Olivia Twist ~ The True Story

By Susan Brown

Once again my thanks go to Kristina LS for knocking this into shape

I stood in front of the imposing old house just looking for a moment, then walked up the steps, inserted the key and twisted. The door creaking as I gently pushed, it had not been opened for some time.

I remembered as a child, visiting my grandparents on occasion before they moved to the West Indies for their health. They had never been back to England and had both died within a month of each other.

As sole beneficiary in their will (I was an only child whose parents had died in a car accident several years ago), I now owned the old pile. I planned to sell the place as it was too expensive to keep and needed a lot of restoration that I could not afford.

By the way, I am Susan Brown, a single schoolteacher on my Easter Holidays. I intended to stay in the old house for a few days to sort out my grandparents belongings prior to the auction.

As I walked about I realized that the old place needed cleaning up quite a bit before potential buyers started wandering through. there was dust and cobwebs everywhere. I found a directory then got on my mobile and arranged for some cleaners to come in the next day to give it a good spring clean.

After a good look around I decided I would stay the night in a local hotel.

I shut the creaking door, got in my car and drove off.

The next morning, I was at the house early as the team of cleaners arrived. It was a bit expensive to use their services, but I hoped that the additional costs would be taken care of by the increased value of a clean rather than a dusty and dirty property.

By the end of the day, the cleaners had gone and I was sitting in the now spotless library, eating a take away pizza and a nice bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Just a little tired and dirty myself, I had managed to sort out most of my grand parents’ personal effects and I had a small pile of papers, books, old photos and other stuff that I intended to keep for myself. The rest of the furniture and other bric-a-brac would be sold with the house.

I was quite pleased with the progress that had been made in such a short time, but I was also sad that my grand parents were gone and that I was surrounded with reminders of the past and a time when the house was full of life. My father had been born in this house and my mother had given birth to me here too. Not out of any sense of wanting a home birth, but because I evidently came out too quickly!

After drinking a second glass, I got up out of the thick, deep leather armchair intending to go back to my hotel and promptly felt a bit giddy.

I really should not have had that second glass. I decided to call for a taxi to take me back to the hotel. The phone had been cut off so I tried my mobile.

‘Damn, it’s dead!’

Of course I had been clever enough to leave the charger in my hotel room and my in car kit had been on the blink for some time. I was miles away from anywhere and I didn’t fancy a walk in the dark. Luckily, I had arranged to have the electricity switched on prior to my coming so that I could use the Hoover and lights.

I went into the kitchen, turned on the lights and went over to my small box of provisions on the kitchen table.

There was coffee, milk, biscuits and a couple of packets of crisps. I decided to make the best of it and stay the night.

Luckily, as it was summer, it was quite warm and the house didn’t need any heating so I made myself some coffee and went back into the library. The shelves were stacked with books and I had arranged for a dealer to come and value them the following day. I went over to one of the bookcases to see if I could find anything to read.

The shelves held mostly textbooks to do with medical or legal things. My grandfather had been a lawyer and grandmother a doctor. There were a few fiction books but nothing to my taste. As I walked back to the old leather armchair, my eye caught a very large, leather bound book on the top shelf of the bookcase over by the window. I was intrigued, so I stood on a wooden chair and reached for it.

The book was heavy with a brass lock on it. I had a bit of a struggle to get down off the chair with it in my arms, but I managed somehow.

To my surprise, taped on the front of the book was a letter addressed to me. It said:

For Susan Brown or her heirs.

Intrigued, I opened the envelope.

Inside was another sealed envelope, a key and a letter.

The letter read:

Dear Susan,

If you are reading this, both your Grandmother and I are no longer with you.

We should have handed this book to our solicitor, but old Jenkins had died and I do not trust his son so much. Anyway, we knew that after our passing, you would be our executor and we trusted in God that He would make sure that you would have this book.

Read the book and then open the envelope.

Please know, Susan that we love you dearly and are looking down at you from a far better place.

Have a lovely, happy life and try to find a man that deserves you.

All our love

Nan and Granddad.

I put the letter down, to find to my surprise that I had tears streaming down my face.

It took a little while for me to get myself together again, the light had faded and it was quite dark by now. I drew the curtains, turned on the lights and settled down in the armchair with the book on my lap.

The key from the envelope fitted the lock on the book. I turned the key and the lock sprung open with a small squeak. With a hint of anticipation and a pinch of trepidation I opened the book.

Inside, it had been hollowed out and in the space created, was another smaller book.

On the cover ,in spidery writing were the words:

My life and times.

