Oliver Twist Investigates (4 page)

As you can imagine, I drew much comfort from her words, but her comment about unexpected wealth puzzled me and so I questioned her. ‘Why is my wealth greater than what you or Mr Brownlow expected?'

The change of direction in our conversation troubled her but she was nevertheless quick to reply. ‘As you know, Mr Brownlow, foolishly in my opinion, insisted on splitting your rightful inheritance from your father with your wicked half-brother Monks, even though it was not a large estate, it having suffered much from neglect. I know you supported that decision but I did not see then and I do not see now that Monks deserved anything, given his attempt to destroy you. My prediction that Monks would soon squander his part of the inheritance proved accurate. Indeed, the only good outcome of Mr Brownlow's decision as far as I can see is that Monks's profligate disposal of his inheritance most certainly contributed to his early death. In the light of all this, I regard it as God's blessing on you that Mr Brownlow was able to leave you far more money himself than what came from the reduced estate of your father. Without that you would be far worse off. The reason I talked of greater wealth than Mr Brownlow or I expected is that the dear man acquired much of the money he was able to give you only in recent years. Though he lived comfortably when you first met him, he originally did not have half what he was ultimately able to leave to you.'

‘How did he acquire that later wealth?'

‘Lord above, I've no idea. I'm a woman and I have no knowledge of business. You'd have to ask his friend Mr
Grimwig about that. He may possibly know how my master acquired the wealth he so generously and enthusiastically bequeathed to you. All I know is that you have cause to be grateful for it. I repeat that I have always looked upon it as Heaven's blessing on you that Mr Brownlow acquired the extra money. If you love me, Oliver, take my advice. Accept the blessing of Heaven and forget Fagin and his evil imaginings.'

I might well have taken her advice had not Mrs Bedwin unwittingly given me cause to doubt whether I really did yet know the truth about myself. I will not bore you with the remainder of our conversation that day. Suffice it to say we parted lovingly. She reiterated her opinion that I was an innocent victim and I promised her that I would not blame myself for the sins of others. What went unsaid was the confusion in my head. I decided I could not voice to her the question that now dominated my thoughts. Could the unexpected wealth that had come Mr Brownlow's way have anything to do with Nancy's murder? If so, then Fagin's letter might not be just the deluded meanderings of an evil man. Before I could relinquish my investigation I felt I had to seek a business meeting with Mr Grimwig, who, you may recall, was the long-standing ex-lawyer friend of my benefactor. I hoped that he would be able to show me that the money came from a source unrelated to me.

It was not a meeting that I looked forward to with any relish. Mr Grimwig was not a man to whom I had ever really taken. That is hardly surprising given the nature of our first meeting. Dressed by Mrs Bedwin in the first suit I had ever worn, I was brought into the room that housed Mr Brownlow's impressive library and there I met Mr Grimwig. As far as he was concerned there were only two
sorts of boy – mealy boys and beef-faced boys – and he instantly left me in no doubt that he classed me among the former. When it was explained that I was recovering from a very severe, indeed life-threatening fever, he showed no sympathy. Instead he warned Mr Brownlow against introducing a boy suspected of thieving into his house, saying it was an invitation to have his silver spoons pinched. He said he'd eat his head if I turned out honest and that Mr Brownlow could expect nothing but lies and dishonesty from me. It was Mr Grimwig who also suggested I be given the task of returning some books to a shop – the ill-fated expedition that led to my recapture by Nancy and Bill Sikes. What to me was a catastrophe of the worst possible kind served only to confirm Mr Grimwig in his opinion that I was a thorough-paced little villain – and he still held to that view even when I was subsequently freed.

Mr Brownlow's assertions that his friend's bark was worse than his bite and that Mr Grimwig had a kind nature beneath his gruff exterior never carried much weight with me. Neither did I accept Charles Dickens' take on him. He may have found Mr Grimwig's speech and mannerisms sufficiently amusing to make him depict him as a rather comic figure in his novel about me, but I believe a man who thinks himself always in the right (and who delights in putting down children and criticizing the actions of others) is far from comic. Not surprisingly, I never took much interest in trying to win Mr Grimwig's friendship. We had exchanged only the briefest of conversations at the funeral of Mr Brownlow and I think he must have been very surprised now to receive a request from me to see him. If so, he nevertheless readily acceded, perhaps because, despite
all his faults, he had regarded Mr Brownlow with great affection and respect and so felt honour-bound to see the heir to his estate. Or maybe he just wanted to put me in my place again? We arranged to meet at a public house he sometimes frequented, not far from our respective homes. Neutral territory which, I suppose, suited us both.

