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    Oliver Twist: My Story
    Oliver Twist: My Story
    Oliver Twist: My Story
    Ebook183 pages2 hours

    Oliver Twist: My Story

    By Dr E J Yeaman

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Hello. My name is Oliver Twist. Let me tell you my own story – of my unhappy times in the workhouse and with Fagin and Bill Sikes, and the happy times with Mr Brownlow and Mrs Maylie. And I’ve included parts that Mr Dickens forgot to put in. (A retelling of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens.)

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDr E J Yeaman
    Release dateAug 29, 2016
    ISBN9781370732432
    Oliver Twist: My Story
    Author

    Dr E J Yeaman

    I retired (early) and started a new career as a writer. I wrote short stories and articles. Some were published; some won prizes; some sank without trace.Having heard my stories, two friends suggested I should write for children. I’d never thought of that, although I’d spent my first career communicating with young people – as a Chemistry teacher, and running clubs for badminton, chess, table tennis and hillwalking.I tried writing for young people – and I loved it. It became my main occupation. I sent samples to publishers. One asked to see a complete story. In excitement, I sent it off. Then nothing. After four months, I rang, and was told the manuscript was being considered: I would be notified. Then more nothing. Now, after eight years, I no longer rush to the door when the letter box rattles.But I kept writing the stories because I enjoyed it so much. Until, in late 2013, I learned I could publish my stories and games as e-books. Since then, I’ve been polishing and issuing some of them. I hope everyone enjoys reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.Check out the series:C: Charades – party game – a new twist to the traditional game.D: Diagags – party game – gags written as plays for two people.M: My Story – novels – classical stories, told by the heroes.O: One-Offs – party game – guess the titles, not quite the classical ones.P: Pop Tales – short stories – inspired by 60s and 70s hit songs.Q: Quote-Outs – word games – can you deduce the missing words?S: Inside Story – novels – a boy’s adventures inside classical stories.T: Troubleshooters – novels – space adventures for young people.

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      Book preview

      Oliver Twist - Dr E J Yeaman

      Pleased with the first book in this series – Dorincourt – My Story (from Little Lord Fauntleroy), I cast around for fresh fields to conquer. And soon thought of Oliver Twist.

      From 1834, Charles Dickens, a young Parliamentary reporter, gained success with a series of short stories, collected in 1836 as Sketches by Boz. As a result, he was commissioned to write a serial story. Like a modern soap, it was presented in episodes – issued as flimsy monthly magazines. Their popularity grew: each issue was eagerly awaited, and everyone discussed the characters and their doings. In 1838, the series was published in book form as The Pickwick Papers.

      While Dickens was engaged in that, he was appointed editor of a new monthly magazine – on condition that he contributed a serial story to it. That serial story was Oliver Twist, first published in instalments from February 1837 till April 1839.

      Dickens was working to a deadline – producing each monthly episode as it was required. For the first part of Oliver Twist, with Pickwick still running, he was writing both.

      But Oliver Twist was very different from The Pickwick Papers. The story remained, and the distinctive characters remained, but the intention was not comedy but social commentary. Dickens wanted to express his abhorrence of the 1834 Poor Law Amendment Act, which established workhouses for the poor, but deliberately made them degrading, with the aim of coercing the poor into work.

      Oliver Twist has proved one of the most enduring novels in the English language. Many films have been made of it, and the hit musical, Oliver!

      These adaptations don’t usually adhere to the complete plot of the story. Perhaps because the resolution is complex. Perhaps because the story wanders: it’s not tightly plotted like a film or a modern novel.

      In this e-book, Oliver tells his own story. It’s complete, in that it sticks to the plot of Dickens’ story.

      But, as mentioned in About the My Story Series, one consequence of writing the story from Oliver’s point of view is that he can’t report on events at which he wasn’t present – particularly the activities of Fagin and Bill Sikes after he left them.

      Dickens included that information because he wanted to illustrate the miserable consequences of a life of crime, but it’s only incidental in a story focused on Oliver. Since I felt the story would be incomplete without it, I’ve contrived a situation in which Oliver learns of it.

      Unlike some early novels, Oliver Twist is tied up into a happy ending. But, to my mind, Dickens left one loose end. I wonder if he intended more scenes at the end. Perhaps he didn’t have time to write them. Perhaps he had no room for them in the magazine. Whether I’m right or wrong about his intentions, I’ve taken the liberty of adding the ‘missing’ scenes in this story, giving an ending which I hope is neater.

      Dickens certainly did not intend Oliver Twist as a children’s story. So why is it classed as one now? The literati seem to consider anything written before 1900 as suitable for children. Oliver Twist. Pride and Prejudice. Ivanhoe. The Three Musketeers. Around the World in Eighty Days. And countless others, originally written for adults. This baffles me – and irritates me. I am not condemning these books. But calling them children’s books insults them. And directing young people to them will only generate an aversion to reading.

      That burst of indignation was triggered by my wish to suggest that this Oliver Twist is intended for people of all ages. I hope you enjoy this fresh look at the familiar story.

      OLIVER TWIST

      PART 1: THE WORKHOUSE

      1

      THE REFUGE

      Nearly twelve years ago, on 7th February 1837, my mother, exhausted and ill, struggled into a refuge for homeless women and children. I was born. My mother died. To avoid the cost of raising me, they tried to trace my family. They even offered a reward of twenty pounds, but no one replied.

      As I grew up, those facts were repeated to me – often – by the matron, to show her kindness in taking care of me. That kindness didn’t include much food: I was always hungry.

      One time, when we knew the matron was listening, Dick and I said we were very hungry, hoping she would do something. What she did was lock us in the coal cellar – until one of the assistants ran in and seized me. She wiped my face with a cold wet cloth, and rushed me upstairs to where the matron was speaking to a fat man in a blue coat with silver buttons.

