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Fagin’s Boy by Jackie North

Oliver & Jack, Book 1

In 1846 London, respectable young men do not fall for street thieves. This is the love story of Oliver Twist and the Artful Dodger.

Oliver Twist has one desire: to own a bookshop and live a simple, middle-class life, far away from his workhouse-shadowed past. One thing stands in his way: Jack Dawkins–The Artful Dodger–who’s just returned to London and is looking for Fagin’s old gang.

Jack’s visits cause Oliver nothing but trouble, but he finds himself drawn, time and again, to their shared past, Jack’s unguarded honesty, and those bright, green eyes.

Oliver craves respectability, which he won’t find with a forbidden love. Can Jack convince Oliver that having one doesn’t mean losing the other?

A gay, m/m Victorian-era romance with grumpy/sunshine, hurt/comfort, opposites attract, emotional scars, and pure, sweet love. A little sweet, a little steamy, with a guaranteed HEA.

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Midway along the book, Oliver finally goes to visit Jack at the Three Cripples. There, Jack is almost irresistible to Oliver, in spite of his protestations.

 

***

 

Oliver nodded as he hefted the basket. He tucked the parcels in so it looked as though there were more packages than there actually were. He needed the time, and Henry would support that he sent Oliver off with a full basket, were anyone to ask.

At Henry’s nod, Oliver, with jacket and cap and scarf firmly in place, was out the door, pushing past customers in a rude way, turning abruptly away from St. James’s Workhouse to avoid going past the high iron gates. He used his shoulders to slip through the traffic on the street, dodging carts and wheeled barrows, and hurrying past the beggars and the coffee vendor.

He made his way up Oxford Street, then went into the dodgy back lanes and muddy alleys off Tottenham Court Road, where he ought not to go, not if he wanted his pocket to remain unpicked or his person to remain unassaulted. But he must have been too early for most who would do him ill, and he managed to slip through to where the streets widened out, and Regent Square appeared, tidy and quiet, before him.

He went as fast as he could to get the deliveries made before it got too late to go to the bottom of Saffron Hill, where Jack said the Three Cripples was located. When Oliver was through and his basket empty, he headed down Grey’s Inn Lane. And when he got to the bottom of the slope at Holborn, it started looking as though it would lead to somewhere less than amiable. Ill at ease and not a little lost, he stopped at a corner tavern and asked for directions to the Three Cripples.

The proprietor did not even pause as he continued to pull mid-morning beer and ale.

“What you want is to go across to Field Lane, and take a left, and when that ends, then up you go on Saffron Hill. It’s right there.”

“Saffron Hill?” asked Oliver. He couldn’t imagine that Field Lane simply ended up being Saffron Hill.

“You follow this bit,” said the proprietor with a sigh, as though Oliver were the most troublesome of fellows. He pointed out the window, gesturing the way the street went uphill. “And then, when you get to Field Lane, keep going up; the Cripples’ll be on your left, you can’t miss it.”

With the directions all dizzy in his head, Oliver backed out of the tavern. He followed the directions, feeling blind, feeling as though he would miss the tavern in spite of, or perhaps because of, the directions. When he got to the downward slope of Holborn, with the sounds and smells of Smithfield Market just beyond a street or two, there was a dark, narrow lane to the left. Of course, it would be the very direction he needed to go that would be so nasty, where the light went dim and the smells combated those of the market.

He went up the lane, as instructed, and as he walked, the narrowing street was lined by row upon row of handkerchiefs, hung on strings, an all-too-familiar sight, even if the memory was long in the past. In spite of the fetid scraps in the street and the gutter of mud, he passed a pie shop, which was a bustling spot of activity. There was even a short line out the door and the wafting smell of hot meat and onions almost smacked him in the face.

He kept walking, and suddenly, it was there, the Three Cripples. It was almost at the near end of the lane, somewhat tall, with narrow windows peeking out from beneath the rough-edged roofline. The last coat of paint had been years ago, and the window casements were sooted dark and had not been cleaned within recent memory. The sign that hung below the eaves was a rough shield shape with faded green paint. The three blotches on it barely resembled anything approaching three figures, let alone crippled ones.

