As the months passed, Jack Dawkins had grown more respectable, more articulate and more literate, but Oliver knew that his old friend still harboured certain wayward ways, which were deeply ingrained within his character. It was part of his nature and Oliver knew that it was also part of the fellow’s charm and he did not want to eliminate that altogether. Nevertheless, he was aware there would be occasions when the old Dodger would rise up, elbowing the smarter, tidier Dawkins out of the way, so that he could go on the rampage. From Jack’s hunched position as he stood in the doorway now wearing that familiar guilty hangdog expression, Oliver deduced that this was likely to be one of those occasions.
‘I am mightily sorry for attending work later than the appointed hour, my dear Oliver, but I find myself in rather unfortunate circumstances.’ The voice was humble and hushed and coated with a thick layer of theatricality.
‘And what unfortunate circumstances might they be?’ asked Oliver Twist tartly.
‘I’ve been thrown out of my lodgings.’
Oliver pursed his lips and allowed his eyes to roll a little in their sockets. ‘And why is that?’
‘Well, in simple terms…’
‘Those are the best.’
‘In simple terms: I am a little behind with my rent.’
Oliver knew that the Dodger was as practised in the art of litotes as well as hyperbole. In this case he was convinced that he was shrinking the truth rather than expanding upon it.
‘By how much?’
‘I owe nearly three months.’
‘Nearly three months!’ Oliver found that not only had he raised his voice, but he had also raised himself from his desk into a standing position. ‘Oh, Dodger,’ he cried, lapsing into the old appellation, ‘how did you let this happen? You have a regular, albeit modest, income here and are certainly more than financially capable of paying the rent required of you.’
‘I just let it slip,’ replied Jack lowering his head further in an approximation of shame. ‘I suppose I was enjoying myself too much to relinquish my hard-earned shekels for the privilege of laying my head in a dusty old room in a dingy old tenement. So, I spent the money on myself.’
‘In what particular fashion?’
Jack gave a little shrug, but there was the hint of a twinkle in the eye and a suggestion of a smile hovering about his thin lips. ‘Food, drink and a little gambling. Well, if the truth be known… a lot of gambling.’
Oliver Twist shook his head sadly and resumed his seat. ‘Presumably you were warned of your eviction and yet ignored the warnings.’
The suggestion of a smile now manifested itself into a broad grin which Jack Dawkins flashed at his friend who received it with a stony glance. The grin vanished with the same speed at which it had appeared. ‘You can read me like a book, Oliver.’
‘A book that is read in the debtor’s prison, no doubt,’ snapped Oliver, not the least amused or beguiled by his friend’s confession.
Oliver’s cold stare caused the Dodger to wince. ‘I’m mightily sorry, my dear Oliver. I have let you down. You, who snatched me from the clutches of the law and set about making an honest and respectable citizen of me.’
‘I seem to have failed.’
Dodger shook his head violently from side to side. For a brief moment Oliver thought that he had been struck by some convulsive malady.
‘No, no, do not say that,’ cried Jack Dawkins and this time the emotion was genuine. ‘I ain’t stolen any money or done anything what is illegal. It’s just I ain’t paid my rent.’
On this point Oliver felt obliged to agree with him, although he maintained his stern mask of disapproval.
‘I am heartily sorry, Oliver, my friend. Heartily sorry that I didn’t cough up to the landlord, but more heartily sorry that I have let you down. Please, I beg you, give me another chance.’
Oliver sighed again. ‘You are irresponsible, penniless and homeless…’
Jack nodded. ‘That is a wery accurate summation of the situation.’
Oliver turned towards the window where the bright morning sun was creating fine shafts of yellow light filled with myriad dancing particles of dust. He gazed at them as though fascinated by their errant and yet elegant rotations, while he pondered, turning thoughts over in his mind. At length, he swung round to face his repentant friend again.
‘It seems to me that there is only one solution to the conundrum that you present me with Mr Dawkins,’ he said formally as though he were addressing a jury. ‘You will have to come and live under my roof where I can keep a weather eye on you.’
Oliver had hardly uttered these words before Jack Dawkins’ eyes lit up like two bright coals set in a cheery fire. His mouth gaped open with delight and he took a step forward, raising his arms as though he was about to embrace his friend. Oliver froze his actions with a stern glance and a swift commanding raise of his hand. ‘I do not do this out of charity, Mr Dawkins. There must be no more further episodes of falling by the wayside. I have a commodious basement in my house which with a little ingenuity and effort can be converted into comfortable quarters for you for which you will pay the same rent as required by your previous landlord. And you will pay the said rent regularly and accurately. Is that understood?’
Jack Dawkins by now had transmogrified into a naughty schoolboy. He stood head bowed, each skeletal hand clutching the other before him, his voice hoarse with humility. ‘It is understood,’ he said.
Oliver’s features relaxed a little. ‘Do not let me down.’
Jack indulged once more in an orgy of head shaking.