By

Oliver Twist

I looked at the book fascinated, could this be an original handwritten manuscript of the Dickens classic?

Very carefully, not wanting to damage it in any way I opened the cover. It was in very good condition and had obviously been well looked after. The pages were fresh and clean and the handwriting had not faded in any way.

I looked at the first page and eagerly started to read……………………….

My life and times.

By

Oliver Twist

Prologue.

Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one; anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.

For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.

Although I am not disposed to maintain that (the) being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,- a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them.

The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.

As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet, which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die."

The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:

"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet."

"Lor bless her heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb, do."

Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back- and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.

"It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last.

"Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!"

"You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?"

"She was brought here last night," replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows."

The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. "The old story," he said, shaking his head: "no wedding ring, I see. Ah! Good night!"

The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.

What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once- a parish child- the orphan of a workhouse- the humble, half-starved drudge- to be cuffed and buffeted through the world- despised by all, and pitied by none.

Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.

So wrote Mr Charles Dickens regarding the birth of a child into a world lacking in love and feelings.
However, although the circumstances of the birth of that unfortunate child were, in large part, true. Much of the subsequent history written by the worthy Mr. Dickens regarding the life and times of the boy known as Oliver Twist was not.

Many of the facts were altered to fit in with the strict morality of the time and certain aspects were changed and omitted. For example, there was no brother of Oliver, known as Monks.
I know all this for a fact, as I am Oliver Twist. I realize that this journal will not be read by anyone in my lifetime, but I hope that in setting down my true story in print, some good may come of it in the years to come long after I shuffle off this mortal coil.

1

My early life was much like that illustrated by Mr Dickens fine words.

Life was very harsh in the branch workhouse. I was a thin and scrawny child, much like the twenty-three other undernourished souls in that God forsaken place. The food on the table was not fit for pigs, let alone poor, weak children such as we. Mrs. Mann, the matron of the workhouse made sure that we were not over fed, over loved or kept very clean. Mr. Bumble, the Parish Beadle occasionally came to lord over us and tell us to be good and how lucky we were to have the ‘kind’ Mrs. Mann look after us like a mother.

So much for my early life.

When I became nine years of age, Mr. Bumble duly collected me and took me to the main workhouse. If I thought that life under Mrs. Mann was harsh, things got a lot worse under the tender mercies of Mrs. Corney.

We slept on the floor, our beds nothing but mouldy hay. All day we picked oakum. We were fed on scraps that seemed to get less and less as each day passed. I was at the workhouse for six months before there was a feeling of rebellion amongst the inmates of that terrible place.

It was decided that one of us must ask for more food. The general feeling was that it was obvious that the board were not aware that after eating the meagre fare, we were still so very hungry.

You must understand that at the tender age of nine. I was underweight, malnourished, weak and constantly tired.

Do not think that I was alone in this pitiable state. All the children were in the same way.

Whilst the Board, matron and master managed to eat the finest of food, we poor orphans were fed gruel. For those who have not tasted gruel, it is a brown concoction made from boiling oats with water or milk. Needless to say our gruel was made with water.

Lots were made for the child to have the doubtful privilege of going up to the master and asking for more food.

Needless to say I won or should I say lost.

It seemed an eternity, that walk to the copper, where the stern master was just standing there, a puzzled look on his face as he saw this waif of a child coming towards him.

Eventually, I arrived and asked the question.

‘Please sir, I want some more.’

The fat master looked as if he was going to have a seizure and just said in faint voice, ‘What!’

‘Please sir, er, I want some more?’

This is where things got a trifle hazy as the Master hit me over the head with his ladle.

Whilst still in a daze, I was dragged off by the master and matron to see the board. I had evidently interrupted their dinner, so I supposed that I was not going to be let off leniently. The smell and the look of the sumptuous feast was almost too much for me. I stared at the food, oh so much food. More than I had ever seen in my short life. My parched mouth started to water. Perhaps they would take kindly to me, let me sit down and have a few morsels.

The fattest man, sitting at the centre looked at me with distaste as the master and Matron told them of my crime.

There were murmurs of outrage as the matron told the board of my sins.

I jumped as the fattest man shouted at me.

‘You disgusting, ungrateful boy, how dare you. You must be mad to want more. You are given a roof over your head, a job and good food. You repay our kindness with greed by asking for more. Very well, we have no use for a useless ungrateful wretch like you. Matron, he must be apprenticed out as soon as possible. Now get out.’