Smoke from coal fires tended to bring coal dust down in thick layers, so if the tavern keeper had not enough hands to fortify against it, then layers of grime were the result. But other shops and doors and windows along the lane looked in far worse shape; at least the Three Cripples looked as though it had active customers, upright ones, rather than the skulking, filthy shapes that he tried to ignore as they passed behind him or lounged in doorways that looked like they’d not been opened in years.

Oliver knew, with a surety, that he ought not to be here at all, not in this neighborhood, and especially not with the goal of visiting Jack Dawkins. He should be able to deal with Jack’s stories and threats another way, shouldn’t he? But he didn’t have another way, and anyway, here he was, at the Three Cripples.

As he opened the door, the smell of beer and damp hit him along with the thick reek of an untended cesspit. He stepped into the large room, which had a long, rough wooden bar taking up most of the center, with a scatter of tables and chairs set about in rough clumps. The windows, which would barely let in any sunlight at all, were it shining, had short seats and low tables attached to the wall beneath them. A small fireplace jutted out from the far wall, and on one side was a doorway leading to a small room, and beyond that was a passage and two other doors, one of which was opened and seemed to lead to a kitchen, from the smells and sounds that were coming from it.

While no one was looking at him directly, he sensed they were looking at him askance. He was dressed too fine to be where he was, and while he thought he had the right Three Cripples, perhaps he didn’t. Maybe there was another one? Besides, Jack was nowhere to be seen. Oliver felt the stirrings of panic at the thought of actually going up to the bar to talk to one of these rough men to inquire after Jack.

The door opened to admit more customers, all roughly garbed in stained woolen jackets and thick boots, their caps and hats tucked low over their eyes. A small wind whisked around Oliver’s heels, carrying the scent of their labor, the odor of long-unwashed grime on their skins.

Oliver wondered if he should stay or go.

Go. He should go.

He turned back to the door and pulled it open. It sagged badly on its hinges, and he struggled to keep it open so he could slip out just as more customers came in.

“Come in, then, if you’ve a mind to.”

Oliver turned around, and there was Jack. His face, dirtier than Oliver had last seen it, was streaked with old sweat, and his eyes were narrow, as if speculating why Oliver had given in to his threats. But he looked pleased somehow, somewhere behind his green eyes, as if content Oliver had come to see him at last.

“Close the door, then,” said Jack, coming up to do it for him. Casually, as if Oliver’s visit was not his first, nor was it likely to be his last.

“Want some cider?” asked Jack. “It’s on the house. Or gin. You’d rather that, I reckon.”

Oliver looked at Jack, holding his empty delivery basket between them, standing in the flow of working men that continued their passage, snaking like a river, in and out of the door. Jack’s voice seemed overly friendly, and those eyes appraised him, not ready to be truly welcoming until Jack was good and ready.

“Been making deliveries?” asked Jack, moving in close and reaching out to run both hands over the trim of Oliver’s lapels. It was a move that felt familiar, and Oliver stepped back. “They’ll be missin’ you, them that gave you them togs, you think?”

“No,” said Oliver shortly, though the statement didn’t surprise him. “They won’t. I’ll be going in a moment.”

Of course he must go; even Jack couldn’t stop him. The men with their elbows at the bar were starting to eye him as though he was a prize bullock at a fair.

“Comin’ all this way just to leave your card, eh?” Jack tipped back his head with a laugh, then settled for giving Oliver a rough pat. “You’re here; you might as well wait, as Morris’ll be along any time now.”

Jack led Oliver into the first room off the main room, a small alcove that had a table and a pair of bench seats in the corner near a small coal fire. From the rooms down the corridor beyond, Oliver could smell yeasty bread and grease that said something was frying. Jack sat near to the fire, facing the open doorway. Oliver noticed a clay pipe oozing smoke as it sat in a small, round dish on the table, and the sight of it brought back a rush of not altogether unpleasant memories from the past.