I will not bother you with an account of where we met for it was a fairly nondescript place. When I entered Mr Grimwig was already ensconced at a table, holding forth as usual about the inadequacies of his fellow men. He was just as I had first met him all those years ago – opinionated and truculent and unsympathetic. He was also one of those men who appears not to change much with the passage of time, even though all around them do. He was just as stout and just as lame as I remembered him and he appeared to be wearing remarkably similar clothes to those he had worn on our first meeting: a blue coat, striped waistcoat, and nankeen breeches and gaiters. He screwed his head to one side as he welcomed me, looking out of the corners of his eyes through a double eyeglass, and uttered the phrase that most peppered his communications with people: ‘I'll eat my head, sir, if it isn't Oliver Twist!'

I had already decided that I would not reveal to him anything of the contents of Fagin's letter. I did not think he would share Mrs Bedwin's belief that I was an innocent child corrupted. It was far more likely that he would see in Fagin's account proof that he had always been right in asserting my innate criminality. Before attending the meeting I had concluded that the safest way to see if he knew anything helpful to me was to make him think I was simply seeking some information on my inheritance. This was therefore the line I took.

‘Good morning, sir. I am grateful for this opportunity to meet you. We have had our differences in the past but I know you were always a loyal friend to my most kind benefactor. As you are aware, I have inherited all Mr Brownlow's estate.'

‘Ay, that you have and against my advice, I might say. I told him I'd eat my head if you didn't waste the money on extravagant living. Bad blood will show and there is no getting away from that.'

‘Mr Grimwig, I can assure you that I am not frittering away my inheritance. On the contrary, I have for some time been helping young people escape from the kind of horrors I myself endured. I want to use more of my wealth to help others and it is in that connection that I seek your advice.'

He drank from his tankard and muttered loudly so that all who chose could hear: ‘I don't take too kindly to giving help to others. It encourages idleness. Young people should learn to stand on their own feet. I'll eat my head if charity serves any useful purpose. It's all humbug if you ask me.'

I could easily have taken offence at this monstrous statement but instead I ignored his Scrooge-like reply and persevered: ‘But you do accept that Mr Brownlow always offered help to others?' He nodded his reluctant assent and I continued: ‘I wish to offer most help to causes that might be dear to his heart. Out of modesty he would never speak of whatever causes he chose to help, so I am hoping you can tell me more about his generosity.'

‘Then you have come to the wrong place because I never took an interest in his charity work. All I ever advised him on was his business interests – and good advice I gave him.'

‘I am sure you did, sir. Perhaps then you could tell me more about his business interests, because that may lead me
to give preference to certain causes over others. Sadly I have inherited his money without knowing from whence it came.'

I held my breath. Was this short sentence truly going to be sufficient to lead Mr Grimwig into providing the real information I sought? He looked at me again with that curious parrot-like screwing of his head to one side and eyed me up before speaking. At first he went through what seemed a never-ending stream of minutiae about various minor investments, but then it struck me that he was actually finding it hard to admit that he did not actually know the answer to my question. At last he gave voice to his ignorance, though couching it in terms that protected his arrogance:

‘The truth is, you know, your benefactor was never very rich because he too often ignored my advice. He was far too content to be just comfortably well-off and would miss out on calculated risks in the money market. I therefore know as little as you about where his sudden great wealth came from later. If you want more information, you'll have to ask that writer chap, Dickens. I'm pretty sure that it was after some meeting with him that Mr Brownlow acquired his additional wealth. I'll eat my head if these writing fellows don't have access to all kinds of information about investments denied to the likes of us.'

