'All right?' I heard him say. 'Smell the gravy on this ..."
Then his voice became a murmur, and I fell back. I should say I was five or six years old. I remember it clear as anything, though. I remember lying, and hearing the sound of knives and forks and china, Mrs Sucksby's sighs, the creaking of her chair, the beat o f h e r s l i p p e r o n t h e f l o o r . A n d I r e m e m b e r s e e i n g — w h a t I h a d n e v e r s e e n before— how the world was made up: that it had bad Bill Sykeses in it, and good Mr Ibbses; and Nancys, that might go either way. I thought how glad I was that I was already on the side that Nancy got to at last.— I mean, the good side, with sugar mice in.
It was only many years later, when I saw Oliver Twist a second time, that I understood that Nancy of course got murdered after all. By then, Flora was quite the fingersmith: the Surrey was nothing to her, she was working the West End theatres and halls— she could go through the crowds like salts. She never took me with her again, though. She was like everyone, too scared of Mrs Sucksby.
She was caught at last, poor thing, with her hands on a lady's bracelet; and was sent for transportation as a thief.
We were all more or less thieves, at Lant Street. But we were that kind of thief that rather eased the dodgy deed along, than did it. If I had stared to see Flora put her hand to a tear in her skirt and bring out a purse and perfume, I was never so surprised again: for it was a very dull day with us, when no-one came to Mr Ibbs's shop with a bag or a packet in the lining of his coat, in his hat, in his sleeve or stocking.
4
'All right, Mr Ibbs?'he'd say.
'All right, my son,' Mr Ibbs would answer. He talked rather through his nose, like that.
'What you know?'
'Not much.'
'Got something for me?'
The man would wink. 'Got something, Mr Ibbs, very hot and uncommon ..."
They always said that, or something like it. Mr Ibbs would nod, then pull the blind upon the shop-door and turn the key— for he was a cautious man, and never saw poke near a window. At the back of his counter was a green baize curtain, and behind that was a passage, leading straight to our kitchen. If the thief was one he knew he would bring him to the table. 'Come on, my son,' he would say. 'I don't do this for everyone.
But you are such an old hand that— well, you might be family' And he would have the man lay out his stuff between the cups and crusts and tea-spoons.
Mrs Sucksby might be there, feeding pap to a baby. The thief would see her and take off his hat.
All right, Mrs Sucksby?'
All right, my dear.'
All right, Sue? Ain't you growed!'
I thought them better than magicians. For out from their coats and sleeves would come pocket-books, silk handkerchiefs and watches; or else jewellery, silver plate, brass candlesticks, petticoats— whole suits of clothes, sometimes. 'This is quality stuff, this is,' they would say, as they set it all out; and Mr Ibbs would rub his hands and look expectant. But then he would study their poke, and his face would fall. He was a very mild- looking man, very honest-seeming— very pale in the cheek, with neat lips and whiskers. His face would fall, it would just about break your heart.
'Rag,' he might say, shaking his head, fingering a piece of paper money. 'Very hard to push along.' Or, 'Candlesticks. I had a dozen top-quality candlesticks come just last week, from a crib at Whitehall. Couldn't do nothing with them. Couldn't give them away'
He wo-uld stand, making a show of reckoning up a price, but looking like he hardly dare name it to the man for fear of insulting him. Then he'd make his offer, and the thief would look disgusted.
'Mr Ibbs,' he would say, 'that won't pay me for the trouble of walking from London Bridge. Be fair, now.'
But by then Mr Ibbs would have gone to his box and be counting out shillings on the table: one, two, three— He might pause, with the fourth in his hand. The thief would see the shine of the silver— Mr Ibbs always kept his coins rubbed very bright, for just that reason— and it was like hares to a greyhound.
'Couldn't you make it five, Mr Ibbs?'
Mr Ibbs would lift his honest face, and shrug.
'I should like to, my son. I should like nothing better. And if you was to bring me something out of the way, I would make my money answer. This, however'— with a wave of his hand above the pile of silks or notes or gleaming brass— 'this is so much gingerbread. I should be robbing myself. I should be stealing the food from the 5
mouths of Mrs Sucksby's babies.'
And he would hand the thief his shillings, and the thief would pocket them and button his jacket, and cough or wipe his nose.
And then Mr Ibbs would seem to have a change of heart. He would step to his box again and, 'You eaten anything this morning, my son?' he would say. The thief would always answer, 'Not a crust.' Then Mr Ibbs would give him sixpence, and tell him to be sure and spend it on a breakfast and not on a horse; and the thief would say something like,
'You're a jewel, Mr Ibbs, a regular jewel.'
Mr Ibbs might make ten or twelve shillings' profit with a man like that: all through seeming to be honest, and fair. For, of course, what he had said about the rag or the candlesticks would be so much puff: he knew brass from onions, all right. When the thief had gone, he'd catch my eye and wink. He'd rub his hands again and grow quite lively.
'Now, Sue,' he'd say, 'what would you say to taking a cloth to these, and bringing up the shine? And then you might— if you've a moment, dear, if Mrs Sucksby don't need you— you might have a little go at the fancy work upon these wipers. Only a very little, gentle sort of go, with your little scissors and perhaps a pin: for this is lawn— do you see, my dear?— and will tear, if you tug too hard ..."
I believe I learned my alphabet, like that: not by putting letters down, but by taking them out. I know I learned the look of my own name, from handkerchiefs that came, marked Susan. As for regular reading, we never troubled with it. Mrs Sucksby could do it, if she had to; Mr Ibbs could read, and even write; but, for the rest of us, it was an idea— well, I should say, like speaking Hebrew or throwing somersaults: you could see the use of it, for Jews and tumblers; but while it was their lay, why make it yours?
So I thought then, anyway. I learned to cipher, though. I learned it, from handling coins. Good coins we kept, of course. Bad ones come up too bright, and must be slummed, with blacking and grease, before you pass them on. I learned that, too. Silks and linens there are ways of washing and pressing, to make them seem new. Gems I would shine, with ordinary vinegar. Silver plate we ate our suppers off— but only the once, because of the crests and stampings; and when we had finished, Mr Ibbs would take the cups and bowls and melt them into bars. He did the same with gold and pewter. He never took chances: that's what made him so good. Everything that came into our kitchen looking like one sort of thing, was made to leave it again looking quite another. And though it had come in the front way— the shop way, the Lant Street way— it left by another way, too. It left by the back. There was no street there. What there was, was a little covered passage and a small dark court. You might stand in that and think yourself baffled; there was a path, however, if you knew how to look. It took you to an alley, and that met a winding black lane, which ran to the arches of the railway line; and from one of those arches— I won't say quite which, though I could— led another, darker, lane that would take you, very quick and inconspicuous, to the river. We knew two or three men who kept boats there. All along that crooked way, indeed, lived pals of ours— Mr Ibbs's nephews, say, that I called cousins. We could send poke from our kitchen, through any of them, to all the parts of London. We 6