Oliver sat across from him, and Jack gestured with wide arms, smiling honestly now.

“There, that’s better, ain’t it? An’ there he is! Morris, the man of the hour. Come, Nolly, say hello to our new friend.”

Oliver couldn’t imagine who Jack might know that knew him and had also been in Fagin’s gang; it just didn’t make sense. But his curiosity overrode his irritation, and so he turned slowly in his seat and looked.

The man coming through the low doorway had long arms and legs that poked out of a once fine jacket and trousers. His hat was off, but he touched his forehead to Oliver, fingers brushing hair that was like dark straw above glittering eyes. He came close, standing near enough to Oliver that his tin-smelling cologne and the sour smell of unwashed linen overpowered the smoke of the coal fire. Oliver’s mind formed a question, as though it were trying to solve a puzzle.

The man smiled, showing an eyetooth lapped across a fore tooth and, with a lopsided grin said, slowly, “’Ello, Work’us.”

“Noah,” said Oliver, not believing it, though his stomach felt as if it had warded off a blow, and he cringed inside, imagining that more blows were to come. “Noah Claypole.”

“His name’s Morris Bolter,” said Jack, almost laughing, as if Oliver were playing a joke on him. “Like I told you. Morris Bolter from Fagin’s gang. The one I told you of.”

“Yes, I know,” said Oliver, not heeding his own rudeness as shock ripped away any semblance of manners he might hope to hold onto. “Morris Bolter, as you said, but this is Noah Claypole, for all he’s anyone else.”

“Same as was,” said Noah, his voice the same as it had been many years ago, mocking, slippery, but much deeper now. He towered over Oliver as he always had, only now he had the breadth of a man across his shoulders. “One an’ the same, actually. Bolter is me workin’ name, as it was when I worked for Fagin.”

“Then it’s true,” said Oliver.

One look at Jack told him that Jack had no problems with not knowing all of Noah’s aliases; he was too proud that he’d been right and that Oliver had been wrong about one of Fagin’s old gang having come back. No doubt he’d be rubbing it in with much salt later.

“Of course it’s true, Nolly,” said Jack. “An’ here I was tellin’ Morris, I mean, Noah, all about you, when you’d already met. What a laugh it is!”

“Work’us an’ I met, right enough, and you an’ I, Jack, almost met that day in the courthouse, though you probably don’t remember it.”

Noah looked a little smug at Jack’s pleased expression. Oliver could tell right away that Noah had a great many of these little story tidbits that he had been, and would be, feeding to Jack, little by little, to keep him hanging on.

“’Course, I don’t know as what the record books say,” said Noah, his chest expanding. “But I was there, right enough, an’ didn’t I run straight to Fagin to tell him all about it? I reckon I did, an’ he was as pleased as he could be.”

“You’ll tell me the story, won’t you?” said Jack. “We’ll have drinks an’ talk around the fire. That’s what gentlemen do, ain’t it, Nolly?”

Jack reached across the table and gave Oliver a generous smack on his shoulder. Oliver jerked away, gritting his teeth, not saying what he wanted to say, that Noah wasn’t fit to be anybody’s friend. But Noah, the lout, professed to know Jack’s story as well as his own, and that was something Jack simply would not be able to resist.

“How do you two know each other?” Jack’s eyes were on Oliver now, fully, glinting green and brown all at once in his excitement. “I’ll wager you never expected to meet each other here, then, eh?”

So it was true then; Noah had been feeding Jack stories, little by little, leading him on like a fish on a hook. Oliver felt his eyes grow hot at Noah’s smile, which always had, now that he recalled, the ability to get him worked up with a mere twitch. Then, when Oliver’s feathers were well and truly ruffled, Noah would throw on a comment or two and watch Oliver explode into temper, which would always get Oliver into trouble.

“Work’us,” said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver’s cheek. “What’s set you a-sniveling now?”

“Not you,” replied Oliver, hastily brushing the tear away. “Don’t think it.”

“Oh, not me, eh?” sneered Noah.

“No, not you,” replied Oliver sharply. “There, that’s enough. Don’t say anything more to me about her, you’d better not!”