I was marched out and back into the hall, I was then summarily flogged and put into a room by myself.
Every day for a week, I was taken from that bare cell, for that is what it was, and taken into the hall to be flogged.

I was only given a token amount of food, as I think that they wanted to break my spirit. However, deep inside my tiny breast, I was angry and hurt and I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

And so it was that the parish, in its wisdom, washed its hands of me and offered me for sale to anyone who would have such an ungrateful wretch, for the princely sum of five pounds.

The beadle took me in hand and I was taken about the parish none to gently I might add, in the hope, nay expectation that the parish would rid itself of this wretched boy.

I was nearly sold to a chimney sweep, but I begged with all humility not to go with him. I had heard of too many stories whereby young children suffocated or burned doing such work. Luckily, a kindly old magistrate refused to sign the indentures and I was spared such hardship.

Later, Mr. Sowerberry, an undertaker employed by the parish, took me into his service.

At first, he treated me very well, and, because I had what he called ‘a sorrowful countenance’ I was used as a "mute", or mourner, at children's funerals. Mrs Sowerberry, however, took an immediate dislike to me — primarily because her husband seemed to like me — and she lost few opportunities to underfeed and mistreat me. I was also severely disliked by Noah Claypole, a bullying and none-too-bright fellow apprentice, who was jealous of my promotion above him to mute.

One day, Mr Sowerberry called me into his office. I was rubbing my backside as Noah had just kicked it for no good reason.

‘What is wrong Oliver?’

‘Nothing sir.’

‘Hmm. Very well. Now sit down, I wish to speak with you.’

I dutifully sat down, wincing somewhat as I was in some pain from the kick.

‘Are you sure you are well, boy?’

‘Yes sir.’

If I had told on Noah, I would have more kicking’s. Something I wished to avoid, if possible.
Mr Sowerberry looked at me over half moon glasses.

‘Now Oliver, I have been very pleased with you as a mute. You set the correct tone when child funerals are performed. A few parents have remarked that you did them proud.’

‘Thank you sir.’

‘Now I have received a request from parents of a young girl who has died of consumption. The mother has requested a girl mute. You are small in stature, have soft features and are of an age and a height to fit the bill; we will use you as a girl mute. By the time Mrs Sowerberry has finished with you, you will look the part and the parents of the child will be none the wiser. Now go into the parlour where Mrs S is waiting with our daughter Charlotte to see what they can do with you.’

I was somewhat taken aback at what I had been told. Me, pretend to be a girl? It would never work. I was a boy and even at my tender age, I knew that boys and girls were different.

I slowly made my way to the parlour. I knew that Mrs Sowerberry did not like me and by the taunts that Charlotte had made of me, she thought little better.

‘Come in, come in what has kept you? Don’t dawdle.’

Mrs Sowerberry grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the middle of the room.

‘Take all your clothes off, now and if you are not quick enough, you will feel my hand.’

I was embarrassed. Charlotte was looking on with a smirk on her face.

‘I do declare Mama that Oliver is shy. Look how red he is?’

‘He’ll look even redder if he is not quick.’

I took my clothes off as fast as I could and then stood shivering as naked as the day I was born.

‘Scrawny, isn’t he Mama?’

‘Yes, not much meat on his bones. Have you got those old clothes of yours?’

‘Yes, Mama.’

Charlotte handed a pile of clothes to her mother.

‘Step into these pantaloons, Oliver,’

I did as I was told. The pantaloons were fastened around my waist by a ribbon, bowed. They fell to just below my knee and a much softer material than I was used to.

‘Now stockings.’

With some help from a giggling Charlotte, the silk stockings were pulled up my legs and held in place by blue garters. The sensations of the stockings were indescribable.

‘Crinolines.’

Charlotte made me step into a hooped sort of skirt made from a stiff material.

‘Now the dress, he doesn’t need a corset, thank goodness. He’s skinny enough as it is.’

I raised my arms and the black satin dress was pulled over me and allowed to settle over my legs. The dress fell just below where the pantaloons were. It was strange being dressed like this. I looked down at myself and saw the sheen of the dress reflecting the candlelight. There were ribbons everywhere and it looked enchanting.

Was I wrong to have feelings like this? I was a boy and not a girl. The smooth fabric was miles away from what I was used to.

‘Where is the bonnet, Charlotte?’

‘Here, Mama.’

Mrs Sowerberry got a brush and brushed my hair back. As was the fashion then, boys’ hair was somewhat long and she pinned my hair up .

She then placed the black bonnet upon my head and fastened it with a ribbon under my chin.

I was put into some ankle boots and then it was finished.

