Another Twist in the Tale

by Catherine Bruton

They all swung round to behold Twill, who, taking her cue, now stepped into the room. Mr Bumble let out a wheezing gasp, Madam Manzoni uttered a low bilious moan and Fagin – Fagin stood silent for a moment, his face undergoing several convolutions before settling on a malicious smile.

  It was he who recovered first, stepping forward to make low obeisance to “Oliver Twist”, taking Twill by the hand and simpering, “Oh, Oliver, my dear, dear boy, we are so very glad to see you! Ha! Ha! Ha! Delighted. Delighted!”

  This reaction – not being quite what Twill expected – rather wrong-footed her.

  “Yes, we are delighted to see you looking so well,” went on the old man, bowing with mock humility. “Why didn’t you write, my dear, to say you were coming? We’d have made preparations, indeed we would. Indeed we would.”

  “I – I did write,” said Twill. “I wrote to my guardian – to Mr Brownlow.”

  “Your humble servants, Master Twist – humble servants,” interjected a sweating Mr Bumble, who had levered his giant bulk out of the small chair in which it had been imprisoned and now stepped forward to clasp Twill’s hand in his greasy palm, red-faced and puffing like a blowfish. “Indeed, we are honoured to carry out the good work of our maker and of your dear guardian – when he was in his wits, that is,” he concluded with a look of pious pity.

  “My guardian’s work?”

  Mr Fagin continued to watch Twill through his thick red eyebrows, with the same curious smile. Madam Manzoni had so far said nothing, but surveyed Twill coolly, her doughy face unreadable.

  “Suffer the little children to come unto me,” wheezed Mr Bumble with gloriously pompous humility, pumping Twill’s hand with excessive enthusiasm. “That is my motto. Since my official pardon and appointment to this auspicious role – by the offices of your guardian, I must say – I have striven to follow the Christian example of that good man Brownlow.”

  “And what a blessing that you are here to witness your guardian’s final act of benevolence, my dear, dear boy,” said Mr Fagin, with special emphasis on the final word. “Back from the Indies and looking so well when all thought you were lost, my lad.”

  “Yes – um – I came to shore this very morning,” said Twill.

  “Really?” said Mr Fagin. “On what vessel, may I ask?”

  “On the … the – the Calliope!” said Twill. “A Merchant Fleet ship.”

  “I see,” said Fagin. “And how did the Indies suit a young gentleman like yourself? I am surprised to see you still so pale of skin after your time in the sunnier climes.”

  “Indeed, I keep out of the sun,” said Twill, just as pointedly. “I tend to burn, and I don’t believe it is healthy for a child to have skin stained red – or any other colour, for that matter.”

  “Quite so, quite so!” Fagin gave just the slightest of twitches, but the sinister smile did not leave his face.

  “Well, this is most timely, most timely,” said Farthingale – or Shillingsworth.

  “Indeed, you are present to witness your guardian’s great bequest,” said Shillingsworth – or Farthingale.

  “Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Twill, who had just spotted Mr Scapegrace, hitherto hidden from view behind the monstrous presence of Madam Manzoni.

  “Won’t be possible?” said Mr Bumble, making a choking sound.

  “How so, my dear?” said Mr Fagin smoothly.

  Madam Manzoni still said nothing, her small beady eyes fixed on Twill with an unreadable expression.

  “Because of this document here,” said Twill, withdrawing it from inside the pocket of the frock-coat that Dodger had somehow managed to procure her (and which bore all the hallmarks of a Savile Row tailor of the first water), “which grants me full power of attorney over Mr Brownlow’s affairs.”

  There was a collective intake of breath from the assembled company, and a large sniff from the light porter.

  “Power of attorney?” said Messrs Shillingsworth and Farthingale in unison.

  “When was this granted?” said the former.

  “Who witnessed it?” asked the latter.

  “I – I … I did,” said Mr Scapegrace, stepping out of the shadow of Medora Manzoni – literally and metaphorically – for the first time in his life.

  “You!” Madam Manzoni’s entire bulk quivered, her lumps and layers of flesh like a volcano that might at any moment erupt.

