Fagin's Girl Page 2

  From the bundle, I held up a torn and patched white shirt and a small waistcoat. Joe pulled a cloth cap out of his pocket and put it on my head, taking back his hat, which I’d still been wearing.

  “Borrowed them, didn’t I?” said Joe. “Anyway, I’ve got good news! I spoke to Mr Fagin, and he says you can come work for him.”

  “And stay with you?” I asked.

  “And stay with me,” Joe said, nodding. “It’s only a corner of a room, and the mattress is just hay stuffed in some old sacks.”

  “I don’t care!” I said. “As long as I’m with you, Joe, I’ll be fine! What work does Mr Fagin have for me?”

  “You’re to clean and repair the stuff that me and the other boys find,” said Joe. “It’s not an easy life at Mr Fagin’s. But we can make money and then get our own lodgings one day, Bean.”

  It had seemed like I’d hit the bottom, but now it felt like I was on my way up again!

  And so I hurried to the bushes where I’d made my den. I crawled in as a girl and crawled back out as a boy. Joe took my sack of belongings and off we went.

  We walked through busy streets and winding roads. Down one alley, Joe stopped at a stall piled with rags and sold all my girlish things, even my hairbrush. All he kept was the candle and matches and the blanket.

  “But how will I brush my hair?” I asked Joe. He was walking fast and I had to hurry to keep up.

  “You can’t give away any clues that you’re a girl, Bean!” Joe said sharply. “Forget your hair. You’ll wear your cap all the time.”

  “All right, Joe,” I said.

  We were crossing a road now, heading for an old warehouse with broken windows.

  “This is it,” said Joe. He started to climb up some open wooden steps that clung to the side of the building and led up to the top floor. “Always watch where you put your feet. Some of the wood is rotten and you could fall straight down if you’re not careful!”

  And there was a broken step now. It was snapped in half with a view to the ground far below. I hoped no poor boy had fallen down there …

  After a short but careful climb, we were at the top and Joe pushed at a stiff door. It opened into a wide space that smelled of fire smoke and damp walls. Many sacks and rags lay dotted around, where Joe’s friends must sleep at night. Above these home-made mattresses were zig-zags of rope strung from wall to wall. Cotton and silk handkerchiefs hung over them. Plain and patterned scarves, and gentlemen’s cravats too.

  I noticed a fire crackling in a grate. Beside it was a high-backed chair where a man sat. A young boy was on a stool beside him, busy at work with something.

  “Ah, Joe, now this must be your brother!” said the man in the chair. He beckoned me over.

  “This is Mr Fagin,” said Joe as he put his hand on my back and nudged me forward.

  “Welcome, Bean,” said Mr Fagin, looking me up and down.

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied. I almost did a curtsey, till I remembered I was a boy!

  Mr Fagin scared me. He was as skinny as a wolfhound, with a beard as furry and wiry as that kind of dog. He peered hard at me from behind his round spectacles. Maybe I was scared that Mr Fagin could see me for what I really was – a girl dressed in boys’ clothes, her hair stuffed into a cap.

  “And I hope you will work as hard as your brother,” said Mr Fagin. He was smiling, but his eyes were hard and steely. This made his words sound more like a warning than a wish.

  “Yes, sir,” I said again. “Please, sir, I can mend and sew things very well. I worked with my mother making decorations for ladies’ bonnets.”

  “Good! We have need of your skills then,” Mr Fagin said with a satisfied nod. “The boys I have are experts at finding things on the street, but they are no good at fixing up any dirty or damaged items.”

  Mr Fagin swept his hands up towards the stuff on the washing lines, then over to some wooden crates on the floor full of leather and lace gloves. Chunky round fob watches were piled up on the mantelpiece of the fire.

  “There is a wash-house on the roof, Bean,” said Mr Fagin. “Your job is to work there, cleaning and pressing the items brought in by the lads. Mend them too if it needs doing. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Joe will show you around,” said Mr Fagin. “Then he’ll be out for the day – at work like the other boys. If you need anything, you can ask Mouse here.”