‘Mr Sowerberry.’ shouted his wife.

Mr Sowerberry walked into the parlour and stopped dead.

‘My goodness, is that you Oliver?’

I nodded. The ribbon under my chin was tickling me and I nearly laughed but one look at a scowling Charlotte brought me back to reality.

‘Yes, I am sure it will work. What do you think, my dear?’

‘Yes he looks girlish enough. Now see here Oliver, this is a big funeral for us and if you mess it up or say anything to indicate that you are not a girl, I will flay you alive. Understand?’

I nodded, not daring to speak.

‘While you are on the job, you will be known as Olivia. Is that understood?

‘Yes maam.’

‘Take the clothes off carefully and I will put them away until they are needed.’

I took the clothes off as I was ordered to do. I was puzzled as I felt a sense of loss when I had undressed and put on my rough boys clothes again.

As I lay down in the narrow ledge that I called my bed, that night, I thought about my feelings about what had occurred.

It was so strange. When I had dressed as this mythical girl, I felt comfortable and good. I was only 10, it is difficult to put into words the feelings that I had but I suppose to sum it up, I felt as if I should be wearing those clothes all the time. Did that make me a girl? I don’t know. What was a girl? They had different bodies to boys, I knew that, but was I so different? I had been told that I looked like a girl. Perhaps it had been a mistake when I was born. Maybe I was a girl after all and not a boy. I was unaware of the anatomy of girls and boys. I had never seen a girl naked. How was I to know how different I was?

I shook my head. How silly I was to have such feelings after wearing a dress, just the once
However, I went to sleep, puzzled with many questions unanswered. It would be some time before I would be able to find out the real answers.

2

It was the day of the funeral. The girl who was to be buried was only 8 years old. Not uncommon in those times. Many children did not live to see adulthood. Large families were normal. Breadwinners were needed and large families ensured that some children, at least would grow up and help feed the family.

I was dressed by Charlotte. She kept sniping at me. She like Noah hated me and was jealous of me. I was the only one who could be a mute, girl or boy. Charlotte and Noah were too big. The job required a small sick looking child and that was me. I was never fed much and had matchstick arms and legs. I was never allowed out in the sun unless I was working and my complexion was sallow. I had rings under my eyes due to lack of sleep and adequate nourishment.

Mr Sowerberry left my care to the tender mercies of Mrs Sowerberry, Charlotte and God forbid, Noah.
However, I cared little about my woes at that moment as I was once again dressed as a little girl. It seemed as if I was somehow different dressed like this, with my dress flowing down around my body and my head encased in the black bonnet.

I could feel the swish of the dress as I walked, the fine silk rubbing against me in a most pleasant and diverting way.

Before I knew it, I was walking slowly in front of the horse drawn hearse. I could see out of the corner of my eye, men removing their hats and everyone bowing as the procession passed by them. I was important now. This little boy in girls’ clothes did not feel like a boy, but a girl in every way and if I could, I would have smiled. But of course I could not show any sign of pleasure in that most solemn of times.

All too soon, we arrived at the church. The service took some time and I sat in a pew awaiting my next duty.

I looked around and saw the parents and relatives of the little girl show their emotions in various ways as they helped the child into the next world.

The women were crying and the men looked stony. I knew how I would want to be if I had lost my loved one.

I would cry like the women. Perhaps that affirmed what I already thought, sitting there in that drafty church in my silky girlish finery. I must really be a girl, otherwise why would I so easily look like one and feel the emotions of a girl? The men seemed remote and cold and I knew I did not want to be like that.

Thoughts of the child lying cold in the coffin, ready to meet her maker caused a tear to run down my cheek. I remembered that I had lost my Mama and I wondered how she was and whether she was helping God in all his work. Perhaps the little girl would see my Mama. I hoped so because heaven was a place where all our friends and relatives would meet again and if I prayed for Mama to look out for the little girl, perhaps God would listen and she could be happy.

It was only the ramblings of a child, but even now, all these years after, I believed that the child would be embraced by my Mama and she would find peace after all her suffering.

The service was soon over and I did my final duty by leading the procession through the graveyard to the girl’s final resting place. After a short graveside prayer, the coffin was placed in the ground and my duties were over.

When we arrived back at the funeral parlour, Noah started on me. It seems that he was told not to torment me before the funeral but he decided to make up for it afterwards with a vengeance.

Mr and Mrs Sowerberry had retired to the sitting room, leaving me in the kitchen with Noah and Charlotte.

I was still dressed as a girl and I was reluctant to change.