  “Y-y-y-es,” stammered Mr Scapegrace, shaken by the tremors of her impending explosion but determined to persevere. “A-a-a-and you will see this d-d-document pre-dates Mr Brownlow’s bequest – and therefore in-in-invalidates it.”

  “Invalidates it!” thundered Mr Bumble.

  “I-I-I am afraid so,” said Mr Scapegrace, continuing with undaunted bravery that made Twill’s heart swell with gratitude. “It does.”

  “So this boy has the authority to block his guardian’s bequest?” said Fagin, his eyes sparkling dangerously as he spoke. His was a quieter ripple of fury but no less alarming for it.

  “Y-y-yes, he d-d-does!” declared Mr Scapegrace, now cowering in anticipation of the impending apocalypse.

  “You are saying – do I understand – that the money cannot be handed over?” demanded a blustering Mr Bumble.

  “Exactly,” said Twill. “Unless…”

  “Unless?”

  It felt as if everyone in the room were staring at her – as indeed they were.

  “Unless I agree to it.”

  Chapter 34

  In which many things happen, too numerous to be summarised here, so you will just have to read on to find out

  “If my guardian wishes his fortune to be handed over to this philanthropic cause, who am I to prevent it?” said Twill calmly, beginning to enjoy her Oliver role now. “Mr Brownlow desires to make this bequest to the Benevolent Boys’ House and the Institute for the Betterment of Young Ladies and I am happy to countersign it.” She paused. “But…”

  “But?” demanded Mr Bumble, perspiring more heavily than ever.

  “But … I have certain conditions.”

  “Conditions?” said Mr Fagin, raising his extraordinary red eyebrows and apparently not at all discomfited by Twill’s advantage in the negotiations.

  “Yes, conditions,” she went on coolly. “The girl – Angel – is to be returned to the custody of her friends…”

  “Girl?” queried Mr Farthingale – or was it Shillingsworth?

  “Angel?” quibbled Mr Shillingsworth – or was it Farthingale?

  “No!” ejected Madam Manzoni, quivering like a giant raspberry jelly as she spat forth the single syllable.

  “Yes,” Twill continued, emboldened. “And Mrs Bumble – née Corney – is to be dismissed from her position in the house of my guardian…”

  “Well, I say…” remonstrated Mr Bumble, near to drowning under the deluge of his own perspiration.

  “And the boys currently residing in the Benevolent Home are to be released,” Twill concluded firmly. “Without further delay. As are the young ladies residing with Madam here.”

  “Why – well, I…” Mr Bumble wiped his forehead with a large spotted handkerchief, to little effect.

  “What temerity!” Madam Manzoni’s volcanic flesh quivered red and ablaze.

  “And if we meet these conditions you will sign over the entire Brownlow fortune?” said Mr Fagin, eyeing her coolly, like an adder waiting to strike.

  “Yes,” said Twill. “No questions asked.”

  There was a long silence. Madam Manzoni quivered. Mr Bumble dripped. Mr Fagin narrowed his eyes.

  “Well, I suppose – given the circumstances – and all things considered…” Mr Bumble blustered damply, turning to his co-conspirators for corroboration and not a little discombobulated by this unexpected turn of events. “That is to say, notwithstanding and without prejudice… We, we might be tempted to accept, mightn’t we?”

  “I always said you were a sharp lad,” said Mr Fagin, ignoring Bumble, his gaze focused more intently than ever on Twill
. “Didn’t I, Oliver, my dear? Didn’t I say you were the smartest boy I ever encountered? And here you stand before us – just as I predicted … A great young man.”

  “Just as you predicted,” said Twill, meeting his dangerous smile with as much coolness as she could muster.

  “And you are sure – quite sure – of the legal situation, my dear boy?” said Fagin. “I ask only out of concern for you, you understand, my dear.”

  “Oh, I think you and I understand each other perfectly, Mr Barrabas,” said Twill. “And I think we both know that if the game were to be up, it would come out rather worse for you than it would for me – my dear!”

  Mr Fagin held her gaze, and Twill could almost see him weighing up the value of Brownlow’s fortune versus the satisfaction of revenge. Would he demand his pound of flesh, or take the money and run?

  But she was destined never to find out, for at that moment Madam Manzoni arose from her bath chair, wobbling like a colossal blancmange, on feet barely big enough to support her giant bulk, and declared, “This is an impostor! This is not Oliver Twist.”