Just at this moment there came a loud bang at the door. On this occasion Oliver had no time to determine the nature of the knock or indeed its owner before he burst into the room. He was a tall fellow with a large girth. Indeed, the man’s stomach was prodigious. His watch fob, instead of hanging down from its chain with ease and having the freedom to swing to and fro as it saw fit, was firmly lodged on a generous shelf produced by the material of the gentleman’s waistcoat which was rucked into large folds because of the enormity of flesh pressing against it. As he moved, the shiny buttons on the aforementioned garment rippled erratically as though they were in danger of being forced from their moorings and would spin into space at any moment. This rotund gentleman was Horatio Gripwind, the senior partner in the firm of Gripwind and Biddle.
The enormous appetite for food and drink which was the cause of the gentleman’s size had made investments in his facial features also. He was the owner of a very round face that seemed not to have in its possession a neck of any kind, merely a large fold of flesh which wobbled down from his prodigious chin on to his chest. His complexion followed accurately the dictionary definition of the word ‘ruddy’ and his golden pince nez rested on a thick bulbous nose reminiscent of a fine beef sausage. The exception to these physical excesses were Horatio Gripwind’s eyes, which were small, like tiny blue buttons, but they were eyes that twinkled with good nature, kindness and fierce intelligence.
He stood on the threshold of the room, the exertion of leaving his own domain upstairs and journeying to Oliver’s office having produced a thin sheen of perspiration on his face and a wheezy shortness of breath.
‘Ah, Master Twist, I am sorry to interrupt. I know you are hard at work on those infernal, and may I say, eternal Mallory papers, but…’ He paused having espied Jack Dawkins, who had slid to the side of the room to make himself less conspicuous. ‘Ah, Dawkins. A little late this morning I observed.’
Jack nodded and tried to apologise for his tardiness, but his voice failed him. Instead he edged his way further back until he was up against the wall.
‘As I was saying,’ continued Gripwind, swinging his attention back to Oliver, ‘the Mallory business is important, but we have this morning received a communication from Sir Ebenezer Throate, one of our most treasured and noble clients. He wishes to make certain alterations to his financial matters, and I thought this was an ideal opportunity for you, Master Twist, to have some e
xperience of dealing with the landed gentry. The fact is Sir Ebenezer does not come up to town these days and so it means that someone will have to travel to Throate Manor, his family seat, to conduct the business.’ Gripwind bestowed one of his beaming benevolent smiles on his young junior partner. ‘And as you are rather fleeter of foot than either I or Mister Biddle it naturally falls to you to attend to the matter. And so, Master Twist, abandon your current concerns - for this relief much thanks, eh? - and make preparations to travel to Throate Manor in the county of Surrey.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The sun rose in the azure sky, establishing its dominance, illuminating cobwebs, exposing imperfections and brandishing the hope of a new beginning for those in desperate need of one.
By mid-morning the promenade at Brighton was already a kaleidoscope of colour with ladies in dazzling summer dresses, bright parasols twirling recklessly in the growing heat; gentlemen in gaily striped blazers and cream flannels with straw boaters tipped precariously at a jaunty angle; the various tradesmen selling their wares from pies to whelks to various garish sweet confections; and little boys in sailor suits haring in front of their parents in search of excitement and mischief. There was, however, one solitary figure who was not an integral part of this colourful animated pageant, this vibrant whirligig of humanity. He was a young man, soberly dressed and static, leaning on the balustrade staring out to sea, his gaze reaching beyond the throng of people on the beach, the row of bathing huts and the smattering of early bathers in colourful costumes playing a chasing game with the waves. It was on the far horizon where the sky melted into the water that his eyes were focused, his thin but handsome face set in a melancholic mask. He was troubled and the trouble was that he could not fathom any reason why he should be troubled. He carried around with him a permanent cloud of depression, which constantly manifested itself in minor afflictions. At the moment it was a heavy cold which had plagued him for weeks and seemed to be immune to physic, exercise, early bedtimes and now, good sea air. In the past it had been inexplicable aches, insomnia, strange rashes, blinding headaches, inflammations, chronic stomach cramps, bowel disorders and boils.
Perhaps, somewhere out there, beyond that line where the water ends, and the sky begins lay the answer. Certainly, doctors could not explain his disorders. He viewed these various afflictions rather like applicants for a situation to be filled. They waited in some outer office until the current candidate had run his course and then it was another’s opportunity to discomfort him. The sore throat has gone so now it is the turn of lumbago to be followed by shingles. But none of these fellows had been summoned. They turned up of their own volition and barged their way into his life without any invitation.
One doctor suggested that it was something within him, installed in his mind that was prompting these illnesses. He had been informed that these complaints were a manifestation of some deep distress that he was keeping hidden even from himself. ‘The mind is both a sensitive and powerful organ and controls our well-being and our lives,’ said the doctor. ‘If it wants us to go blind or see snakes crawling out of the wall then we will lose our sight or perceive those slimy reptiles. It is as simple and as complicated as that.’ The medic smiled sympathetically. ‘That will be two guineas,’ he added, the smile broadening.