  The young boy on the stool looked up at me shyly. He was about six years old. He really did look like a mouse. I saw that he was busy polishing a gold-topped walking cane. Was that real gold? I wondered. How had someone managed to lose that?

  “Come on up to the roof,” said Joe, and he led the way towards a door on the far wall. “Up there you can see all the way to St Paul’s Cathedral!”

  “Hold on!” said Mr Fagin. “Here’s something for you, Joe. Payment for the present you brought me …”

  He sent a silver fob watch arcing into the air, its chain flying behind it. Joe caught it neatly.

  “Thanks, Mr Fagin!” he said with wonder in his face and voice.

  And then Joe turned and I followed him. A minute later we were up on the flat roof, with chimneys around us and blue sky above.

  “The small building is the wash-house,” said Joe. “There’s wood inside for a fire, and some buckets to bring up water to heat. The standpipe is at the end of the street. You can hang laundry here, or downstairs if it rains. Mouse can show you where the mending things are kept.”

  While Joe pointed and explained, I looked at the watch that now peeked from his waistcoat pocket. It looked dented and had a cracked glass front but was still an expensive thing for a boy to have.

  “Joe, what present did you bring to Mr Fagin to earn such a thing?” I asked as I pointed to the watch.

  “Why, you, Bean!” Joe laughed.

  I didn’t laugh back. It felt as if I had been sold. Just like some broken item that might be worth a shilling or two …

  CHAPTER 7

  A close call

  After three days I had found my feet at Mr Fagin’s place.

  I knew all five of the boys that worked alongside Joe. Silas was fifteen and unfriendly. Georgie and Edwin were twins of ten years old, but they were small and skinny and looked younger. Cuffy had dark skin and came from an island very far away, he said. He didn’t know how old he was. He had been a cabin boy on a ship but was treated badly. He’d escaped when the ship came into the docks nearby.

  And then there was Mouse. In the three days I’d been there, he hadn’t said a thing to me. “Does Mouse ever speak?” I asked Joe while I pegged washing up to dry in the fluttering wind.

  Joe sat perched on a chimney. “None of us have ever heard him say a word,” Joe said. “Not even a squeak. Silas named him Mouse as he was so quiet.”

  “Hey, Bean,” Cuffy’s voice interrupted. “I found this today. Got a tear in it. Need you to fix it up!”

  Cuffy stood in the doorway to the roof and tossed something at me. It was long and thin, with a wooden handle and black fabric bunched around it.

  “An umbrella. Should make Mr Fagin a nice bit of money,” Joe said to Cuffy. But Cuffy was already gone. In his place was little Mouse, who was lugging a heavy bucket of water for me.

  “It’s not an umbrella,” I said as I pushed it open. “It’s a lady’s parasol. It keeps the sun from their faces instead of the rain from their heads.”

  Parasols were smaller than umbrellas and decorated with lace. I studied the inside of it. It was made so cleverly – tiny stitches held the stiff linen to thin strips of wood.

  I spun the handle, twirling the parasol around. I heard a small laugh. It came from Mouse! He stood watching the spinning parasol as if it was as pretty as a firework!

  It made me bold to hear Mouse make such a happy noise.

  “Watch this!” I called out, and climbed onto one of the large chimney pots. With a whoop and a wave of the parasol, I jumped to the next chimney pot.

 
I expected more laughs, but instead I heard a gasp.

  “Bean – your cap!” Joe called out.

  I put my hand up to the hat. And then I felt it – one of my braids had fallen out. I shoved it back in quickly. Mouse was placing the heavy bucket on the ground. Had he seen anything?

  Would he tell Mr Fagin if he did? Mouse might not have the words, but he could pull off my cap in front of the other lads and Mr Fagin if he wanted to …

  I needed to do something fast. And I thought of one of the shops I had seen on the way here that first day.

  With my plan, I would make myself safe and earn some money at the same time!

  CHAPTER 8

  A snip and a chop!

