Another Twist in the Tale

by Catherine Bruton

  The girl – Anna Dropsy – stood behind her bearing a candle, and was also staring from one picture to the other, her mouth open in wonderment and confusion.

  But Mrs Corney had no time for mirror-gazing. With a “Stop dawdling, an’ get in there!” she snatched the candle from Miss Dropsy and gave Twill an almighty shove through the door and into Mr Brownlow’s bedchamber.

  The old man lay in a giant old four-poster bed, a shrivelled figure and a mere shell of the kind and elegant gentleman he once had been. The bed itself looked as if it had not been changed for weeks, and the room was in a similar state of disarray. Dust collected on the dressing table whereon a hotch-potch collection of potion bottles, tea cups and crumpled pieces of paper lay. The floor was scattered with the debris of the sickroom and over all hung a bitter stench of sweat and sickness and something else that was oddly familiar, though Twill could not say why.

  A shaft of moonlight fell through the window on to a patch of carpet directly before the bed where Twill stood. And thus it was that when old Mr Brownlow opened his eyes, he saw her glowing. The very face, the very figure that he had seen in his fevered dreams, that he had conjured in his ailing imagination, envisaged in his prayers, now stood in a shaft of moonlight before him – like a long-hoped-for and long-given-up-on miracle.

  “Ol-i-ver!” he managed to whisper through parched lips. “Is … that – you?”

  Twill swallowed hard. Doing this to the good old man felt so cruel, for his face had lit up on sight of her with such hope that she felt loath to continue with the deception.

  “Yes, my dear guardian,” she stammered. “It is!”

  “Oh, my boy – I knew you would come!”

  “I came, sir.”

  She glanced towards the door, which stood ajar and behind which she knew Mrs Corney was watching her every move. She knew what they had told her to do – but surely she might give the man some peace and a moment’s brief happiness before she crushed it forever?

  “Come here, my boy. Let me look at you,” whispered the good old man.

  Twill took a step towards the bed, careful to stay in the path of the transformative moonlight, as she had been told.

  “Closer, my boy.”

  She took another step towards the bed and she could see now that the eyes of Mr Brownlow were glistening with tears. The old man was much transformed since the departure of Oliver. His decline in health had been rapid – hastened by the arrival of Mrs Corney, with her tinctures and restorative teas, which had muddled rather than restored his mental faculties. His skin was now papery white, his eyes sunken into dark sockets and he looked as if he had not eaten properly for weeks. Twill longed to reach and take his claw-like hand, or dab a cloth over his parched lips but she knew she must not touch him for fear of breaking the illusion she was supposed to be creating.

  “Why, you look so like your mother,” said Mr Brownlow with the saddest of smiles. “You grow more like dear Agnes every day.”

  At this, the old man waved his hand towards the other side of the room, where Twill saw another portrait on the wall. Her eyes met with those of the girl it portrayed – and she gasped.

  Twill had barely taken in the shock of seeing her own face in that of Oliver Twist. She had not had time to consider the significance of the resemblance, yet it had left her with an undefined sense of longing. And now, as she stared at this second portrait, glowing in the moonlight, she felt the fire of that longing blaze up once more. For there before her she saw another image of herself. Not the hair-shorn urchin she was now, nor the kitchen girl at the Black Jack. This image recalled that brief moment when she had been transformed into the Snow Diamond – when she had worn a silken gown with her golden hair piled on to her head and little paste diamonds hung from her ears. She had seen her own reflection then in the Butterfly boudoir – and now she saw the same face in the portrait on the wall.

  But she saw something else too. Something in those soft blue eyes and the gentle curve of the lips that she could not quite put her finger on – as if she beheld the ghost of a long-lost beloved; someone she had never known yet had spent her whole life missing. It made her feel as if the ground had shifted under her feet, as if the moonlight had remoulded the whole world and opened up her eyes to shadows and strange shapes that she could not yet understand.

