X10 went quiet. Miss Cavani turned the board. It was a painting of what immediately struck them all as an awful scene. A row of men with rifles were taking aim at a man whose arms were in the air, with a terrible look on his face.
“I want you to think of words, phrases, thoughts – anything that describes to you how you think that person feels. Just keep it to yourself for the moment. No need to write it down, just say those words over and over to yourself.”
The room was quiet and people looked at the picture. Shona felt the horror in the man’s eyes and could almost feel herself lifting her arms to imitate what the man was doing, as if he was hanging from a clothes line. In a second, he would be gone. Finished. All over. And he knew that. Terror. But he’s pleading. The last thing he’ll ever do in his life is plead to stay alive. Terror and pleading.
After about thirty seconds, Miss Cavani said, “That’s great, X10. Respect. I’m not going to ask you to share those thoughts with us just for the moment. We’re going to read the next scene from Oliver Twist. Maybe – I don’t know for sure – but some of the words that you thought might be thoughts you’ll have as we read this scene. When we’re through, what we’re going to do is make our own paintings by doing ‘freeze frames’. You know the deal. We create a picture of one of the moments in the scene. As we’re reading, think about what moment you’d like to choose. We’ll do it in pairs today, I think… Let’s go. Oh hang on, who’s going to read … ermm…” Miss Cavani’s eyes looked round the room. “Noah, he’s the charity boy – the bully. He’s now come to London and joined Fagin’s gang. Now, who’s going to play him?”
“I will!” said Rory.
“Shona ought to do that one, miss,” said Crayton, lifting his fists to his own face.
Shona saw what he was doing there and even gave a bit of a smile.
Miss Cavani looked down at the cast list again.
Shona called out, “Well, I’ll do Nancy!”
“That’s great, that’s really great, Shona! Thank you!” And Miss Cavani meant it.
Harry wanted in. “I’ll do Bill Sikes, miss!”
“Yeah, I bet you will…” Sunil said, with a wink across to Crayton.
That caught Harry off guard, and a blush crept up his neck.
“Right! Let’s do it,” said Miss Cavani.
CLASS X10 READING COMPREHENSION
“Wot d’ye mean?” asked Sikes, drawing back.
Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.
“Tell me that again – once again, just for him to hear,” said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.
“Tell yer what?” asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.
“That about Nancy,” said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. “You followed her?”
“Yes.”
“To London Bridge?”
“Yes.”
“Where she met two people.”
“So she did.”
“A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did – and to describe him, which she did – and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did – and where it could be best watched from, which she did – and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur – she did – did she not?” cried Fagin, half mad with fury.
“All right,” replied Noah, scratching his head. “That’s just what it was!”
“What did they say, about last Sunday?”
“About last Sunday!” replied Noah, considering. “Why I told yer that before.”
“Again. Tell it again!” cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.
“They asked her,” said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception of who Sikes was, “they asked her why she didn’t come last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn’t.”
“Why – why? Tell him that.”
“Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before,” replied Noah.
“What more of him?” cried Fagin. “What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that.”
“Why, that she couldn’t very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to,” said Noah, “and so the first time she went to see the lady, she – ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did – she gave him a drink of laudanum.”
“Hell’s fire!” cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. “Let me go!” Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs.
“Bill, Bill!” cried Fagin, following him hastily. “A word. Only a word.”
The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up.
“Let me out,” said Sikes. “Don’t speak to me; it’s not safe. Let me out, I say!”
“Hear me speak a word,” rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. “You won’t be—”
“Well,” replied the other.
“You won’t be – too – violent, Bill?”
The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other’s faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken.
“I mean,” said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, “not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold.”
Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets.
Without one pause, or moment’s consideration; without once turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution: his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed.
The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look.
“Get up!” said the man.
“It is you, Bill!” said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return.
“It is,” was the reply. “Get up.”
There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain.
“Let it be,” said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. “There’s enough light for wot I’ve got to do.”
“Bill,” said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, “why do you look like that at me!”
The robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her into the middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth.
“Bill, Bill!” gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear, “I – I won’t scream or cry – not once – hear me – speak to me – tell me what I have done!”
“You know, you she devil!” returned the robber, suppressing his breath. “You were watched tonight; every word you said was heard.”
“Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,” rejoined the girl, clinging to him. “Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me. Oh! T
hink of all I have given up, only this one night, for you. You shall have time to think, and save yourself this crime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God’s sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!”
The man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the girl were clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear them away.
“Bill,” cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, “the gentleman and that dear lady told me tonight of a home in some foreign country where I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them again, and beg them, on my knees, to show the same mercy and goodness to you; and let us both leave this dreadful place, and far apart lead better lives, and forget how we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each other more. It is never too late to repent. They told me so – I feel it now – but we must have time – a little, little time!”