      The matron said, Oliver, this is Mr Bumble the beadle. Make a bow to him.

      I bowed to him.

      In a loud voice, Mr Bumble said, Oliver, today is your tenth birthday. It is time for you to leave here. You must come with me.

      My first feeling was relief, to be escaping from that place but, behind Mr Bumble’s back, the matron was glaring and shaking her fist at me.

      I had felt that fist often enough. I could guess what she meant. I asked, Must I leave? Will she come with me?

      No, she can’t, answered Mr Bumble. But she will come to see you sometimes.

      That was no consolation, but I pretended to be sorry as the matron hugged me goodbye. She did give me a piece of bread – and that was something she hadn’t often done.

      Mr Bumble strode through the town, holding my hand tight so I had to run to keep up with him. At last we reached an iron gate in a long, high stone wall. Mr Bumble told me, This is the workhouse. You will go before the board.

      He took me into a room where a lot of fat men with shining faces were sitting round a table. Mr Bumble prodded me with his cane. Bow to the board, Oliver.

      The board? Did he mean the table? I bowed to it.

      The man in the highest chair, at the other end of the table, asked, What is your name, boy?

      I was frightened, seeing all those important men staring at me. Mr Bumble prodded me with his cane again, muttering, Answer, boy!

      Trembling, I said in a quiet voice, Oliver, sir. Oliver Twist.

      A man in a white waistcoat said, The boy is a fool. That made me feel worse. I started to cry.

      The man in the high chair put his hand to his ear. Boy! Listen to me. I suppose you know that you’re an orphan?

      By that time, I was so confused that I could only ask, What’s that, sir?

      You know that you have no father and mother, and were brought up by the parish?

      Yes, sir, I said through my tears.

      Why are you weeping? demanded the man in the white waistcoat, then he said to the others, What did I tell you? The boy is a fool.

      The man in the high chair looked sternly at me. I hope you say your prayers every night, and pray for those who feed you and take care of you.

      By that time, I was so frightened that I couldn’t think. I had never heard of ‘prayers’, but I thought he wanted me to answer, Yes, sir, so I did.

      You have come here to be educated and taught a useful trade.

      The one in the white waistcoat added, So you’ll begin to pick oakum tomorrow morning at six o’clock.

      I couldn’t speak, but Mr Bumble’s hand on my neck made me bow, and he said, Thank you. He dragged me out of the room and handed me over to another fat man, the master of the workhouse. He took me to a big room where a lot of boys were lying on rows of dirty sacks. He showed me an empty sack, and threatened everyone with a beating if they spoke one word. That kept them quiet as I cried myself to sleep.

      2

      THE WORKHOUSE

      They called it oakum, but it looked like pieces of old rope. I spent my days, sitting in rows with about sixty other boys, pulling it apart, making piles of fluff.

      The work made my fingers sore, but my stomach was even sorer. I’d thought I was hungry in the refuge, but now I knew what hungry really meant. Our daily ration was one bowl of gruel – grey slime with a few small hard lumps – dumped by the master from a small ladle into our bowls. Sometimes we got a little stale bread, and we gobbled down every crumb.

      We grew so hungry that we became desperate. We voted that someone must go up to the master and demand more food. Everyone was frightened to do it, so we drew lots, and I was the unlucky one.

      The next day, after our bowls were quickly emptied as usual, my neighbours kept nudging me until the master called, Table 4, are you seeking trouble?

      The others pushed me into the passage between the tables. I gathered my courage and marched forward, knowing everyone was watching me.

      When I reached the master, I held up my bowl to him. Please, sir. I want some more.

      3

      THE OFFER

      The master stared at me, and the assistants gasped. At last, the master asked in a faint voice, What?

      Please, sir, I said. I want some more.

      The master swung the ladle at my head, then seized me, calling, Mr Bumble! Mr Bumble!

      Mr Bumble marched me along to the room with the board. I beg your pardon, sirs. This boy, this Oliver Twist, has asked for more.

      All the men round the table gasped and looked at me with their eyes and mouths wide open.

      The man in the big chair exclaimed, For more! Do I understand that he asked for more after he had eaten the prescribed supper?

      Mr Bumble answered, He did, sir.

      The man in the white waistcoat said, That boy will be hung. Mark my words: that boy will be hung.

      We cannot tolerate such behaviour in this workhouse, said the man in the big chair. We must get rid of the boy. We shall offer three pounds to anyone who will take him off our hands. Someone may apprentice him.

      Three pounds? said the man in the white waistcoat. Three pounds for a young villain like that? No one will take him for less than five. Look at him!

      The others did look at me, and nodded.

      The man in the big chair said, Then it is agreed, gentlemen. We shall post notices offering five pounds to anyone who will take Oliver Twist as an apprentice.

      While they were waiting for someone to take me away, I was locked alone in a dark room. Every morning, an assistant hauled me out to wash at the pump in the yard. Every evening, I had to stand in front of the others while they said their prayers, including the plea that they would never become as wicked as me. Then I was flogged.

      4

      MR GAMFIELD

      After about a week, the master dragged me out of my prison, and into the room with the board. Standing at my end of the table was a sly-looking man who was black all over – his clothes, his face and his hands. From a few steps away, I smelled the reason – soot.

      The man in the big chair said, This is Oliver Twist, the boy whom the parish wishes to apprentice.

      The black man said, If the parish would like him to learn a light, easy trade in a good, respectable chimney-sweeping business, I’m willing to take him.

      I trembled in fear. Chimney sweeps employed boys to climb up and down chimneys.

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