  She turned from the picture, feeling dazed. Mr Brownlow was reaching a skeletal hand out towards her. “Come, let me touch you!” said that good old man. “Let me believe you are real! I have dreamed so long of this moment. They told me you had died…”

  “Guardian…” Twill started to say.

  “But I knew it could not be true. I knew you must still be alive.”

  “Mr Brownlow – sir, I…”

  Twill glanced towards the doorway where Mrs Bumble was making a series of angry gestures.

  “Come, my dear boy!” pleaded Mr Brownlow. “Let me take your hand and feel that you are real.”

  Twill took a step forward. She longed to give him the consolation he begged for, and she was filled with an indefinable desire to make contact with this good old man, whose eyes beheld her with such love – but she had her instructions.

  “Guardian, I—”

  But she had no chance to say more, for at that moment the door opened and Mrs Corney entered, declaring loudly, “Why, Mr Brownlow, what are you doing disturbing yourself? Lie down and rest. I’ve bought you more of my delicious camomile tea.”

  Chapter 30

  In which deeds are done, and deeds are signed, which will be of much import later in the tale

  Mr Bumble’s wife was carrying a steaming tincture from which emitted an odour that was definitely not camomile. It was the same smell that lingered in the room – the same that Twill had encountered somewhere before, though she could not recall where: a vile, noxious aroma that made her head swim and her stomach turn.

  “Look! Look, Mrs Corney!” said dear Mr Brownlow, his eyes bright as a child’s on Christmas morning. “Oliver has returned. Oliver is back!”

  Mrs Corney turned in mock surprise, surveyed the room, stared right at Twill, and then straight through her. “Where, Mr Brownlow?” she said with exaggerated incredulity.

  “Why, there, Mrs Corney, right there. My Oliver is back – don’t you see him?”

  “Why, I see nothing,” said that wicked woman, apparently unconcerned with breaking a noble heart.

  “But he stands there – he lives, he breathes. He spoke to me.” The old man’s voice was little more than an impassioned whisper.

  “Oh, dear, dear Mr Brownlow,” said Mrs Corney, the very picture of disingenuous concern. “I fear it is the fever of your brain playing tricks on you. Young Oliver is dead – do you not remember? We had a letter. Poor lad – he died of the sweats out in Martinique.”

  “But – I can see him!” the old man insisted, eyes boring into Twill so hard she felt as if they might tear a hole right through her. “He is looking right at me.”

  “My dear sir, there is nobody in the room but you and me, unless … perhaps!” Mrs Corney put a hand to her mouth and widened her eyes so far that Twill wondered if the woman might have considered a career on the stage.

  “Perhaps…?” whispered Mr Brownlow.

  “Perhaps he is a ghost, come to call on you from the dead,” suggested Mrs Corney. “Or to give you a … message?”

  She turned to Twill then and fixed her with a meaningful gaze.

  “A message…” whispered Mr Brownlow, staring at Twill as if she were an apparition that might disappear if he allowed himself to blink.

  “Yes, yes. Now I come to think of it, I expect young Oliver’s ghost has come to tell you something…” Mrs Corney stared pointedly at Twill again. “Perhaps about your will?”

  “My will?”

  “I—” Twill started to say.

  “He spoke!” Mr Brownlow’s face was reanimated: Twill’s single syllable seemed to breathe new life into him. “Did you not hear him?”

 
; “I heard nothing,” Mrs Corney said with an impassive expression that made Twill want to strike her. “What is he saying to you?”

  “Speak again! Speak again, my boy, I beg you.”

  Both occupants of the room were staring at Twill intently, willing her to say more. She opened her mouth to speak … but no words came out.

  “Why, I do believe an angel sent him – an angel,” Mrs Corney said, with an exaggerated emphasis designed to remind Twill of the little girl still in Madam Manzoni’s clutches.

  “Oh, my dear boy,” whispered Mr Brownlow with such an imploring look in his eyes that it nearly broke Twill’s heart. “How I long to hear your voice one last time.”

  “I am so sorry…” muttered Twill.

