Another Twist in the Tale

by Catherine Bruton

  “It’s what happens when an older family member is ill – the heir can get power of attorney and can make decisions about the money and that.”

  “She’s a ripe ’un this one!” said Tommy, who had escaped from his bathing ordeal and was nodding approvingly at Twill.

  “But how do you propose that we informs young Oliver of the state of affairs?” Dodger demanded. “He’s away, they says – gone to school or overseas or somesuch.”

  “We write him a letter,” said Twill.

  The artful young gentleman beheld her with eye-rolling disbelief.

  “You can write?” This was little Angel, voicing the general surprise of the congregation.

  “I can!” smiled Twill. “An’ I can teach you, if you like!”

  Angel looked as if she would like that very much, but Dodger was less impressed.

  “Beware an educated woman,” he said.

  “For she shall inherit the earth!” replied Twill.

  She grinned and Dodger smiled for the first time that day, though the smile did not quite reach his eyes.

  “Come on,” she said. “We just need to find out an address to send the letter.”

  Chapter 21

  In which the true sorry and parlous state of dear old Mr Brownlow is fully uncovered

  After Tommy had been subjected to further interrogation and Sloane had been sent to Clerkenwell Green to nab paper, ink and a quill from the stationer’s, Twill sat down to write her letter – curiously watched by the entire membership of the Sassy Sisters, plus Tommy. Dodger pretended not to be interested, and was indeed preoccupied by thoughts that seemed to rob him of his usual good humour. But once Twill’s work was completed, it was he who insisted on accompanying her through the streets to the residence of Mr Brownlow.

  Readers of the tale of Oliver Twist will recall this townhouse of honey-coloured stone on Craven Street as the happy location where Oliver spent a merry and contented time recovering from his arrest, after Dodger had tried (unsuccessfully!) to teach him how to pickpocket, making himself beloved of the man who was to be his future guardian. In those days, the townhouse was well lit, warm and glowing. Peeking through one of the many tall sash windows one might have seen a merry fire burning in the library, or smelled the delectable aromas of roast pork and Yorkshire puddings emitting from the kitchen. But now, as Twill and Dodger approached the house, it was bathed in darkness and smelled only of musty neglect, mildew and misery.

  They dared not approach the front door, so they made their way down the area steps and rapped on the kitchen door, which was opened by a thin wraith of a girl – mealy-mouthed, gap-toothed and sour-looking – who surveyed them with the deepest of contempt. “What’s your business ’ere?”

  “We wondered,” said Twill, who had learned from her encounter with the kitchen maid of Doughty Street that deference to the lowest of servants was wise, “might we speak to your master, Mr Brownlow?”

  “Master’s sick!” declared the mealy-mouthed girl, eyeing Dodger with the greatest of suspicion as if she recognised him from somewhere but couldn’t quite recall where. “Can’t talk, won’t talk. Keeps to his bed all day. Ain’t long for this world, Mrs C says!”

  “Then Master Oliver, might we speak with him?” enquired Twill.

  “Gone away, ain’t he?” the mealy-mouthed girl declared with a little gulp. Indeed, she appeared rather upset at the news.

  “To school?” Twill asked, hoping that the girl might let slip the direction of the educational establishment.

  But she was most surprised by the answer. “Nah – they shipped him off to the Indies, poor wee mite!”

  “The Indies?” Dodger and Twill exclaimed in unison.

  “Ay, Mr Brownlow ’as estates over there. Sugar plantations – only they’s are fallen into trouble. Mr Brownlow won’t never use slaves, see – says it’s all kinds of wrong – an’ tha’s been stirring up no end of trouble, cos they still got slavery in them French colonies, see – an’ the Frogs get mighty uppity ’bout any Englishman who wants to pay his workers! Somebody needed to go an’ sort out the mess and the boy Oliver volunteered, bless ’is kind ’eart.” She looked quite teary-eyed as she said this. “Mr Brownlow, he warn’t keen on the idea, but dear Master Oliver said as ’e wanted to repay the good old gent’s kindness an’ do ’is bit to bring an end to the shameful practice of slaving whiles ’e wos ’at it!”

  “The Indies!” said Dodger, taking in this momentous piece of information. “Oliver Twist won’t survive five minutes out there!”