“Better not!” exclaimed Noah. “But you must know, Work’us, your mother was a regular right-down bad ’un.”

“What did you say?” inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.

“A regular right-down bad ’un, Work’us,” replied Noah, coolly. “An’ it’s a great deal better, Work’us, that she died when she did, or else she’d have been hard laboring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung: which is more likely than either, isn’t it?”

Noah’s smile now showed that he’d not forgotten this power he’d once had, and Oliver made his heart settle in his chest and vowed that he’d not let Noah get to him. Not yet, anyway.

“We met,” began Noah in the wake of Oliver’s silence, “at Sowerberry’s undertaker shop, back in Hardingstone. Oliver was brought to tend to the shop while I learnt the funeral business. Then, after he was promoted to mute, ahead of me, mind you, Oliver ran off, an’ I figured, soon after, that dead folks were of no interest to me, in spite of the money to be made. We’re both well shet of that place, ain’t we, Work’us?”

“What?” asked Jack. “Why do you call him that?”

“’E’s a workhouse boy, ain’t he?” said Noah, nodding in Oliver’s direction. “But ’e was such a mite of a thing when he came in, I ’ad to shorten the word just to match his stature. But didn’t he grow!” Noah tossed back his head to laugh. “Just like the missus said he would, grew right out of his station, an’ that’s the last we saw of him. Won’t they be surprised to know I found you ’ere.”

“You won’t be writing them,” said Oliver, the words clipped off. “Besides, they already know where I am and what’s become of me.”

“No, no,” said Noah, reaching out in what he probably thought was a friendly gesture, thumping Oliver on the chest. “If I was to tell them where you were, I’d have to tell them where I was, an’ I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why?” asked Oliver with a snap. “Because you made off with the master’s silver?”

Jack roared at this. Roared as loudly as Charley Bates would have done, and at something completely illegal, and for one moment, it was as if the spirit of Fagin’s gang was alive and dancing right there around them.

“What a treat,” said Jack, gesturing, as if to draw them closer to each other. “I propose we toast this with a round of beer!”

“My friend, you are too generous,” said Noah. “But I must be away, as I am expected in court soon to bear witness to some horrible, though not capital, crimes.”

“Come by later, then,” said Jack, giving him several stout pats. “The beer will be as cold as ever it lasts. An’ you an’ your old mate can catch up, an’ tell me stories of your adventures in the coffin business.”

“Indeed, I shall, an’ I shall look forward to it.” Noah gave Oliver a slanted smile and a wink. “You an’ me in front of the fireplace, just like old times, Work’us?”

Oliver had clamped his mouth so firmly closed that he could not speak. But Jack was watching, so hopeful and expectant, that Oliver made himself nod. He didn’t know why he had stayed this long or listened to even one word of what Noah had to say. Perhaps Jack’s world was so different from the haberdashery shop that it invited, by mere curiosity, further inspection.

“Don’t mind him, Noah,” said Jack, emphasizing the new name with a nod. “He’s a little wound, comin’ in here, steppin’ like he were a thief comin’ into a den of peelers and traps, instead of the other way around!”

This lively statement earned Jack a roar of approval from Noah, who also delivered more thumps to Oliver’s shoulders. Oliver could only scowl and didn’t stop, even though something flitted across Jack’s eyes. Surely Jack knew that all was not right. That Oliver and Noah were not friends, never had been. Never would be.

Jack shook Noah’s hand and watched him go, turning to Oliver with a broad smile.

“Fancy you knowin’ him, Nolly. Why did you never say?”

“You said his name was Morris Bolter,” said Oliver. His mouth felt stiff; in fact, all of him did, with the shock of Noah’s return. “I only ever knew him as Noah Claypole.”

This made Jack nod, as if the sense of it were all very clear to him now.

“Still, it’s strange, ain’t it? That our paths all cross here, at the Three Cripples?”

It did seem rather strange, though Oliver let this thought distract him for only a moment. The immediate concerns of whether or not this visit with Jack and Noah would suffice outweighed the more philosophical question of how different rivers of time could carry twigs from different mountains to the same gritty pond.