  “Oh,” said Mr Brownlow, his face lit up with joy. “What can you have to be sorry for, dearest of boys?”

  “My beloved guardian, I am so sorry,” said Twill, tears in her eyes now. She tried hard to recall the words that Fagin had made her rehearse – tried to say them now, though each seemed to stab at her heart as a betrayal. “Now I am in the grave … past all help … I beseech you to bestow your fortune…” Her voice cracked and she could not continue.

  “Go on, my boy. I will do whatever you ask!”

  It was the cruellest of deceptions practised on the best of men – and yet Angel’s safety depended on it.

  “To bestow your fortune…” she stammered as Mrs C stared at her with glistening joy, “…to help other … destitute urchins … as I was once.”

  “Why, I believe he wants you to alter your will,” said Mrs Corney, suddenly forgetting the pretence of not being able to see or hear the “ghost”.

  “My will?” whispered Mr Brownlow, so transfixed by Twill that he was unaware of the inconsistency. “My fortune?”

  “Yes – yes,” said Twill, desperate suddenly to get this over and done with. “You must change it. Leave all your fortune … leave it all to the Benevolent Home boys…”

  “And the girls’ institute too,” added Mrs Corney.

  “And the girls too,” added Twill perfunctorily, her voice breaking on the final word so that it came out as little more than a sob. She was suddenly exhausted, wrung out by the waves of emotion that had washed over her in the past few hours, her mind clouded and confused as she held Mr Brownlow’s gaze and felt the force of his love blazing so strongly upon her. The only person who had ever looked at her thus was Baggage, and it made her long for that good woman’s warm embrace – a longing so powerful she felt as if she could barely breathe.

  “Of course, my dearest boy – I shall do as you ask,” Mr Brownlow whispered hoarsely, his eyes clouded with tears. “For the suffering you and your dear mother had to endure I will make this bequest so that others do not have to. You may rest in peace, my boy.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, my dear, beloved guardian,” Twill managed to whisper, hoping her final words might bring some comfort to mitigate the cruelty she had practised upon him.

  “Mrs Corney, fetch me a lawyer,” said Mr Brownlow.

  “Why, yes, sir. Right away, sir,” said Mrs Corney. Then she glanced at Twill, who remained unmoving. “I expect the spirit will go now that it has imparted the message.” She jerked her head towards the exit.

  But Twill could not bring herself to leave the old man so desolate. She took a step forward and, before Mrs Corney could stop her, she took his withered hand in hers, bent low and planted a kiss on his papery old forehead.

  Mrs Corney let out a gasp and leapt forward to grab her, but not before Twill had managed to whisper a single command in Mr Brownlow’s ear: “Don’t drink the tea!”

  Chapter 31

  In which old friends return and some prove more friendly than others

  There was one last ghastly surprise for Twill. She stumbled back out on to the landing, past her brother’s portrait and down the back steps to the servants’ kitchen – barely able to see through the tears that clouded her eyes. And there, standing by a fire that roared far more merrily than that in Mr Brownlow’s room, before a table set with food and drink far more inviting than the master of the house enjoyed, was Mr Scapegrace.

  Twill, reeling from the events of the evening, started towards her old friend with joy. The dusty little man, who had not left the Black Jack for over half a century, was the first friendly face she had seen in what felt like days (though it was, in truth, merely a matter of hours since she had departed the printing press). Yet to her surprise, his face looked anything but friendly and he did not meet her eye.

  “I’ll take the documents up at once,” he said, in flat dusty tones, blinking like a mole come up unexpectedly into the light.

  “But, Mr Scapegrace…”

  Her dear friend and tutor met her imploring gaze without seeming to see her. He appeared smaller here, out of his study – his shoulders stooping, tiny grey eyes behind half-moon spectacles not meeting hers. It was as if he no longer recalled the happy hours they had spent poring over tales of Arabian Nights, puzzling through Pythagoras and conjugating Latin like a pair of cackling geese: “Hic, Haec, Hoc!” But that was the Mr Scapegrace of the Black Jack. And it seemed that outside that establishment he was a completely different person altogether.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, shuffling past her.