‘Look at you, dressed like that. You look stupid. No real boy would wear girls’ clothes. Look at all that satin and lace. You look all weak and girly. I wonder what your Mama would think. Mind you, I heard that she was a regular right-down bad 'un so maybe she wouldn’t mind at all.’

I could not take those words against my dear mother and I flew at Noah, punching and kicking him.

I never knew such a rage in me. Where I got the strength to best him, I would never know, but in no time he was on the floor yelling at the top of his voice that he was being murdered.

I must have been somewhat encumbered by my dress, but I do not thin k that it stopped my hitting him.

Charlotte was screaming, fit to wake the dead. The noise was tremendous as I was shouting at Noah continually and suddenly, I found myself flung on the floor.

Mr and Mrs Sowerberry had come to Noah’s rescue.

‘He must be mad, grab him!’

I struggled with all my might, but they were too strong and I was weak and small.

Soon I found myself in the cellar. It was a dark and foreboding place. Sometimes bodies were put in there because of the coolness. Coffins were stacked in one corner and there were bottles of strange coloured liquid, used on the bodies of the dead in another. I shuddered with fear. Fear for the place I was in and fear for my future. The beadle was being sent for in the morning and I was promised a beating that would strip the spirit from me.

I was there for hours. I could not keep check of the time but I knew that the hour was late.

I shivered again. It was damp as well as dark in that place but I do not know whether it was from that or the promise of what was to become of me that was the cause of my tremors.

I noticed over by the wall that there was a grating at my eye level that looked out onto the street. It was now evening time and I could see through the gratings, people walking by; well the feet anyway.

I could see a bit more clearly now as my eyes got used to the dark and from the light permeating from the gas lamps outside.

I was still dressed as a girl. I was surprised that I was not stripped of the clothes that I was wearing but was grateful for it. I found some comfort being dressed thus.

I wondered if my mother dressed like this when she was a little girl with all the satin finery. I supposed not as I was born into poverty and so I assumed my mother was destitute as well. If she had not dressed like this, then she had indeed been unfortunate.

I leant up against the grating and suddenly something gave way.

I looked at the metalwork more closely. It was gloomy, but I could see that the grating was rusty and none too secure.

On a whim, I pushed against it and felt it give slightly.

I do not know why, but I pushed harder, as hard as someone of my strength and stature was able. After pushing and pushing, the grating suddenly gave way. And fell out into the street!

I held my breath, fearing that my captors would come and investigate, but all was quiet.

Sticking my head through the opening I looked up and down the road. There was no one about.

Without further thought of the consequences, I wriggled through the opening and was soon on the street.

I scampered around the corner into the alleyway by the side of the shop and waited to get my breath back.

Someone, a young man I think, passed across the alley and I huddled in the gloom lest he saw me.

I tried to scratch my head and felt the bonnet. Unbelievably I was still wearing it after the fight and being flung into the cellar. It was still secured to my head with the wide ribbon.

I took it off and combed my hair through with my fingers. The pins that were fastened to my hair since the funeral, fell out and I could hear them tinkle on the floor. It was too dark to find them, so I just tidied my hair the best I could with my fingers and put the bonnet back on. After brushing the dust off my dress, I poked my head around the corner to see if the road was empty. It was clear.

What to do?

I had no idea. All I knew was that I was never going back to the Sowerberry’s. I was not going to be beaten by the beadle; anything but that.

I stood for a long moment, agonising as to what a small child like me could do. Then I had it. I would run away.

I started walking out of the town, avoiding any people that were coming my way. I felt conspicuous, wearing these clothes, but as they were black I found it relatively easy to blend into the background when the need arose.

Soon I was out of the town and walking down a lane. The moon was high in the sky and I wondered at all the stars that I could see, millions of them. Someone, I can’t remember who, once told me that the stars were all the people that had gone to heaven and I wondered which star was my Mama’s.

I walked for what seemed like hours, resting where and when I could as it was very tiring and I had not eaten or drunk anything for many hours.

I then came to a crossroads and was undecided as to which way to go. There was a mile marker and fortunately I had been able to pick up enough of letters to know that written upon it were the magical words, London 70 miles.

I had heard tales of that wondrous place where people could make something of themselves. I thought it an omen. I must go to London!

I did not know how far 70 miles might be but turned down that road knowing that, whatever it took, I was going to seek my destiny.

End of part 1

To be continued…

I would like to acknowledge and thank Charles Dickens for the ideas and inspiration for this work and excerpts and characters used. He has always been an inspiration to me.