  “That’s what Mrs C says too,” said the servant girl, who briefly appeared less mealy-mouthed and more sentimental when she spoke of Oliver Twist, causing Twill to suspect that she harboured certain tender sentiments towards him.

  “Mrs C?”

  “Or Mrs B – I never knows which to call ’er. She’s the new housekeeper here. Lady wot looks after Mr Brownlow. Came ’ere shortly after sweet young Oliver left. She sacked all t’ other servants. I was the only one she kept on!” The girl pronounced this with a brief flash of pride, but then her face resumed its habitual sullen expression. “She says I need to stop snivvlin’ ’bout Oliver Twist. If the climate or the disease don’t do for ’im then the French slavers will, she says.” At this, the girl gave a giant sniff and looked so melancholy that Twill passed her a handkerchief – the one embroidered with her initials that Baggage had sent her away with – into which the mealy-mouthed girl blew most ferociously.

  “So ’ow did this Mrs C – or Mrs B – come to be carin’ for Mr Brownlow?” asked Dodger, who had been trying to follow the convoluted train of the girl’s narrative.

  “She’s ’is last link with young Oliver’s poor unfortunate mother, God rest her soul,” said the girl, whom Twill was beginning to surmise had few people to talk to and could be drawn out quite easily on the topic of her favourite young master. “Mr Brownlow likes to hears Mrs C talk of the girl. An’ she makes his medicine – a sort of camomile tea wot ’elps him sleep.”

  “I bet it does,” said Dodger, his suspicious mind working overtime.

  “And do you happen to know an address for Oliver Twist in the Indies?” Twill enquired.

  “No, ma’am. Only heard Mrs C say something about Martinique – I recalled it because my sister ’ad a sweetheart named Martin an’ she thought it such a fine name for an island she reckoned if she’d a’ had a little girl they could have call her Martinique.”

  “A very pretty name, to be sure,” said Twill

  “Hmmph! Well, ’er Martin’s taken up with another girl long since!” said the mealy-mouthed girl, sullen again. “My sister says she’ll rip ’er eyes out if she steals her baby name as well as her beau!”

  “Thank you so much for your intelligence,” said Twill, sensing that the girl might be about to launch into a further diatribe. “And we hope your master recovers soon.”

  “Not likely,” said the girl with matter-of-factness. “Mrs C says only way Mr Brownlow be leaving this house is in a black box.”

  Chapter 22

  In which things are seen, said and done that perhaps were better unseen, unsaid and undone

  “The Indies!” declared Twill. “How are we supposed to get a letter out to Martinique?”

  The pair had turned away from the Brownlow residence and now it was Twill’s turn to be disconsolate.

  Not so Dodger, who had been pondering on the girl’s intelligence and now declared that he had a cunning plan.

  “Really?” said Twill. “And does this one involve me having to kiss you?”

  “Unluckily for you, Camberwell, it don’t!” said Dodger. “An’ do you have any better ideas up your sleeve?”

  “My name is Twill!” said that young lady indignantly. “And – um – no, I don’t.”

  “Come on then!” said Dodger, before adding cryptically, “cos time and tide don’t wait!”

  Dodger was unwilling to divulge his plan, so Twill had no choice but to follow as he made his way east
across the city. Then they traced the route of the Fleet River, the filthy trickle that runs from Hampstead and Highgate, down Farringdon Lane and Pear Tree Court, Sixpence Lane and Hatton Garden, until it finally meets and joins with the gracious waters of the Thames at Blackfriars.

  “Where are we going?” Twill demanded once more.

  But to her immense irritation, Dodger was saying nothing. “No time to explain,” said he. “And we might be too late already.”

  Indeed he went at such a pace that Twill struggled to keep up as they passed through the worst slums in the capital where the bright summer sunshine seemed to cast a spotlight on the poverty and desperation therein, as if challenging any passers-by to avert their eyes from the glare. Twill, though she had been some months in the city, could never become accustomed to the sight of an old man, who had sacrificed his limbs fighting Napoleon Bonaparte, begging for a crust of bread; or a clutch of half-naked children – little more than babies – scavenging in dustbins for food.