  The light porter emitted his biggest sniff yet and the twin bank managers ogled with wide-eyed bemusement through their twin monocles.

  “An impostor?” said Mr Shillingsworth – or Farthingale.

  “Not Oliver Twist?” said Mr Farthingale – or Shillingsworth.

  “Not even a boy!” declared Madam Manzoni, her many chins and rolls of flesh undulating like earth tremors. “A girl! And a charlatan, trying to swindle Mr Brownlow out of his fortune! Call the police at once, I say! Have her arrested.”

  As if at her very command, there came the sound of a commotion outside the room, shouting voices – someone remonstrating, “But – but – you can’t go in there. Not to be disturbed…” and a deep low voice Twill didn’t recognise, declaring, “Stand back in the name of the law”, and then another that she did recognise, demanding, “Get out of my way or I’ll knock yer block off!”

  And then the door burst open and there stood two policemen, top-hatted, brass-buttoned, truncheons in hand … and behind them, the familiar faces of Baggage, Bob and Dodger.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded Messrs Shillingsworth and Farthingale in unison.

  “We’re here with a warrant for the arrest of these persons,” declared the taller of the two bobbies, his giant sideburns like two small bushes growing on either side of his face.

  “Which persons?” asked the now-very-confused bank managers.

  “These persons!” declared Mr Bumble, with a theatrical flourish that sent droplets of sweat raining around the room. “They are common thieves and vagabonds!”

  “No – these persons!” said Dodger, who could roister and swagger just as well as Bumble. “They’re fraudsters an’ swindlers an’ they all deserves to be shopped an’ scragged!”

  “Peachin’ to the traps now, young Dodger?” declared Fagin with a malevolent snarl. “I woutn’t have thought it of you, my artful one!”

  “Then you really ditn’t know me at all, did you, Mr Fagin!” said Dodger, holding his erstwhile mentor’s gaze undaunted. “If I can’t wring your scrawny old neck meself, I’ll make certain sure the fellas at Newgate do it properly this time!”

  “Who are we supposed to be arresting?” demanded the smaller of the two peelers, who had attempted to grow as fine a pair of sideburns as his counterpart with only partial success, but for which he had compensated by a most elaborately twirled moustache.

  “Her! Arrest this girl!” demanded Madam Manzoni, teetering precariously now like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  “Girl!” said the bewhiskered policeman, who was looking most perplexed by this unaccountable turn of events.

  “Yes! She is an impostor, posing as Mr Brownlow’s heir.”

  “Is this true?” asked the moustachioed officer, equally confused.

  Twill opened her mouth to answer. For what could she say but yes?

  “No!” declared Dodger. “She is not!”

  “She most assuredly is a girl!” insisted Madam Manzoni, who looked as though she would topple sideways at any moment. “Must we strip her of her breeches to prove it?”

  “No!” exclaimed Twill.

  “Yes,” declared Dodger.

  “What?” said Twill, turning to him in horror.

  “Yes – she is a girl,” Dodger continued. “But she is also Mr Brownlow’s heir.”

  “What?” Twill heard herself demanding for the second time.

  Dodger turned from the look of confusion on Twill’s face to the furious gaze of Fagin, then to the pale wobbling wrath of Madam Manzoni and finally to the damp, red-faced Mr Bumble.

  “He knows it well as I,” the Artful Dodger declared, nodding towards Bumble. “So does ’is wife if you care to call ’er to bear witness. An’ it don’t take no high court judge or university pro-fess-or to see she’s as alike Oliver as two peas in a green pea pod.”

  “What exactly are you saying?” said Mr Farthingale, scratching his head in consternation.

  “Yes, what exactly is going on?” asked Mr Shillingsworth, mimicking the action of his partner.

  “Same year o’ birth, same month…” said Dodger. “An’ where did you say you found her, Baggage?”

  “Why, on the rubbish heap,” said Baggage, stepping forward for the first time, all of a-quiver to find herself addressing two members of the London Constabulary and a room of bigwigs besides. “Down in Mudfog – the old alley behind the workhouse!”