The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of immediate detection if he fired flashed across his mind even in the midst of his fury; and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon the upturned face that almost touched his own.
She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief – Rose Maylie’s own – and holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as her feeble strength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker.
It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and struck her down.
Miss Cavani looked round.
“I’ve said ‘Respect!’ once already to you, guys, I’m going to say it again. Well done to you all. You know I don’t usually pick anyone out for special treatment. Today, I’m going to make an exception. Shona, that was … that was … extraordinary.”
Almost before Miss Cavani finished saying this, the class applauded. They clapped. She was right, they thought, it had been amazing. She had been Nancy. She had lived it in her voice and even – if anyone glanced at her in her movements – even as she sat in her place in class. Something had clicked – some kind of switch, was it? – and it had enabled Shona to capture what had happened to Nancy and make it reach everyone else.
Miss Cavani set up everyone in pairs to do their “freeze frames”. Maybe it was the way it was written, or maybe the way Shona had performed the words, maybe it was thinking about the terrible picture at the beginning of class, but everyone set about doing it. They chose different moments in the scene. No one played about.
They each had a chance to look at the poses they set up and talk about who they were and what they were doing. In a funny sort of a way, as they talked, as it flowed, the scene became more horrific, but less raw. The horror of what Sykes did became clearer, but they were now in a better place to think about it. Not just horror. But why Sykes did it, why Nancy said those things, why she clung to him, even though he was doing that to her. For the first time since she had moved to this school and settled in X10, Shona felt that she had “done” something. Like it worked. And that felt good.
What felt better was what happened later at the last session in the “suite”. Miss Cavani said that at Christmas, they would be putting on a play version of another Dickens book. And she wanted Shona to audition to be Dickens.
What? How crazy was that? Really? Her?
“Yes, really,” Miss Cavani said, and smoothed back the hair on the side of her head.
Chapter 17
CLASS X10 READING COMPREHENSION
Welcome to your final reading, X10. Oliver has gone on a long journey, from being born into a life of workhouse poverty to finding himself under the protection and care of Rose Maylie – and Mr Brownlow, the man who had been pickpocketed by Charley Bates and the Artful Dodger. Nancy, after she bravely helped Oliver, was killed by Bill Sykes, and a mob chased him through the streets; he ended up hanging himself during his attempt to escape. Here Oliver finally meets the mysterious man called Monks, who had claimed to be Oliver’s brother! Let’s see how this all wraps up – perhaps there is a twist?
At length, when nine o’clock had come, Mr Losberne and Mr Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother.
Monks cast a look of hate at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door.
Mr Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. “This is a painful task, but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be repeated here. This child,” he said, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, “is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth.”
“Yes,” said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. “That is the bastard child.”
“The term you use,” said Mr Brownlow, sternly, “is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town.”
“In the workhouse of this town,” was the sullen reply. “You have the story there.” He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.
“I must have it here, too,” said Mr Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners.
“Listen then! You!” returned Monks. “His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her – to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself”; he addressed himself to Mr Brownlow; “and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will.”
“What of the letter?” asked Mr Brownlow.
“The letter? A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery – to be explained one day – prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of giving birth. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his.”
“The will,” said Mr Brownlow, as Oliver’s tears fell fast.
Monks was silent.
“The will,” said Mr Brownlow, speaking for him, “was in the same spirit as the letter. He talked of miseries which his wife had brought upon him; of the rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you, his only son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your mother, each an annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided into two equal portions – one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if it should be born alive, and ever come of age. If it were a girl, it was to inherit the money unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation that before he became an adult he should never have stained his name with any public act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong. He did this, he said, to mark his confidence in the other, and his conviction that the child would share her gentle heart, and noble nature. If he were disappointed in this expectation, then the money was to come to you: for then, and not till then, when both chil
dren were equal, would he recognize your prior claim upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant, repulsed him with coldness and aversion.”
“My mother,” said Monks, in a louder tone, “did what a woman should have done. She burnt this will. The letter never reached its destination; but that, and other proofs, she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the blot. The girl had left her home, in secret, to hide her shame.”
“I swore,” said Monks, “if ever the child crossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest; to pursue it with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply felt, and to spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by draggin’ it, if I could, to the very gallows-foot. She was right. He came in my way at last. I began well; and, but for babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began!”
As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared: of which some part was to be given up, in the event of his being rescued: and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit to the country house for the purpose of identifying him.
“Young lady,” said Mr Brownlow, turning to Rose, “give me your hand. Do not tremble. You need not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say.”
“If they have – I do not know how they can, but if they have – any reference to me,” said Rose, “pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not strength or spirits now.”
“Nay,” returned the old gentleman, drawing her arm through his; “you have more strength than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Monks.
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