  Twill moved aside with a shock of sadness. The evening had turned so many certainties on their heads, presented her with impossible choices and confusing new revelations – and now here was another shocking blow. She felt confused, disorientated, sick with disappointment and shame – but most all fear, a terrible fear that her actions had made things not better but instead far, far worse for all concerned.

  Twill was barely aware of the journey back to the Benevolent Home. Mr Fagin – despite his recent transformation into the role of Mr Barrabas – did not like to be seen out on the streets of the capital. So they made their way back on a barge along the Thames to Blackfriars, then up the filthy tributary of the stinking Fleet. Twill was not aware of the stench of the effluvia; she did not see the looming buildings, the tanning factories and slaughterhouses and slums that lined the tarry sewer; she was barely aware of the flicker of the barge lamps illuminating the smog-smothered water, nor the distant dome of St Paul’s rising like the fretted roof of heaven beneath the starry skies. She could only see in her mind’s eye Mr Brownlow’s face staring at her, and recall the desperation in his voice as he implored her to speak. She could only think of how she had handed all the power into the hands of her enemies and placed the old man in deadly peril. For once Mr Brownlow signed away his fortune what would become of him? Once the conspirators had bled him dry and had no more use of him – what then? She had been in the old man’s company less than half an hour, yet his fate weighed heavily on her heart.

  She was still consumed with these thoughts as they reached the sluice-gate entrance to the Benevolent Home, and so it was that Twill did not see the figures crouching in the shadows along the banks as they approached, nor notice the high-pitched whistle – as of a country bird – that went up from under a crumbling footbridge as they alighted from the barge. Mr Fagin seemed also unaware of these circumstances; perhaps he was dreaming of Mr Brownlow’s fortune as he hurried his young charge towards the sluice. Whatever the circumstance, he and Twill were both taken by surprise by the ambush that ensued.

  For as the sluice gate rose, a loud cry went up and then a series of answering calls, and the party on the barge were overwhelmed by an onslaught of dark figures who charged towards them.

  “The boys – get the boys!” a voice shouted – a familiar voice.

  “My Twill!” shouted another – more familiar still. Baggage? Here?

  “Get the old devil!” This in the unmistakable tones of Dodger.

  In the confusion, Twill could barely see what was happening, for the bandits seemed to pour into the sluice gate while she herself was pulled roughly backwards, her arm scraping hard against slimy brickwork, her feet lifted bodily off the gr
ound. Mr Fagin had been apprehended as he tried to scramble up on to the wharf by Old Seacoal Lane and Twill could see, by the light of the barge lamp, that Dodger had him by the throat.

  “You old devil – you old devil!” he was shouting. “I should finish off wot they should ’ave done at Newgate!”

  The old man’s face was yellow and weasel-ish in the gaslight. “Come now, Dodger!” he said with an evil leer. “I was a father to you, my dear!”

  “You were!” Dodger cried, and in the heaving light cast by a swinging lantern Twill could see that his face was contorted, his eyes shining with moisture. “You were!”

  And then Twill was being dragged backwards into a narrow tunnel and there were small figures everywhere – small figures that, even in the gloaming, she could see were clearly blue. Boys – blue Benevolent boys – pouring out of the sluice gate like rats, lead by a Pied Piper figure who looked a lot like Chelsea, aided by the Saffron Hill Sisters, who carried, tugged or shoved the blue boys out on to the wharf and sent them scattering off down tunnels and alleyways in all different directions.

  And could that be the Bob the butcher’s boy – with two blue urchins held neatly, one under each arm like sacks of flower – heading for the footbridge that led to Saffron Hill?

  And Baggage – could it really be Baggage who was pulling Twill tight to her bosom and sobbing, “Oh, my Twill – my Twill. I thought I’d lost you forever!”?

  Chapter 32

  In which the back room behind the pump at the Three Cripples becomes headquarters for the counter-attack

  “Baggage? What are you doing here?”