The young man had considered this diagnosis seriously. He had begun his life anonymously, knowing neither parent and never experiencing the love and tender comfort that a caring home life could give. He was the typical ‘workhouse brat’ who in his early years had never experienced anything but disdain, but there were thousands of those unfortunates around and they didn’t seem to be the prey of myriad disorders. But nevertheless, this young man possessed a determined and ambitious streak which drove him on to ‘better himself’ until he had been seduced by the demon gambling – the short cut to comfortable living or so he had thought. It had been the deceptive slide to penury and ruin. If he had not metaphorically been scooped out of the gutter by Sir Ebenezer Throate who knows where he would have ended up. A permanent skivvy at The Saracens Head no doubt. But Sir Ebenezer had taken an immediate liking to the young man and after a very brief acquaintance the baronet had offered him the post of private secretary with a very pleasing salary. And so, Roger Lightwood, orphan, spawn of the workhouse, had taken up residence at Throate Manor. He had a comfortable home at last and the entry to all the amenities and luxuries one could ever wish for. He even developed a fondness for the old man, pompous and self-obsessed though he was. For the first time in his life he had dared to be happy. And then like a biblical plague, the illnesses began. It was a bad back at first – ‘lumbago’ the local quack called it – and then it was the croup – ‘the croup’ the local quack called it – and then… Well Roger had lost track now. And sometime soon it would be Death (it’s Death, the quack would call it) and then the whole thing would be over. He bit his lip with annoyance. He shouldn’t be so morbid. He had a great deal to be thankful for – if only he could persuade his mind to accept that and stop presenting him with one incapacity after another.
He sneezed. It was as though he had received a reply.
Despite the warmth of the day, he shivered. Time for a warming drink and another powder for my cold, he thought. There was a little café near his hotel which he had frequented on a number of occasions and felt comfortable there. He would repair there for a café noir and take his medication.
Turning away from the sea he mingled with the throng of promenaders as he made his way to the café. He crossed the road and moved into the shadows which seemed to please him more than the bright, glaring sunshine. As he mounted the pavement with more alacrity than he had planned, he bumped into a young lady with such force that she staggered backwards in surprise.
‘I am most awfully sorry,’ said Roger, raising his hat.
The young lady was shocked but not angry. She smiled sweetly in response to Roger’s apology but before she was able to reply, her eyelids fluttered erratically, and she collapsed to the ground.
Roger was horrified. What had he done?
‘Is she a dead ‘un?’ asked a burly passer-by with more a note of relish than concern in his voice.
Roger knelt by the young lady as a small chattering crowd swarmed around him. He took her pulse and – heavens be praised - there was one. Roger cradled her head and stroked her cheek and as he did so her eyes opened slowly. For a moment the mist of unconscious befogged her memory and then with a little gasp she sat upright. This dramatic movement brought a muted round of applause from the crowd who then began to drift away, the drama now being over, disappointed perhaps that it had resulted in a happy ending rather than a tragedy.
‘I am so terribly sorry,’ the young lady said irrationally.
‘It is I who am sorry. It was very clumsy of me, bumping into you in such an oafish fashion. Do you feel strong enough to stand?’
‘I think so.’ And with the young man’s assistance she rose to her feet. She smiled in triumph. ‘There now,’ she said straightening her skirt. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You look at little pale. Are you sure you do not need medical assistance?’
‘No, no. I am fully recovered, thank you.’
It was at this point that Roger Lightwood first realised how pretty the girl was. She had delicate doll-like features, smooth, perfect and wonderfully balanced with a pair of light blue eyes which sparkled brightly. The sight of such delicate beauty unnerved him. He had never spoken to such an attractive creature before, let alone knocked one down and then helped her to her feet. For a moment he stood before the girl in a state of suspended animation, his mouth ready to open and speak but held in frozen motion by her enchanting gaze. There was no anger, irritation or a sense of blame in her expression. She just looked at him sweetly with a hint of enquiry in those lustrous eyes.
As no comment appeared to be forthcoming, the young lady smiled one more and said, ‘I must be on my way or I shall be late.’
As she made to move pas
t him, something sparked within Roger Lightwood’s soul and very gently and cautiously he barred her way. ‘Please, I beg of you, let me accompany you to your destination so that I may be assured that you suffered no ill effects from your fall.’
She lowered her lashes and grinned. ‘I assure you I am perfectly all right, but if you wish you may come along with me. I have not far to go. To the Royal Court Hotel.’
Roger nodded eagerly. ‘I know it.’
The two young people fell in step with each other.
‘Are you in Brighton on holiday?’ asked Roger, having some difficulty keeping up the brisk pace of his companion.
‘In a manner of speaking. I am the companion to Lady Wilhelmina Whitestone who is staying here for a few days for the sea air. However, she has yet to venture from her room. It is either too bright, too warm, too still or too windy.’
‘A difficult lady to please.’
‘Impossible.’
They both laughed.
Oliver Twist and the Mystery of Throate Manor Page 3
