Unexpected Twist

by Michael Rosen

  “I never saw you before,” said Rose faintly.

  “I have seen you often,” returned Monks.

  “The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters,” said Mr Brownlow. “What was the fate of the other – the young child?”

  “The child,” replied Monks, “when her father died, the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.”

  “Go on,” said Mr Brownlow, signing to Mrs Maylie to approach. “Go on!”

  “You couldn’t find the spot to which these people had gone,” said Monks, “but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it, after a year of cunning search – ay, and found the child.”

  “She took it, did she?”

  “No. The people were poor and began to sicken – at least the man did; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money which would not last long, and promised more, which she never meant to send. She didn’t quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child’s unhappiness, but told the history of the sister’s shame, with such alterations as suited her; bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time or other. The circumstances allowed for all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy. I lost sight of her, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back.”

  “Do you see her now?”

  “Yes. Leaning on your arm.”

  “But not the less my niece,” cried Mrs Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; “not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!”

  “The only friend I ever had,” cried Rose, clinging to her. “The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this.”

  “You have suffered more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on everyone she knew,” said Mrs Maylie, embracing her tenderly. “Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here – look, look, my dear!”

  “Not aunt,” cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; “I’ll never call her aunt – sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!”

  Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain.

  A wind blew across the car park at the place everyone called “the Crem”. Shona stood with Désol’é. People had turned up who she had never seen before, and as they came up to her they had said things like, “I’m your second cousin. Maybe your nan mentioned me.” She hadn’t. Or, “I was a friend of your mother’s. Your nan was very good to me.” And on it went.

  Why had she never seen these people? It was like they were old, forgotten toys, and they had all come out of a cupboard, to say that they remembered this or that, and then in a few hours’ time, they would all go back in the cupboard again. They even brushed down their black skirts and jackets like they had got dusty in there, as they waited quietly to come out and be played with one more time.

  As they waited to go in, these toys moved into little groups and pairs, people who knew each other, standing together, shifting from foot to foot. People nodded from the safety of one group across the car park to another group. When another car turned up, or if someone strolled through the gates, Shona heard them say to each other, “Oh, here’s Dave.” Or, “Well I never, isn’t that your uncle Vern?”

  There was some scowling too. It didn’t slip Shona’s attention, even if she didn’t know what old aggro, what old bitterness, lay behind the scowls.

  But it was lovely to see Zeynep. They had closed the caff, she said, and she gave Shona a squeeze.

  The service was slow, and the man got Nan’s middle name wrong. He said it was Mary, but it was Maria. That annoyed Shona. It felt so bad that at this moment of all moments, the name was wrong, but then as he drew to a close and talked about Nan’s stall, she felt a great well of tears from inside her and she cried and cried and cried while Désol’é held her tight. Dad was sitting on her other side, and she let him hold her hand. Or was she holding his hand?

  As they drifted out into the wind, and people shook hands, someone mentioned the “Old Junk” which is what people round there called the Junction Tavern, and then someone else said that kids wouldn’t be allowed in there, would they? But then a woman who hadn’t really talked to anyone made a little move that made people turn their heads. She was tall, and walked like someone who had been taught to walk in that way. Maybe she had been a dancer? Actually, one or two people had wondered who she was but then as plenty of people there hadn’t known each other, this woman hadn’t grabbed too much attention. Up till now, that is.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I don’t want to interrupt. I know that people won’t know who I am. And I know this is a strange time to be doing this, but … but…” The voice that had been strong before, did a little stumble. “But I’m Pam’s sister.”

  There was total silence. Nan’s sister?! One or two of the oldest ones smiled to each other, their memories going back thirty years or more to a girl they once met, who was now this woman, and they squeezed up their eyes to get a look at her. Others had no idea. Pam had a sister? Shona stared and stared at her. Nan had a sister? Did Nan ever mention her? She looked across at Dad, standing with Ron: his face was like the moon, white, staring, and still. And just as Shona was running through things that Nan said, that might have been about this sister, the woman said in her strong voice:

  “I’m Lorraine. I’ve arranged a little buffet in the place just along the road from here. The Athens. Please, come if you can. Please. And I’ll explain everything there and not here in the wind.”

  Lorraine? Shona thought. The name that Nan had whispered! What was it she whispered about her? With so much going on it was so hard to remember everything. Shona looked as closely as she could at Lorraine’s face. It seemed familiar: the smile. And the brown eyes.

  Meanwhile, some of the people there were stunned. Some laughed.

  Now, almost everyone started bundling off to the Athens, where there was indeed a lovely spread. One or two people knew Christo, the owner, and people started telling jokes – jokes about the weather, jokes about each other, jokes about Nan, jokes about one another’s football teams.

  Shona sat with Désol’é and a boy a bit older than her who had come up to her and said, “I think I’m a sort of cousin, or second cousin, or third cousin … but I don’t know how…” and laughed.

  At one point, Shona nipped off to the loo and, just as she was washing her hands, Lorraine came in.

  “So, little Shona Walker, sitting in a saucer. I’m your great-aunt,” she said briskly.