  “The same workhouse where Oliver Twist wos born!” said Dodger triumphantly. “Two babies – born a hundred yards from each other the same winter’s night, so alike their own guardian can’t tell ’em apart. Seems a mighty coincidence if you ask me!”

  “What of it!” demanded Fagin, the first to gain his composure. “The power of attorney was granted to Oliver Twist. She is not Oliver Twist.”

  “A-a-actually, I think you’ll find the w-w-wording of the document grants p-p-power of attorney to the child of A-a-agnes Fleming,” said Mr Scapegrace, bowing a little apologetically but looking rather pleased with himself. “And this girl is m-m-most assuredly the child of that poor unfortunate young l-l-lady. The r-r-resemblance is quite r-r-remarkable.”

  “Circumstantial poppycock!” blustered Mr Bumble. “Where’s the proof? The proof, I ask you. You want to claim this girl is heir to a fortune. Where’s the proof?”

  Everyone looked at Twill, but this time it was Baggage who spoke.

  “The twist of paper I gave you – do you still have it?”

  Twill looked at her blankly, her mind still madly trying to catch up with the revelations. “I – I do.”

  “Open it!” said Baggage softly.

  “But…”

  “Don’t matter wha’s in there,” said that good woman. “You know I’ll always be your ma.”

  “And I’ll always be your girl,” said Twill, meeting Baggage’s loving dishwater eyes as her own threatened to swell over with love and gratitude for the only mother she had ever known.

  Then Twill reached for the small kid bag – hardly large enough for a ha’penny bit – that she kept around her neck. She withdrew from it a small package wrapped in a twist of newspaper. Everyone was silent, watching the procedure. Slowly and with trembling fingers Twill withdrew from within the paper a portrait miniature – painted in tiny strokes of watercolour on to ivory and mounted within a tiny golden frame.

  Everyone waited for her to speak but she said nothing for a long moment thereafter. She was indeed quite unaware of anyone around her as she stared at the face etched upon the miniature, at the eyes that seemed to look out at her from behind the glass: the same eyes that had gazed on her from the canvas in Mr Brownlow’s sickroom. The same eyes she beheld when she looked in a mirror. She caught her breath as the same wave of longing that had overcome her the previous night washed over her again.

  Dimly aware of the other occupants in the room peering over her shoulder, and her own
heart pounding in her ears, she turned over the miniature and through a haze of tears she deciphered the words engraved thereon: “Agnes Fleming”.

  “I found it on you that night, in the snow,” said Baggage gently. “Hidden among the blanket you wos wrapped in. Is a likeness, I believes – of your mother!”

  “My – mother?” Twill’s voice sounded distant as if she were listening to it from deep underwater, and she stared at the image with a wave of tenderness.

  “This is all very well,” said Mr Bumble, blustering through the hushed silence that had fallen upon the assembly with this majestic pronouncement. “But since Oliver Twist is dead, and this preposterous claim remains unproven then Mr Brownlow’s bequest still stands!”

  “Who says I am dead?”

  Chapter 35

  In which another Twist appears in this Tale and brings it nearly to a conclusion

  Twill was by now quite certain that she must be dreaming. For, standing framed in the doorway, was yet another mirror image of herself – and not in watercolour or oils on canvas or etched on an ivory miniature, but embodied in flesh and blood; a boy with cornflower-blue eyes, hair the colour of gold and a delicacy of features. Instinctively Twill knew that he was the head to her tails, the light to her dark – the other half of her being; a part of herself she had missed all her life without ever realising it was lacking till now.

  And behind him, looking a little breathless, stood young Anna Dropsy, the gallant young maidservant who had apprised her beloved master of all the convoluted doings that had led to this moment and brought him to the bank, just in the nick of time.

  And it was a curious thing, for the other occupants of the – now very crowded – room had previously been convinced that Twill was the very likeness of her brother. But now Oliver Twist himself stood in the room – for I suppose I need not tell you it was he – the company was impressed not by the similarities between the two but the differences: the subtle distinctions that lay in the light of the eyes, the tilt of the chins, the line of the mouths. Or perhaps it was just something in their general bearing, something indefinable yet incalculably different; a delicacy in the boy, a spark of energy in the girl that made them seem not like two peas in the proverbial pod, but rather like two sides of the same coin, the daybreak to dusk.