فصل 08

CHAPTER EIGHT

After the robbery

The night was bitterly cold. A sharp wind whipped the fallen snow up into the air and blew it into every hole and corner. It was a night for the homeless to lie down and die; and for luckier people to sit close to their fires and thank God they were at home.

In the workhouse where Oliver was born, Mrs Corney - the widow in charge - was making tea by her fire. When she heard a knock at her door, she frowned and called out sharply, ‘Come in.’ The frown, however, was quickly changed to a sweet smile when she saw Mr Bumble enter.

‘Hard weather, Mr Bumble,’ said the widow.

‘Yes, indeed, ma’am,’ replied the beadle. ‘We’ve had to give out to the poor people in this town great quantities of bread and cheese today, and they’re still complaining. Why, one man even came back and demanded some tree fire-wood! What does he want that for? People are never satisfied. Give them one thing today, and tomorrow they’ll ask for something else!’

Mrs Corney agreed that it was very shocking. They discussed some workhouse business together, and then Mr Bumble looked hopefully at the teapot. Mrs Corney offered him some tea. Instantly, Mr Bumble sat down by the fire and gave the widow such a warm smile that her face turned a delicate pink. She passed Mr Bumble the tea-cup, and as he took it, he managed to give her hand a little stroke. ‘You’re a kind-hearted woman, Mrs Corney,’ said the beadle.

‘Oh, Mr Bumble!’ said the widow, smiling shyly. For a while there was a friendly silence between them, then Mr Bumble moved his chair closer to the widow’s. Mrs Corney, of course, did not notice this, but when the beadle’s arm began to slide around her waist, she felt she must make a small protest.

Encouraged by this response, Mr Bumble immediately gave her a kiss, but at this interesting moment there was a sudden knock at the door. Mr Bumble jumped to his feet and went to the other end of the room.

‘Please, Mrs Corney,’ said a voice outside. ‘Old Sally is going fast.’

‘Well, what can I do to help her?’ asked Mrs Corney angrily.

‘Nothing, ma’am,’ replied the old woman outside. ‘But she says she has something to tell you, which you must hear, She won’t die quietly till you come.’

Complaining loudly, Mrs Corney asked Mr Bumble to wait until she came back. Then she followed the old woman up the stairs.

Old Sally lay in bed in a freezing cold room. The fire was so small and mean that it gave no warmth at all.

Mrs Corney bent over the bed, and the dying woman opened her eyes. ‘Come closer,’ she murmured. ‘Let me whisper in your ear.’ She held onto Mrs Corney’s arm and pulled her down towards her. ‘In this same room I once helped a pretty young woman who came in with cut and bleeding feet, who gave birth to a boy and then died.’

‘Well?’ asked Mrs Corney impatiently.

‘I robbed her. She was hardly dead before I stole it!’

‘Stole what?’

‘It! The only thing she had. It was gold. It could have saved her life!’

‘Gold? Who was this mother? Tell me!’

‘She told me to look after it when she died. The old woman’s mind was getting confused. She trusted me, poor girl, and I stole it.’

‘Quick, tell me or it may be too late!’ said Mrs Corney greedily. ‘What was it, and what was the boy’s name?’

The old woman could hardly speak. ‘Oliver. The gold I stole was.’

‘Yes, yes! What?’

The old woman fell back onto the bed, dead.

Mrs Corney hurried back to her room, where Mr Bumble was still admiring her furniture and counting her silver tea-spoons. They sat down again by the tire, and soon Mr Bumble’s arm returned to its previous position round Mrs Corney’s waist. It was not long before he asked her to marry him, and the widow happily accepted him. While they drank to celebrate the arrangement, Mrs Corney told Mr Bumble about old Sally’s death, and the unknown gold object which she had stolen from the dead body of the young woman.

After many expressions of undying love, Mr Bumble finally left the room and returned home, with bright visions of his future.

While these events were happening in the workhouse, the Artful Dodger and Charley Bates were playing cards in Fagin’s house. The Dodger, as usual, was winning easily; somehow, he always seemed to know exactly what cards the other players had in their hands. Suddenly there was a faint ring on the bell downstairs, and Toby came in - the man who had gone with Bill Sikes and Oliver to rob the house in Chertsey. Fagin jumped to his feet.

‘Where are they?’ he screamed. ‘Sikes and the boy! Where are they hiding?’

‘We failed,’ said the robber.

‘What happened?’

‘They fired and hit the boy. We ran away with Oliver between us, and they chased us with dogs.’

‘And the hoy? What about the boy?’ gasped Fagin.

‘His head was hanging down, and he was cold. We needed to go taster so we left him in a field, alive or dead. That’s all I know about him.’

Fagin did not wait to hear any more. He gave an angry scream, ran out of the house and hurried through the streets until he reached Bill Sikes’ house. As he climbed the stairs, he thought, ‘Well, Nancy, if there’s anything going on here, I’ll find out about it - however clever you are.’

