You knew when you grew up that Punch was the man who throws the baby out of the window and beats his wife . . . Of course, such things did happen: certainly the beating of the wife, and as to what might happen to the baby, that might not be the subject for children – not a happy family.
Now Dodger, into whose mind was creeping a dreadful shining darkness in which lay a wonderful girl with golden hair, had to restrain his fists from knocking out that damned shrieking puppet as he passed the stall. He felt himself shiver for a moment and brought himself back down to earth. He knew all this, had known it for ever. But Simplicity . . . well, Simplicity was someone he could maybe do something about. And that something wasn’t just for Simplicity; it was for himself too, in some funny way he couldn’t quite work out yet.
Better though, if he wanted to see things that didn’t make him feel sick or angry, he would find the men whose dogs could do tricks, or the men who lifted heavy weights, or the boxers – bare knuckles, of course.
But today, today Dodger was asking questions. And he had done his best. He had spoken to two ladies waiting for a gent. He had chatted to the Crown and Anchor man, who knew him by name, and even the man who lifted weights, who had grunted with pleasure. On one occasion he even reminded somebody of the sixpence he had loaned to him because of his poor old mummy and subtly said, ‘Oh no, don’t bother, I’m sure you will find a way to repay me someday.’ In short, Dodger moved over the face of the world – or at least that part encompassed over the stews of London – spreading Dodger like a cat spreads piss and leaving little questions in the air. So that if ever somebody heard a coach that screamed, they might just have a word with Dodger; and even better, he thought, if someone who owned a coach that screamed, maybe screamed like a gutted pig, he might want to sort it out with the man who was asking all those questions. It was like throwing breadcrumbs into a stream to see if something would rise; the drawback of this method, he knew, might be that what would rise would be a shark.
Then he remembered the Happy Family man. He hesitated after this thought, and wondered where and when he had last seen the Happy Family man and his wagon; probably on one of the bridges, where there was always such a lot of passing trade. It was quite magical, the happy family – that little cart with its odd menagerie of animals all living so peacefully together. He would have to take Simplicity to see it as soon as possible – she would surely enjoy it. Then he realized he was crying, seeing again inside his head a beautiful face that looked as if it had been pushed down some stairs. Somebody had done that to her, and as he wiped his nose with a rag, he vowed that one day he would indeed take her Mister Punch and back him up to a wall somewhere and most surely make him mind his manners.
But now he was startled by somebody tugging at his trouser leg, and he looked down irritably at a couple of kids, maybe five years old, or six perhaps, looking up at him with their hands out. It wasn’t the kind of tableau he needed to see right now, but both of them had one hand held out while the other one was firmly grasped by their friend. He remembered doing that sort of thing once upon a time, but only to people he had thought of as wealthy – although when you are hungry and five years old, everybody has more money than you. In his smart clobber, of course, he didn’t look like a tosher no more. He told himself, you still are a tosher, but not just a tosher, and right now you are going to be a gentleman to the tune of sixpence.
So he led the kids to the stall run by Marie Jo, who dispensed nourishing soup to all and sundry who could put down a few farthings – perhaps even less if she was in a generous mood.
Marie Jo was one of the good ones, and there weren’t enough of them. Among the tales that people told about her was that she had once been a famous actress over in Froggy parts, and indeed there was always, even in these days, something fey about her, something mercurial. According to rumours, she was once married to a soldier who got shot in some war or other, but fortunately not before he had whispered to her the whereabouts of all the loot he had picked up in his many campaigns.
She, being a decent sort, despite the fact of being married to a Froggy all them years, had set up this stall, which was one you could trust: trust for no rats in the soup, trust for no things worse than rats, trust her not to sell soup that had bits of cats and dogs in it. Marie Jo’s soup was full of lentils and other odds and ends; slightly scruffy perhaps, but taken all together it did you good and kept you warm. All right, there may occasionally have been a bit of horse, that being the Froggy way, but it just meant you had a slightly more nourishing soup. It had been said that even some of the grand eating places these days would give Marie Jo leftovers, knowing that they would be going on her stall. Apparently, people said, her French wiles twisted the nobby chefs around her little finger, but ‘Well done, her,’ everyone said, because it all went in the great big pot that she stirred all night, pausing only to dip the ladle in for the next customer; and what you paid was what she reckoned you ought to pay, and because people didn’t like to see her shake the ladle at them for being greedy, nobody haggled.
And so, when Dodger turned up with the two kids in tow, she looked him up and down and said, ‘Well now, aren’t we in the money, Dodger, and who did you steal that from?’ But she was laughing, perhaps because both of them could surely remember the time – years ago before her hair was so white – when Dodger himself was very small and had hung around near her stand with one hand out, looking very sad and very hopeful, just like the pair he was delivering.
He said, ‘Nothing for me, Marie Jo, but feed these two up today and tomorrow to the length of sixpence please?’
The expression on her face was strange. Like the soup she sold it was full of everything, but mostly it was full of surprise. But this was the street, and she said, ‘Let me see your sixpence, young Dodger.’ He plonked it on the stall, where she looked at it, looked at him, looked at the kids who were very nearly drooling with anticipation, then looked back at Dodger, who was red with embarrassment, and she said quietly, ‘Why, oh why, well now, here’s the thing and no mistake, what am I to do?’ Then her face broke out into wrinkly smiles as she said, ‘For you, Dodger, I will feed the little buggers today and tomorrow, maybe the next day too, but oh my word what has happened? Glory be! The world has gone upside down while I wasn’t looking! Don’t tell me that you have been going to church – I’m sure the confessional would not be big enough to hold everything you’ve got to say! And lo, what is this? My little Dodger has grown up to be an angel.’
Marie Jo pronounced his name ‘Dodgeurr’, which sent little silver messages passing up and down his spine every time he heard it. Marie Jo knew everybody, and all about everybody, and now she looked at Dodger with a dangerous smile, but you always had to play her game, so he smiled back and said, ‘Now don’t you go saying those things about me, Marie Jo! I don’t want nobody to whiten my name! But well, I was a kid once, you know what I mean? Mind, if you keep tally of what you feed them, I’ll see to it you get the cash later, trust me.’
Marie Jo blew him a little kiss with the smell of peppermint in it, lowered her voice, leaned forward and said, ‘I’m hearing all kinds of things concerning you, my lad. Careful how you tread! One of them was the little fracas you had with Stumpy yesterday. He’s boasting about it, you know.’ She lowered her voice still further. ‘Then there was a gentleman. And I know a gentleman when I see one. He was asking about someone called Dodger, and I don’t think it was because he wanted to give you a present. He was an expensive kind of gentleman.’