I cannot recall much of our subsequent conversation or even the manner of my departure from the public house. The reference to Dickens's lying behind Mr Brownlow's wealth had my head swimming. Mr Grimwig had unwittingly undone the effects of all Mrs Bedwin's pleas for me to ignore the contents of Fagin's letter. Whatever Mr Grimwig might think, I knew Charles Dickens was no investment adviser. Though the thought was hideous to me,
was it therefore possible that my wealth stemmed from my beloved guardian's blackmailing Charles Dickens? And, if so, what was he blackmailing him about? Was it true that Mr Brownlow had known far more about the truth of Nancy's death – and the reason for it – than he had ever told me?

For several years I had ceased to have any direct contact with the man who had immortalized my childhood. I resented too much what Charles Dickens's writing had done to me and I had no desire to renew our acquaintance. Nevertheless, I had continued to read with immense admiration many of his newspaper articles and most of his subsequent stories and novels. Who could not fail to be entranced by books like
Nicholas Nickleby, Martin Chuzzlewit, Barnaby Rudge,
and
The Old Curiosity Shop
? Because I wished my past could be put behind me,
A Christmas Carol
held a special place in my affections because it is a tale of a man who manages to relive his past and, in the process, rids himself of past ghosts and changes his future.

I was unsure of what course to take for the first few weeks after my meetings with Mrs Bedwin and Mr Grimwig. During that time I began reading the first instalments of Dickens's latest work, which was a novel called
Dombey And Son
. It will not surprise you to hear that I was one of thousands to be absorbed by its tragic plot, passion and
grand style. My sharing in the national concern for the fate of little Paul Dombey made me appreciate once again Dickens's ability to make his audience care for the welfare of the young. He had done the same for Little Nell, Tiny Tim, and many others, as well as for me. It seemed to me that no author could write so forcefully about injustice and not want to see truth revealed. This eventually acted as the necessary trigger to push me into having the courage to visit him in the hope that he could help me to investigate the truth behind what Fagin had written. Nevertheless, it was not without a high degree of anxiety that I begged an audience with the great man.

Whilst he was writing his book about me, Dickens moved from a house in Doughty Street to a larger property in Devonshire Terrace on the corner of Marylebone Road and Marylebone High Street, almost opposite the York Gate that leads into Regent's Park. From the outside it was a respectable but rather plain and dull-looking two-storeyed property. It was marked off from the street by ugly green railings, but I knew these were no barrier to the house having become a general meeting place for men of mark, attracted by the genius who dwelt within. As I knocked for admittance, I knew I was expected and, judging from the tone of his written reply, warmly, but this did not prevent my heart pounding as loudly in my chest as my hand did upon the front door.

I was admitted by one of his servants and led to his study to await him. The thing that struck me most was the way in which he was displaying his relatively newfound wealth throughout the house in its elegant furnishings. Silk damask curtains and silk-covered rosewood chairs vied with brightly coloured floral carpets and attractive candelabra to
catch the eye. Equally apparent was his love of books, because rows of them lined large sections of the room. There also seemed to be an excess of mirrors. They were placed all around the room and I wondered whether this reflected a growing if understandable vanity. It was an idea reinforced by his appearance when he entered and greeted me. His attire was highly fashionable. It gave him the air of a dandy, especially as he wore, to my eyes, an excessive amount of jewellery on his hands. However, his manner was far from vain. It was fresh and genial and welcoming. Only the fairly frequent way in which he pulled out his comb to attend to his hair during the course of our meeting betrayed, perhaps, his inherent nervousness at seeing me again.

If the warmth of his greeting immediately recalled our earlier acquaintance, his physical appearance on closer inspection surprised me. He was very different from how I remembered him. Then he had been a charismatic young man, with bright, lively eyes, well-formed facial features, and profuse flowing auburn hair. Now his features bore testimony to the truth of the rumours I had heard. It was commonly stated that he drove himself unreasonably hard and that bouts of manic exertion alternated with periods of deep despair and desperate gloom. Although still not yet forty, he looked far older. His face was heavily lined, his hair had become sparse, and his doorknocker beard was flecked with grey. Only his eyes sparkled with the same youthful vigour.