  Mr Fagin was nowhere to be seen when I left the warehouse.

  In the streets outside, I took a wrong turn or two as I tried to find my way, passing so many things for sale.

  There were penny pie shops selling meat puddings and eel pies. Shops that sold caged birds that would brighten a shabby room with their songs, and sparrows with string on their legs for children to play with.

  Stalls sold teapots, hot coffee to drink, rat poison, pea soup and old top hats that were frayed and worn but still smart.

  Handcarts were heaped with slices of pineapple, bundles of asparagus and watercress, and even small squares of turf for the bottoms of bird cages.

  And then there was the entertainment on many of the street corners. A German band played their lively music. An Italian woman sang opera. A man turned the handle of his organ and the tiny monkey chained on top of it danced for the delighted crowds.

  But I had little time to stop and listen to any of them. I hurried this way and that till I found the alley and the shop I was looking for.

  “What do you want, boy?” asked the woman leaning on the door.

  I pulled my cap off, showing her my long braids that reached nearly down to my waist. “How much for this, madam?” I asked, holding up one of my braids.

  The woman looked surprised to see that this “boy” was in fact a girl. But then she took the braid and undid the ribbon that held it. She fanned out the hair in her hand. It was brick red, just like Mother’s had been. The woman put one hand in the pocket of her apron and drew out some coins.

  “I’ll give you this,” she said, dropping a few into my hand.

  The next second, she pulled a great long pair of scissors from her apron pocket. With a tug, a snip and a chop, both my braids were off. The next time I might see them was in a fancy hairpiece a rich lady wore as she rode by in her carriage.

  I ran all the way back to the warehouse, stopping only once to buy some black thread with the money I’d earned.

  I scrambled up the endless wooden stairs and in the door, coming face to face with Mr Fagin.

  “Where have you been, my little Bean?” he asked.

  Mr Fagin had that strange smile on his face, like the upturned mouth of a crocodile that was just about to eat you up. Mouse sat on the stool beside him.

  “Buying something to mend a parasol, sir,” I said as I held out the wrap of black thread.

  I knew Mr Fagin was my master now, and that like all masters he wouldn’t let me leave my work without a very good excuse.

  I took off my cap to show respect. And to show Mouse that I had the short-cropped hair of a boy!

  “Very good,” Mr Fagin said. “Here … for the thread and your quick thinking.” He handed me a halfpenny. His smile seemed warmer now that I seemed to be a keen worker. “But before you fix up the parasol, I need you for other work today.”

  “No, sir!” I heard Joe say from a dark corner. “I can manage alone!”

  And then I saw that my brother was bent over the mattress that Edwin slept on. Joe was binding a dirty rag around Edwin’s arm, along with a long stick.

  “You cannot manage your trick alone, Joe!” Mr Fagin barked at him. Then he turned to me with his crocodile smile again. “Bean, Edwin had a fall and may have broken his arm. Joe needs a helper for his work this afternoon.”

  “But I can take Mouse, sir!” said Joe, coming over to Mr Fagin.

  “Are you forgetting something, Joe?” said Mr Fagin as he stared hard at my brother. “For your trick you need a young ’un that can talk!”

  Joe had that dark look about him again, like he had a secret he didn’t want me to know.

  But it didn’t seem as if he had a choice.

  Mr Fagin had made his decision.

  And now I would learn what this “trick” was about …

  CHAPTER 9

  Joe’s trick

  Me and Joe had walked two miles, to the West End of London. I should have been excited to see such fine buildings and grand shops. But I was not, for we had come to do Joe’s “trick” and he’d just explained it to me.

  It was basically stealing.

  My heart was ripped in two …

  “I can’t believe you lied to me,” I sobbed. I used Mother’s hankie to dab at my eyes. “You said you and the other boys found lost things. But you don’t. You’re pickpockets and thieves!”

  “I didn’t want you to know, Bean!” said Joe as he pushed me forward along the pavement. “Look – I hoped we’d earn the money to leave and get a place of our own soon. Then I could get work at another stable, like I did before. You could make your flowers again. We’d be all right.”