Nancy was alone upstairs in her room, her head on the table she’s been drinking again,’ thought Fagin. As he closed the door, she woke up. He told her what had happened during the robbery; she said nothing and her head returned to the table. ‘And where do you think the hoy is now, my dear?’ Fagin asked her, trying hard to see her face. ‘Poor little child! Left alone like that.’

Nancy looked up. ‘I hope the child’s dead. Then he’d be happier than any of us.’

‘What!’ said Fagin, in amazement.

‘It’s better like that. The sight of the boy turns me against myself, and all of you.’

‘You’re drunk.’ Fagin suddenly lost his temper. ‘The boy’s worth a fortune to me - and now a drunken gang has lost him. And if Sikes doesn’t return that boy to me, dead or alive, I’ll tell the police about him and I’ll get Sikes hanged. Just remember that!’

When Fagin left her, Nancy was already back in a drunken sleep, her head lying on the table once more. Fagin went out into the blackness of the night and walked home. He had reached the corner of his street and was searching in his pocket for his key, when a dark figure came out of the shadows and crossed the road towards him.

‘I’ve been waiting here for two hours, Fagin,’ said the stranger. ‘Where have you been?’

‘On your business, my dear,’ said Fagin, glancing at him uneasily.

‘We’d better talk inside.’

The door closed behind them and they crept quietly up to the top floor in order not to wake the sleeping boys downstairs. They sat in a dark room, the only light coming from a candle burning in the passage outside.

The stranger’s name was Monks, and he was in an evil mood.

He listened to Fagin for a while, frowning heavily. ‘It was badly planned,’ he said angrily. ‘Couldn’t you have made the boy into an ordinary thief, and then got him arrested and sent out of the country for the rest of his life?’

‘But he isn’t like the other boys here,’ Fagin said. ‘I had nothing to frighten him with. Anyway, I’ve already helped you. After he was caught by the police, stealing from the bookshop, I got Nancy to get him back. And then she felt sorry for him.’

‘Kill her!’ Monks said impatiently.

‘We can’t afford to do that kind of thing,’ said Fagin. ‘But I can turn the boy into an ordinary thief now. And then Nancy will harden her heart against him. I know how women are. But if he’s already dead-‘

‘That’s not my fault!’ said Monks quickly. ‘I always said to you - do anything you want to him, but don’t kill him. I wouldn’t have been able to forget it, if you had.’

Suddenly he jumped to his feet, stating at the wall opposite the door. ‘What’s that?’ he whispered, terrified.

‘What? Where?’ cried Fagin.

‘The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman pass along that wall!’

White-faced, they both ran from the room into the passage. The candle threw long shadows down the stairs, but there was no one there. They listened. Only silence filled the house.

‘It was your imagination,’ said Fagin, softly.

‘I swear I saw it!’ replied Monks. They searched all the upstairs rooms. They were empty, and as quiet as death. Monks grew calmer, and eventually left the house at one o’clock in the morning.

The chase down at Chertsey the previous night had not lasted long. There was a lot of noise of men shouting and dogs barking, as the servants from the house pursued the robbers across the fields. But Sikes and Toby wasted no time. They dropped Oliver’s unconscious body in a field, and disappeared into the fog and the darkness in different directions. The three pursuers lost enthusiasm for the chase and agreed among themselves that it was much too dangerous to continue. They returned to the house, keeping close together and trying to look brave.

Morning came, but Oliver still lay in the field as if dead. It began to rain heavily, and after a while Oliver opened his eyes. His left arm was covered in blood and hurting badly. He felt so weak he could hardly stand, bur he knew that it he stayed where he was, he would die. Gasping with pain, he forced himself to his feet and with slow, shaky steps, began to walk. He had no idea where he was going, and moved forward mechanically, as though in a dream.

After a while his feet found a road, and he looked round and saw a house in the distance. He decided he would rather die near human beings than in a cold field, so he turned his steps towards the house. As he came nearer, he realized that the house was familiar and he felt faint with terror. But where else could he go? With a last effort, he crawled up the path and knocked on the door, then fell exhausted on the step.

It was now mid-morning. Inside the house the men servants were still describing the night’s adventures to the cook and the servant girl, who gasped with appreciative horror at every exciting moment. They were all enjoying themselves very much - when there came a knock at the door. Pale with fright, they all stared at each other. Nobody was keen to answer the knock, so eventually they all went, including the dogs. Very cautiously, they opened the door, and saw nothing more alarming than poor Oliver, curled up in a sad little heap on the step.

Then one of the men gave a shout, seized the boy by a leg and pulled him into the hall. ‘Here he is!’ he cried excitedly. ‘Here’s the thief! I shot him last night!’

A young Indy appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘What’s going on here? Quiet, please! Is this poor hoy very hurt?’

‘Very,’ said the servant, proudly.

‘Then one of you go to town as fast as you can and fetch a policeman and Dr Losberne. The rest of you, help to carry the boy upstairs and put him to bed. Treat him kindly, I beg you.’