He expressed his delight at seeing me again and apologized that his recent travels abroad had delayed his responding earlier to my request to meet him. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and he indicated his sorrow at Mr Brownlow's death. He proved a very good listener, drawing
out of me my story with his natural ease of manner. I soon forgot that I was in the presence of the country's greatest writer and told him of my life since we had last met as if he was a close friend. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets and threw his head slightly back, his eyes gleaming with infectious warmth which conveyed both good humour and human concern, depending on the drift of my tale. He vowed he had no knowledge of how Mr Brownlow had acquired greater wealth in recent years and made my suspicion that it might have anything to do with him seem ludicrous. However, on hearing my account of Fagin's letter, the warmth of his initial welcome frosted over and I thought he was going to dismiss me instantly from his presence. Fortunately, after a moment's hesitation, he seemed to think again. Whether he feared I might begin investigating elsewhere or whether he decided he owed me a degree of honesty I do not know, but he volunteered to tell me as much the of truth as he knew about Nancy and her death.

Everyone who met Dickens was always captivated by his ability to tell stories and I believe on this occasion he excelled himself. He spoke in a sharp, jerky but engaging way, with not a touch of affectation or pomposity. I listened, awestruck by the intimacy of his confession. Even now, I can repeat almost every word he said and recall virtually every gesture he made. And so I cannot do better than repeat his account exactly as he told it to me, even though I cannot convey the wonderful and quickly changing expressions of his face throughout his lengthy discourse.

‘I promise to tell you the truth, Mr Twist, and this is the truth, not just as it was but as I still feel it. I may be famous and successful and happy now, but once my whole nature was permeated with the grief and humiliation of being an
abandoned and ill-used child. When I first heard your story, I knew I had to write about it because in part it felt so like mine. The loneliness that was so much part of your childhood was also a prominent feature in mine, as was the degradation. Forgive me, but I must explain my own background if you are to understand. All I ask is that you do not make use of the information to harm my family or me.

‘My father was as kind-hearted and generous a man as ever lived in the world and my first memories of childhood are all happy ones. At first it was easy for me to grow up imagining that I would become a learned and distinguished man, but, when my family returned to London from Chatham, it appeared as if all those hopes would be dashed forever. The area in which we came to live in Camden Town was still semi-rural but that did not prevent our new house being shabby, dingy, damp and mean. Despite the air of decay, our neighbours sought to disguise their poverty in a desperate attempt to keep up appearances. It may sound ludicrous but the more genteel among them, in answering knocks on their doors, endeavoured to admit their visitors whilst keeping out of sight behind the door so as to give the impression it had been opened by a servant. I recall how the same desire to maintain appearances meant that a working bookbinder was looked down upon by his neighbours for keeping fowls and so lowering the tone. Signboards and placards declaring rooms for let were discouraged. A few houses were considered a disgrace to us all when they were afflicted in their lower extremities with eruptions of mangling and clear starching because their residents were reduced to taking in washing.

‘Despite the pretensions of my family and the other residents, there was a debt collector who used to come to the
area so regularly to deliver the summonses for rates and taxes that you might have supposed he was delivering circulars. My father never paid anything until the last extremity, and heaven knows how he paid it then. Although he never undertook any business without applying himself zealously, conscientiously, punctually, and honourably, his financial affairs were increasingly shaky. As I grew older this made him seem to lose all idea of educating me, although I was a child of singular abilities, quick, eager, delicate, and easily hurt. No one else in my family, not even my mother, suggested that something might be spared from our meagre income to send me to a school. My parents would care for me night and day whenever I was sick, but the rest of the time I was either ignored or expected to clean people's shoes and do other small chores around the unattractive rooms we rented.

‘Occasionally a family's hunger must be allayed even at the cost of one's self-respect and so I would be sent on an errand to pawn some of our ever-diminishing possessions. I still recall with a sense of shame how furtively I used to skulk around the pawnshops, glancing timorously and irresolutely at the golden balls outside their premises, trying to guess which one might be the more generous. These dirty shops contained the most extraordinary and confused jumble of old, worn-out, wretched articles that can ever be imagined. My wonderment that some of them had ever been bought was matched only by my astonishment at the idea that any of them might ever be sold again! Odd volumes from sets of little-read books, wineglasses of different patterns, pans full of rusty keys, gaudy chimney ornaments – cracked, of course, pickle jars without stoppers, high-backed chairs with spinal complaints and wasted legs,
wearing apparel and bedding, fenders and fire-irons; indeed a miscellany of objects of every description. Even the supposed special items, such as an unframed portrait of some lady who had flourished in a previous century, by an artist who never flourished at all, were to my eye unattractive. And the clothes in such establishments told the saddest tale. The make and materials of these shoddy items, so carelessly heaped together, spoke of better days; and the older they were, the greater the misery and destitution of those whom they once adorned.