  Shona stared and stared and the moment on the beach came to her, the ice cream, when she was crying. And now she felt like crying again. It had been such a nice thing she had never ever forgotten … but why did she go away?

  “Yes,” said Shona, feeling a little as if she had been ambushed, but with a flutter inside that was telling her that, if anything as nice as that ice cream was going to happen, it was going to be good.

  “At the moment, I know much more about you than you know about me. It may seem strange to you that I didn’t show my face earlier. I had my reasons. Perhaps you can guess them. Your nan had her reasons for doing th
ings too, and nothing anyone ever said to her could get her to stop. Let me say it like this: I figured that sometimes in life you have to steer clear of things, till it all gets a bit more sorted. It’s why I went. I’ve been in New York.”

  Shona knew some of that already … it fitted. And Nan had said, “Lorraine knew that…” Lorraine knew it wasn’t worth it, being part of the way Nan was.

  Lorraine went on: “People have said I must be a hard-hearted body to have gone.” She brushed her hair back from her face. “Not even got in touch with your father or you. It’s not been easy.”

  She stared at herself in the mirror. Pouted her lips in the mirror and looked back at Shona.

  “Your nan sent me a letter a few weeks ago, telling me everything. She knew how it was with the illness. I came back.”

  “When?” asked Shona.

  “Ah. Well. Yes. A couple of weeks ago, so I got to see her. There’s been a lot to arrange, as I’m thinking of coming back permanently. It seems to be the right time to come home. And hey, I can keep an eye on you, can’t I?”

  Shona smiled. It was the first time that someone saying they’d keep an eye on her sounded good.

  “It’s what your nan wanted. Me too. Things won’t be so hard for you and your father as they have been. I promise you that.”

  Shona stared at her. For half a second, it reminded her of Pops, sitting in his chair so keen to do her a favour, offering her chocolates… The same thoughts seemed to have crossed Lorraine’s mind. She laughed.

  “No, no,” she said, “I’m one hundred per cent. When I went over there, I had nothing. One contact. And then it was hard work, mind. But I’m not broke. I promise you, I’ll do what I can for you and your father.”

  Shona stared at her. Was she saying that she was going to help them? She was. She was.

  “You might have guessed something else: I haven’t got any kids. No, don’t worry, I’m not going to whisk you off pretending to be your mum. No, no, no. But I tell you what, can I be your friend?”

  Shona smiled. In a way she already was. That ice cream on the beach had always been like a friend.

  “And then, maybe further on down the line, I might become your auntie Lorraine. How about that? I’m your great-aunt, but I can still be ‘auntie’, right?”

  Shona nodded carefully, trying not to smile this time because Lorraine was saying ‘great-aunt’ like it was “great ant”.

  “Now, here’s a thing. How about I wrangle some tickets for something nice? And you bring your friend out there. She watches out for you, doesn’t she?”

  She does, Shona thought. The way Désol’é has been around, like, asking me to come to the canteen with her, and trying to help her with “Evaporation”! Evaporation, for goodness’ sake. How crazy is that, thinking about “Evaporation” now?

  Lorraine looked in the mirror, pouted her lips, and looked back at Shona.

  “C’mon. Let’s get back in there and see if we can cheer up that father of yours. It was quite a shock seeing him just then. He looks like someone pulled the plug out of his bathtub years ago and he can’t find the tap to fill it.”

  Now that’s funny, Shona thought. That is funny.

  “C’mon. We can do this, Shona,” Lorraine said to her.

  And they walked out of the loo back into the Athens dining suite, where the music was already playing.

  It was “Que Sera, Sera…”

  Very loudly.

  Michael Rosen

  Michael is one of the best-known figures in the children’s book world, renowned for his work as a poet, performer, broadcaster, professor, scriptwriter and author of classic books such as We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. He was Children’s Laureate from 2007–2009.

  Tony Ross

  After training at Liverpool School of Art, Tony worked as a cartoonist, graphic designer, advertising art director and art lecturer. Today he is best known for the Horrid Henry and Little Princess series of books, as well as illustrating books for David Walliams.

  About Charles Dickens

  Charles Dickens is one of the most famous English writers in history.

  Born in Portsmouth in 1812, he is known for works such as A Christmas Carol, Great Expectations, Bleak House and David Copperfield. In 1837 he started publishing Oliver Twist in monthly instalments in Bentley’s Miscellany, and readers of the magazine had to wait two years to find out how the story would end.

  Dickens wrote the novel to criticize the harsh ways that poor people were treated at the time. He told the story of an orphan boy forced to live in a workhouse so that people could understand how difficult life was inside, and how few choices anybody living there had to improve their situation.

  Oliver Twist has inspired many films, plays and musical adaptations over the years since it was first published. Although workhouses may have long since disappeared, readers can still relate to its message of compassion for others and its call for social justice.

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  First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2018

  This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2018

  Text copyright © Michael Rosen, 2018

  Illustrations copyright © Tony Ross, 2018

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  eISBN 978 1407 18942 0

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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