apron pocket.

  Once out of sight of the flower seller, all four of them ran hell for leather, not stopping till they reached the Strand, where they ducked into an alleyway by the old Roman Baths, far enough from the scene of the crime for them all to safely catch their breaths.

  “That,” panted Chelsea, “was better than the Covent Garden opera show.”

  “You looked so very cross when Dodger kissed you, Twill!” giggled young Angel.

  “She’s a great actress!” said Dodger, surveying Twill with an impish grin. “She loved it really!”

  “I most certainly did not – and if you EVER try a stunt like that again,” said Twill, “I’ll … I’ll…” She did not have the words for the damage she intended to inflict upon Dodger’s person, but the look in her eye was dangerous enough to convey her intentions.

  “You got the loot?” said Chelsea.

  Twill turned away from Dodger’s maddening grin, reached into her apron pocket and proudly produced a timepiece, a well-lined wallet and a silken handkerchief of salmon pink.

  “Not bad,” said the red-haired leader of the Sassy Sisterhood.

  “So,” asked Twill apprehensively. “Am I in?”

  Chelsea gave a loud sniff, then shrugged non-committally. “I s’pose you can stay if you wants.”

  “What did I tell you, girls!” said Dodger. “She’s a natural.”

  Chapter 16

  In which we learn that a leopard who changes his name does not change his spots

  “You are officially a member of the Saffron Hill Sisters, young Camberwell!” said Dodger after the other two headed back with their loot to the printing press. Angel tired easily – though she would never admit it – and had only agreed to return when Chelsea said her own feet were sore, and with a promise from Dodger that he would filch some cinder toffee from the sweet seller if she did.

  “So I’m gonna give you a tour of the top pickin’ districts!”

  Dodger produced a couple of rosy red apples from his capacious coat pockets and handed one to Twill as they made their way through the bewildering array of quadrangles, gardens and courtyards that made up Middle Temple and Clifford’s Inn.

  “The Artful Dodger’s top-secret tips for pickpocketing pleasure.”

  “Why are you showing me, if they’re so secret?” demanded Twill, still
not prepared to forgive him for his assault upon her honour.

  “I need t’ pass on the knowledge for when I’m gone,” said Dodger.

  “Gone?” said Twill. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m finking of moving to pastures new,” said Dodger. “Get meself passage on one of them ships to the New World – America, Canada – I don’t much mind where. I missed out on a trip to Botany Bay a little while back, an’ ever since then I got itchy feet an’ a longin’ to see the world, you unnerstand?”

  “I do,” said Twill, a little wistfully.

  “Besides, old Lunnun town is a-changing,” said Dodger, biting into his apple as they passed a pair of bewigged lawyers, who surveyed them with haughty stares. “An’ these streets is getting a little too hot for me. Ever since the Chief Child Catcher an’ his band of kiddy-nappers took to the streets, things has started a-changing.”

  “Child Catchers?” said Twill, recalling that both Dodger and Chelsea had used the phrase last night. “Who are they?”

  “You really ain’t never ’eard of the Child Catchers?” said Dodger in surprise. They had stopped by a sweet stall and Dodger was handing over a ha’penny for a bag of cinder toffee – all quite above board – though Twill imagined Angel would hear a more dastardly version of the transaction later.

  “You south of the river types don’t know much, do ya?” said Dodger, pocketing the sweets with a wink in her direction. “The Child Catchers are only the most sinister monsters to haunt the streets of London since there was mammoths and sabretooth tigers prowlin’ along the banks o’ the Thames.”

  “They sound like bogey men!” said Twill, pulling a face and looking at him in disbelief. “Are they real?”

  “Real as this hat!” declared Dodger.

  And, as if to prove the veracity of Dodger’s words, at that very moment, the Chief Child Catcher himself decided to make an appearance in our tale.

  The intrepid pair of pickpockets were, by this time, near the location of the Brownlow Benevolent Home for Unfortunate Boys. Dodger had pointed out the place, and, for some reason, standing in its shadow, Twill felt a chill go down her spine. The grey walls of this austere institution rose towards the early morning smog, and the dark black gates, above which the name of the institution was wrought in iron, seemed to Twill to look more like a prison entrance than a place of refuge.

  Just as they were about to step into the square in front of this benevolent institution there appeared a stout barrel of a man, dressed in what looked like a mixture of scarlet regimentals and a bishop’s cloak. This extraordinary uniform strained over his elephantine form, bulging over a mountainous belly, which hovered precariously over a pair of incongruously slender legs, clad in whitest hessian and highly polished buckskin boots. This remarkable get-up was topped off with a voluminous tricorn hat and a large golden chain of office, which clanked around the man’s neck.

  “The Chief Child Catcher!” hissed Dodger, grabbing Twill by the arm and pulling her into the shadow of an alleyway where they could not be seen.

  Twill stared at the leader of this mythical band of creatures with interest. She couldn’t help feeling that he looked oddly familiar. His face was bulbous and red, and he huffed and puffed as he walked, like an old steam engine. He carried himself with such an air of importance, beaming down at the populace as he proceeded towards the doors of the Benevolent Home, and yet something about him made Twill shudder.

  “Not often you see ’im bring one in ’isself,” Dodger observed, referring presumably to the ragged bundle of misery that the corpulent gentleman was leading, shivering, towards the gates.

  “Poor kid!” muttered Dodger. “Nowt we can do for ’im now though!”

  They watched as another young boy unlocked the gates. He was not much less ragged and pale-looking than the Chief Child Catcher’s prisoner – in fact, he was so pale he almost seemed to glow blue in the morning mist. Behind him there appeared a hooded figure, bent and crooked, with a hat pulled low and a kerchief wrapped over their face to cover their features. This shadowy being shook the Chief Child Catcher by the hand and the two appeared to exchange a few words.