  We scurried along and well-off folk stared at us as if we were dirt. They shooed us away with their gloved hands or canes.

  “We aren’t going to be all right if we’re caught robbing, Joe!” I cried.

  “We’ll be fine,” said Joe. “Just do what I say and we could get something really good. Make some proper money and get away from Fagin for ever.”

  I didn’t see how that could happen. If Joe was a good earner for Mr Fagin, he’d never let Joe leave. And that made me think of the other poor boys in Mr Fagin’s gang. Young lads with nowhere else to go. They took all the risk while Fagin took most of the money. Joe had told me that Edwin had broken his arm when he’d tried to dip his hand in a gentleman’s pocket and been pushed away into the road. Edwin’s arm went straight under the hoof of a horse.

  But broken bones weren’t the worst of it. Those caught stealing would be put in prison for years. Or they might get sent on a ship to Australia – transported away to a life of working without rest in a far, far away country, never to see their loved ones again.

  I was frightened. I cried till I knew I must look a dreadful sight. My eyes stung from the tears.

  “Trust me, it’ll be quick and easy, Bean!” Joe tried to tell me. “And you crying like that is good! People will pity you and not see what I’m up to …”

  Joe’s trick was this – he’d choose a rich person and I was to try to beg from them. While I distracted them, Joe would steal their watch or wallet or purse. With the job done, we’d hurry away in different directions and meet up a street or two away.

  “Here – now! Him!” Joe hissed.

  We were next to a shop with its name written in gold lettering: “James Smith & Sons”. The huge plate-glass windows were packed with all sorts of umbrellas, parasols and canes. A gentleman in a top hat holding a silver-topped cane had just stepped out of the door.

  I didn’t know what else to do but follow my brother’s orders.

  After all, Joe only wanted the best for me. For us to be together.

  I had a heavy heart and tears streaming down my cheeks as I stepped in front of the man.

  “Please, sir, I’m lost!” I said.

  “So? What’s that got to do with me?” he said gruffly.

  “I’m all alone!” I said. “Can you spare me a coin for a bit of food till I find my way home?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Joe slip his hand into the gentleman’s pocket and gently pull something out.

  “Get out of my way!” the man ordered. He stepped to the left to go around me. But I made the mistake of stepping to that side too. Then we both did it again. This silly dance might hav
e been funny if it was done with a friend. But it made the rich man furious.

  “OUT OF MY WAY, BOY!” he roared, and lifted his cane.

  The man was about to strike me. The end of his cane had a heavy silver eagle’s head on it. If the eagle’s beak hit my skull, it would split it open.

  I curled up in a ball and felt the red-hot pain of it burn my back instead. Again and again and again. And then everything became a jumble of hurt and noise and shouting.

  “No! Leave her alone!” I heard Joe call out.

  “Get this creature off my back!” the man yelped.

  I heard feet pounding from all directions. Raised voices. Joe yelling. The man cried out, “The wretch robbed me! They BOTH robbed me!”

  “Not her – she’s just a beggar!” shouted Joe. “I don’t know her! It was me that robbed him. Just me!”

  “Is it a girl?” I heard someone ask. “These are boy’s clothes!”

  “My name is Ettie,” I gasped as the pain stung my back.

  “She is a little girl!” said a woman’s voice.

  I felt arms around me, lifting me up. But they were gentle – not like the arms I now saw were gripping Joe tight.

  “Little girl – do you know this boy?” a stranger asked me, pointing his arm at Joe.

  My brother’s eyes were pleading. He was silently begging me to say something that would mean I’d not see him for a long time. Or for ever.

  I did what my big brother wanted me to do.

  “No! I don’t know him!” I said.

  The gentle arms led me away into the cool and calm of the umbrella shop.

  The last sight I had of my brother was of him being dragged backwards along the pavement by an angry crowd of men …

  Ettie and Joe Shaw. Loving sister and brother. What would Mother say if she knew our luck was lost?