  They penetrated a maze of close, narrow and muddy streets down by the West India Docks, where the innumerable quays, jetties and warehouses were a hive of activity, even at this early hour of the morning. Twill had not been in this part of the city before, where the air was thick with the rattle of cranes winching cargoes from the ships’ holds, the rumbling of empty casks on cobbled streets, and the distinctive aroma of pungent tobacco and the dizzying fumes of rum rising from the holds of ships lately berthed.

  “Are you going to explain what we’re doing here?” she demanded again.

  “All in good time, Camberwell,” came the maddening reply.

  Dodger told her to stay by a sail-maker’s shop while he ducked into various drinking establishments around the docks, all of which seemed to be doing a busy trade, though the sun was still sluggardly rising on the horizon. He was gone over half an hour, leaving Twill perched on a barrel, watching the activities of the mast- and oar- and block-makers, ship-biscuit bakers, the coal-whippers and pitch-kettles, the sailors and swing-bridge-men around the Limehouse Hole.

  Giving up her attempts to figure out what Dodger was up to, Twill took in her new surroundings with a thrill of excitement and undefined longing. There was a distinctly maritime feel to all the businesses surrounding Shadwell Basin – chandleries with ships’ instruments, ropes and hammocks hung in their windows; clothes shops that specialised in “nor’westers” or “sou’westers” (Twill could make out no discernible difference between the two) along with pilot coats, canvas trousers and the coloured shirts beloved of the jolly tar; there were pawnshops filled with a selection of quadrants, chronometers and mariner’s compasses; and warehouses brimming with anything from barrels of wine, sherry and rum, to ostrich feathers or furs from Hudson Bay. And the people here were more varied too – this was the one part of London where it was not unusual to hear sailors of all different nationalities talking in a jumble of mother tongues. The whole place filled her with a longing to set sail and see the Seven Wonders of the World.

  Just as Twill was beginning to despair of ever seeing him again, Dodger stumbled out of a public house named The One-Eyed Admiral, dragging another young man with him, who was hastily rearranging his collar and tucking his shirt into his breeches, his gait a little unsteady as they approached the jetty where Twill was waiting.

  “Where have you been!” she demanded, folding her nose at the smell of rum emanating from her companion. “Are you drunk? And who is this?”

  “Twill, meet Harry Bates,” said Dodger with a rum-soaked grin that answered her first question. “Brother of me old pal Charlie – now a First Mate in ’Er Majesty’s Merchant Fleet.”

  Twill took in First Mate Bates. He was a handsome young cub with a mess of dark curly hair and a pair of twinkling blue eyes. He in turn looked Twill up and down then flicked a meaningful glance at Dodger, before bowing to our heroine.

  “Delighted to meet you, Miss Twill,” he declared. “My good friend Jack here never mentioned that he had found so rare and beauteous a lady!”

  He delivered this with such a roguish twinkle in his eye that it brought the colour to Twill’s cheeks in a most unaccustomed fashion.

  “She’s no lady!” said Dodger.

  “I’m not his lady, that’s for certain!” Twill responded, just as hotly.

  “Well,” said Harry with a lopsided grin, “I am disappointed, Dodger. I never knew you to miss out on so rare a jewel.”

  Again the handsome First Mate shot Twill a smile that made her blush – and Dodger glower.

  “But his loss is someone else’s gain,” continued Harry Bates. “If a fellow might dare to dream…”

  Twill’s stomach gave a strange little lurch as Harry looked meaningfully into her eyes.

  “Can you please stop makin’ a fool of yourself an’ get to business!” said Dodger, suddenly sober.

  “And what exactly is the business?” demanded Twill, hurriedly tearing her gaze from that of Harry Bates.

  “Like I says, Harry ’ere works in the Merchant Fleet,” said Dodger. “Sailed all over the world, ’e has!”

  “You should come with me, Dodge,” said the First Mate. “Sign up for Her Majesty’s Fleet. You’d have the time of your life!” He slung an arm around Dodger’s shoulder, his eyes shining as he described his experiences on the high seas. “You’d not believe what sights, Jack. Trees as tall as the heavens, monkeys with pure golden fur, parrots that can talk in five languages, sea monsters that can swallow a ship whole. I tell you, it’s the life, Jack.”