Jack waved over a serving of beer, still smiling, as though pleased that Oliver was wrong, that Fagin’s gang was coming back to the Three Cripples at long last. Back to Jack.

Oliver stood up to leave, but was stopped as a man came into the alcove to stand beside their table. He was tall, his broad shoulders stretching the thick cotton of his shirt near to the breaking point. His stained waistcoat gaped open from a missing button. He had a scarf around his neck, as many working men did. But what stood him out was the mass of curly, dark hair that hung low over his eyes, and a broken tooth when he smiled.

“Who’s this, then, dear Jack, as has come visitin’ amongst us?” The man’s voice was ragged, as though he’d been punched in the throat one too many times.

“This here’s my friend, Oliver Twist,” said Jack, and while Oliver wanted to object to the term, he didn’t; the man was looking at him too hard, with sharp eyes that probably saw how Oliver twitched and tried not to shift away. “I’ve known him since before I was hextricated, you see, and now, well, he’s come by to visit, ain’t you, Nolly?”

Oliver nodded. He didn’t hold out his hand to shake because, in this sort of place, with these sorts of people, it simply wasn’t done. Greetings were shouts and slaps on the back, an elbow in the ribs. At least that’s what he’d seen in his travels, such as they were.

The man held out his hand; Oliver could see calluses along his fingers and the edge of his palm that spoke of handling tools.

“Cromwell, they call me. Never had a first name, though I might pick one sometime.”

There was nothing for Oliver to do but shake the hand in return. Cromwell’s skin across his palm felt like worn wood left out in the sun, and he pulled his hand away as fast as he was able. The feeling reminded him of the time he’d been with Bill Sikes and Toby Crackit on a job to rob a house of all its silver plate.

“Well, I’m off, then,” said Cromwell with a toss of his curls. “Jack, you come by later about that job. An’ bring your friend, if he’s interested. There’s plenty we could do with such a pretty face as that.”

Jack nodded his assent and smiled at Oliver as Cromwell left.

“A beer for you?” Jack asked. He seemed to take it for granted that since Oliver was there, he might stay awhile.

“No,” said Oliver, all at once feeling the boundaries between their respective lives as clear as daylight. “I’ve got work to do. For unlike some, I’ve a job, and a station in life that I aim to keep.”

Jack took the pot of beer that was served to him, but he was scowling now, and Oliver realized he might have made a mistake in making Jack angry. And just when he was on the verge of getting Jack out of his life forever.

“And I’m sure you have more important things to do as well,” said Oliver. He tugged at his scarf and adjusted his cap. “More important than entertaining the likes of me. It’s just that—”

Oliver broke off, not knowing quite how to put it. Though he questioned his own gentleness with Jack, he could not afford to have Jack stomping through his life, breaking it apart just as Oliver was building it up.

“You’re not to worry, it’s my word,” said Jack, after a swallow of beer. “I’ve given it. Won’t go back on it, even if you are an arse.”

Oliver nodded and turned to go. But Jack tugged on his jacket, just once, as if to make Oliver stay. Picking up his empty basket, Oliver made himself pause to hear what Jack wanted to say. It wasn’t his fault that Morris Bolter turned out to be one of the few people Oliver hated with every breath in his body.

“You’re always welcome, though,” Jack said, and for once he seemed in earnest. He evidenced no winking or smirking or larking about as though the whole thing was one big joke. “For some hot gin an’ sugar, a break from that fancy life of yours. I could show you my tattoo, an’ we could be swappin’ stories, an’ that. You reckon?”

“I doubt it,” said Oliver. He kept his voice low. “But thank you.”

He tipped his cap at Jack and then turned to plow his way through the crowd that had assembled in the main room. The faces in the throng of men all turned to watch him, as though surprised to find him there. And if that was so, then they were as surprised as he. For though he must have been in or near the Three Cripples at some point when Fagin held him, he did not remember any of it. And now, he felt he might not forget it.

 

 

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