‘I sometimes wandered into areas less salubrious than the one where I lived but I hated it if I misjudged the time and this led to me being out when night fell. Then the great city lay outstretched before me like a dark shadow on the ground, reddening the sluggish air with a deep dull light, that told of a labyrinth of public ways and shops, and swarms of busy people. Long lines of poorly lighted streets might be faintly traced, with here and there a brighter spot. But these merely revealed the piles of uneven roofs oppressed by chimneys and the occasional tall steeple looming in the air. Once-noble buildings were here reduced to squalid tenements, their sewage flowing into the street. Like you, I soon came to know that in every overcrowded room men, women and children lived in indescribable filth with cleanliness a thing unknown. I have known – as of course have you – yards and cellars so full of human excrement that I could scarcely cross them without befouling myself.

‘I remember one evening when the cold, thin rain, which had been drizzling all day, began to pour in earnest. The rustling of umbrellas and the constant clicking of shoes on the slippery and uneven cobbles bore testimony to the
inclemency of the weather. As the crowds, which had been passing to and fro throughout the day, dwindled away and the little ragged boys who usually disported themselves about the streets, stood crouched in little knots under projecting doorways, only the noise of shouting and quarrelling in the public houses broke the melancholy stillness. I saw a wretched woman with a mewling infant in her arms. Round its meagre form she carefully wrapped the remnant of her own scanty shawl, whilst attempting to sing a popular ballad in the hope of obtaining a few pence from any compassionate passer-by. A brutal laugh at her weak voice was all she gained. The tears fell thick and fast down her pale oval face. The child was cold and hungry, and its low half-stifled wailing added to her misery as she moaned aloud and sank despairingly down on a cold, damp doorstep. I knew they were both doomed to die of cold and hunger and that no one cared. Nor would anyone care for me if ever I were reduced to such a condition.

‘With such experiences the joys of childhood were denied me. I fell into a state of dire neglect, the memory of which still haunts me. I suffered very much from other boys who chased me down turnings, brought me to bay in doorways, and treated me quite savagely, though I am sure I gave them no offence. To add insult to my unhappy condition, my parents, though denying me any schooling, chose to send my sister Fanny to the Royal Academy of Music. What would I have given, if I had had anything to give, to have been sent to any place of education? My mind craved to be taught something and I did not care where. I was prepared to accept any school, however humble. I could not understand why my sister was so favoured and I was so ignored.

‘My mother came up with the grand idea of supplementing the family income by opening a school for young ladies and I was given the task of posting advertisements for it through letterboxes. Nobody ever came to it and I cannot recollect that anybody ever proposed to come, or even that preparation was made to receive anybody. Our visitors therefore were not clients but more debt collectors, because my father continued to squander what little resources we had. I still remember how one dirty-faced man, I think he was a bootmaker, used to edge himself into the passageway of the house as early as seven o'clock in the morning and call upstairs to my father: “Come! You aren't out yet, you know. Pay us, will you? Don't hide, you know, that's mean. I wouldn't be mean if I was you”. But, Mr Twist, our whole life had become mean. Mean and shabby and dismal.

‘Not surprisingly, I kept myself apart from others of my own age and I became a desperately lonely young boy. Books became my only comfort and I read the few we owned over and over again. They called me an odd child and perhaps I was, but it was an oddity born of isolation. It was always a relief when I had the chance to visit my godfather, who alone seemed to take some interest in me. He was a sail-maker and ships' chandler who lived in Church Row, just behind the great church of Nicholas Hawksmoor in Limehouse. I used to pass all the boat-building yards where the very air was perfumed with wood chips and I saw all trades swallowed up in mast, oar and block-making. It used to remind me of happier days when I was five and six, growing up in Chatham. I dreamt of boarding a boat and sailing down the stench-ridden Thames to freedom and a new life in countries where opportunities would abound and my childhood hopes of future greatness could be rekindled.