  As he spoke, Twill’s eyes lit up like Chinese lanterns. “It sounds … magical!”

  “It is that,” said Harry, enjoying the effect his words had on Twill. “Every day a fresh adventure – discovering new worlds never seen by human eyes, crossing the globe, conquering the high seas.”

  “Would they take me?” she heard herself ask.

  There was a moment’s silence. Twill looked hopefully at the First Mate. Then Harry and Dodger both burst into laughter and Twill was brought rudely back down to earth.

  “The Navy’s no place for the weaker sex, ma’am,” said Harry, little realising that his gallantry put paid to any notions that Twill might have entertained on the subject of his twinkling blue eyes. “Fair creatures such as yourself would swoon and fall into the vapours at the sights we daily behold.”

  “I would not, I assure you!” retorted Twill, tilting her chin and looking so stubborn that Dodger wondered if she might box Harry Bates’s ears – and rather hoped she might. “Why, I’ve a good mind to cut off my hair, swap clothes with Mr ‘Artful’ Dawkins here, and sign up as a cabin boy! Show Her Majesty’s Navy that anything boys can do, girls can do too!”

  The image of Twill, hair cropped and in breeches, made Dodger pause, and a strange thought bobbed close to the surface of his consciousness, like a bubble, just out of reach. Then it popped and was gone.

  “What about you, Dodger?” asked Harry. “Can we press-gang you into Her Majesty’s Service?”

  “Can’t leave old London,” said Dodger with a rueful smile. “Not right now. With the streets so dangerous and so many of my boys in peril in the Benevolent.”

  Momentarily forgetting her irritation, Twill glanced curiously at her companion. She had not realised that Dodger saw himself as protector of the motherless and fatherless wretches of London’s streets. If Mr Bumble had styled himself as Child Catcher in Chief, had Dodger designated himself Chief Child Protector? Was he really resolved not to leave his post till the streets of the capital were safe for the strays and orphans that the state seemed content to leave to starve? The thought recalled her to why they were here. “So do you have a plan or what?” she demanded.

  Dodger was already addressing Harry. “You’ve sailed to the Indies, right? Martinique?”

  Bates nodded. “Just back from that part of the world – and sailing back there on the next tide too.”

  Suddenly Twill saw where this was going and her heart hammered excitedly.


  “We’re just in time then!” said Dodger. “The Brownlow Plantation. Do you know it?”

  “I know it,” said Bates. “We docked there last year. One of the biggest sugar plantations in the whole of the French West Indies, and the only one where slaves ain’t never been used – not ever!”

  “And might you stop there en route again?” asked Twill, fixing him with an expression so earnest that the First Mate lost himself for a moment.

  “Well, as luck would have it, we’re due to dock at Martinique to deliver supplies and collect cargo of purest sugar cane. We sail on the next tide on the old sloop Calliope.”

  Twill felt a burst of joy, which lit up her face in a way that was not unnoticed by either of the two young gentlemen present. “Then you can take a letter to the boy Oliver?”

  “Oliver?” said First Mate Bates, glancing at Dodger. “Young Twist, is it? I heard plenty about him from me brother Charlie, God rest his soul!” At this, both Harry and Dodger glanced upwards – whether at God or the hovering soul of Charlie Bates was unclear. “Never met him myself though. How old is he now?”

  “About ’er age,” said Dodger, cocking a thumb in Twill’s direction.

  “And will I recognise him? How tall is he?”

  “About…” Dodger glanced at Twill again, appraising her height. “Yay tall – like that one.”

  “What of his features?”

  “Well ’e looks…” Dodger looked at Twill for a third time, and now his face puckered into a frown. “I suppose ’e has summat of ’er looks about ’im too. Same hair like straw … same bottle-blue eyes too, come to think of it.” He wrinkled his forehead into a curious frown. “On’y, Oliver is…”

  Dodger looked momentarily rather lost for words, as the bubble of thought that had formed in his brain earlier rose to the surface again. And popped. He gave a curious twitch and dismissed the elusive idea.

  “Well, it’ll be a fair while afore a message reaches him over there,” said Master Harry. “The Calliope is as speedy a vessel as you could ask for, but it’s a good few weeks’ sailing.”