  “Who’s that?” whispered Twill.

  Dodger was staring hard at the gnarled figure, a puzzled expression on his face. “Ain’t seen ’im before. Must be the new overseer the boys been tellin’ me ’bout.”

  Dodger strained to get a closer look, but the crooked figure kept his hood low, muttering words too softly for the onlookers to hear, before the portly gent and his shivering charge were admitted, the gates clanged ominously shut, and the three disappeared from view.

  “I thought you said the Benevolent Home for Unfortunate Boys was set up to help street urchins,” said Twill when they’d gone. Dodger was leaning back against the grimy brickwork, wrapped in thought. “Feed ’em, clothe ’em, teach ’em – that’s what you said.”

  “An’ that’s what it was,” said Dodge, frowning and shaking his head. “But things ’as changed since the Child Catchers took to the streets.”

  Twill was puzzled. “You keep saying that, but who exactly are the Child Catchers?”

  “Oh, it’s all fine an’ above board,” said Dodger, rolling his eyes. “Mr Brownlow ’isself was behind settin’ ’em up. The police knows about it – parliament too, no doubt. They all applaud the old gent for his benevolence!”

  Twill saw that Dodger was eyeing a pocket watch that dangled tantalisingly from the waistcoat of a dandy-looking young man who passed by, though he chose not to relieve him of it.

  “Course, they don’t call ’em Child Catchers,” Dodger continued. Then he adopted a stance and tone like he was the prime minister himself. “They is called the Commission for the Location and Rescue of Vagrant Children – or summat high-falutin’ like that. An’ that old gent dressed up like a giant strawberry puff back there – ’e was the head commissioner. Bumble by name.”

  Bumble by name, beadle by former profession, blackguard and scoundrel as he will be known to readers of the tale of Oliver Twist. Yes, this was he. One and the same Mr Bumble who – so many years before – had cast Twill out into the snow, sold Oliver for an undertaker’s apprentice, then consorted with his dastardly half-brother to rob the boy of his inheritance. Yet now he had apparently shaken off the stain of that association and risen up in the eyes of the world once again.

  “Bumble?” said Twill. “Where have I heard that name before?”

  “A greater scoundrel you couldn’t ’ope to meet!” said Dodger feelingly. “But ’e persuaded Mr Brownlow ’e’d seen the light, seen the error of ’is ways, said he wanted to do penance for the harm ’e’d caused young Oliver by rescuin’ others like him!”

  “And does he?”

  “Not likely! ’Im and ’is Child Catchers scour the streets for lost boys, homeless young fellows in need of a bed for the night an’ a good meal.”

  “And then they take them – to the Benevolent Home for Unfortunate Boys?”

  “Eggs-actly! But things ain’t what they was since Mr Brownlow fell sick,” said Dodger. “None of the old gang hung around once things started a-changing. They said them that is runnin’ the place now ain’t got such al-true-istic motives as the good old man.”

  “That hooded gentleman? Who is he?”

  “The boys call ’im the Old Devil,” said Dodger, shaking his head and frowning. “He names hisself Mr Barrabas. Appointed last month by the Strawberry Puff hisself, an’ the two of them is thick as thieves. Nobody knows who ’e is, nor where ’e came from. Appeared from nowhere, keeps close in the walls of the Benevolent – but there’s something about him…” Dodger looked perplexed again. “I don’t know what it is.” He fell silent for a moment, as if trying to puzzle out a mystery that lay just out of his grasp. “An’ there’s a bad change afoot in the place too!” he went on.

  “What sort of change?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” said the Dodger. “Can’t get near the old place no more. Used to pop in for
a bite to eat if business was slow, but now they got locks on the gates – not sure if it’s to keep the boys in or the pryin’ eyes out. But I got my spies. I’ll find out what that crooked gent is up to – see if I don’t.”

  Chapter 17

  In which some time passes and Twill learns a dubious trade and embraces Sisterhood

  Twill soon settled in to the Sassy Sisterhood. Within a week she felt like one of the family. Within two, she could barely imagine any other life than that of the streets. And within a month, she was one of the most accomplished dippers and pocket-pickers between Highgate and High Holborn.

  Unlike her twin brother, whose delicate sensibilities had made him unsuited to a life of petty thievery and pickpocketery, Twill was quick-thinking and fleet-of-foot. Moreover, her time at the Black Jack had given her a dim view of rich folks and the feudal principles on which the laws of England were founded – the belief that those who have deserve what they have, and those who have-not deserve no better. On the contrary, Twill believed that those who possessed far more than they needed should share with those who went cold and hungry for want of having enough. And if they had to be encouraged to share their wealth with a little assistance from small hands dipped into pockets, then that was just the good lord’s way of achieving equality on earth.

  If Twill sometimes shared her brother’s moral qualms about thievery, she contented herself by only picking targets who were thoroughly objectionable: a middle-aged woman draped in pearls who beat her little dog with a stick; an elderly gentleman with rings on every finger whom she overheard telling his son he was and always would be a grave disappointment. Such specimens Twill felt deserved what life handed to them – and what Twill could take away.

  The only thing that occasioned Twill a twinge of guilt at the line of work she had turned her hand to was the knowledge that Baggage had wanted better for her. Baggage had insisted that she learn to read and write, taught her to cook and manage a home, and had dreamed of Twill rising from kitchen maid to housekeeper of some grand establishment. She had certainly not wanted her girl to be a common thief, living in the same rubbish heap from which Baggage had picked her up.