‘Oh yes, missus.’
‘A lot of work for not much money, so I hear.’
Never tell anybody everything. So he said, ‘Oh well, I don’t know, missus, I just makes a living.’
‘Now, come on, let’s do the pantomime for them as is surely listening, and off you go, but remember – come and see Quickly if you ever feel the need for a friend. I mean what I say: if I can ever help you, you just have to whistle. And if I knock on your door in hard times, don’t leave it shut.’
Outside, the sun was hardly visible in the smoke, mist and fog, but that was the clear light of day for somebody like Dodger. A bit of sunshine was OK, he would agree, because it helped your clothes dry, but Dodger liked the shadows and, if possible, the sewers, and right now something in him wanted the solace of darkness.
So he crowbarred the lid of the nearest drain cover and dropped onto what wasn’t all that bad a surface down below. The storm last night had been kind enough to make the sewers just that bit more bearable. There would be other toshers down there, of course, but Dodger had a nose for gold and silver.
Solomon said his dog Onan had a nose for jewellery. Indeed, Dodger was happy to give him the honour, because you had to feel sorry for the poor creature, who was really quite embarrassing at times, but for some reason the dog’s pointy little face did actually light up whenever he smelled rubies. Sometimes Dodger would take him down into the gloom with him, and if Onan’s amazing nose found wealth down there in the darkness then when they got back home Solomon would give him extra chicken gizzards.
Dodger wished he had the dog with him today – for Onan had ears so good that he could hear a sudden shower miles upstream, and would bark accordingly – but he had started in the wrong area without the time to go and fetch him, so he had to make do the best he could, which after all was pretty good at that. If you were smart on your feet, like Dodger, you’d have grabbed your loot and been up in the fresh air long before the first surge of storm water came down the sewers.
But it was as if last night’s storm had emptied the sky. It was as calm as a millpond down in the tunnels today: small puddles here and there, with a little trickle down the centre of the sewer. After the storm, it mostly smelled like, well, wet dead things, rotten potatoes and bad air – and these days, unfortunately, shite. This always infuriated Dodger. From what Solomon told him, some coves called the Romans had built the sewers to keep the rain water flowing down to the Thames instead of pouring into people’s houses. But these days toffs here and there were getting pipes run from their cesspits into the sewers and Dodger thought this was really unfair. It was bad enough with all the rats down here, without having to make certain you didn’t step in a richard.1
A fair amount of light filtered down from the gutters through the drain covers, which themselves had holes in to keep the water running away, but really, being a tosher meant that you felt around – with fingers, and toes sometimes – for all those little heavy things that would get caught up on the crumbling brickwork as the water went past. But you had to search with your mind and your instinct as well, and that was the soul and centre of being a tosher – old Grandad had taught him that, telling him that it could get so much a part of you that you could smell the gold even among the richards.
Dodger didn’t know much about the Romans, but the sewers they had built were old and in a general state of falling to bits. Oh, gangs came down here to patch things up occasionally, but it was always a case of a bit of work here and a bit of work there, seldom anything very substantial. The work gangs – who were handed an official job occasionally, shoring up and repairing bits of the ever-crumbling sewers – would chase you off if they found you, though they were not as young as Dodger so he could easily leave them behind. Besides, they were working men with working hours, and a tosher might work all night on a good night, feeling in those little places where a brick had fallen out of the wall, or the floor was not level. Best of all were the places where the water would swirl around in a little whirlpool causing pennies, sixpences, farthings, half farthings and – if you were very, very blessed – sometimes even sovereigns, half sovereigns and crowns to collect; maybe even brooches, silver hat pins, eyeglasses, watches and golden rings. They would all swirl around in this dark carousel, a great spinning ball of sticky mud which, if you were a lucky tosher and believed in the Lady of the Toshers, then you – yes, you – might be the lucky tosher who one day found a ball of mud like a big plum pudding. This was that wonderful thing known to the toshers as the tosheroon, which when you smashed it open would deliver unto you the fortune of a lifetime.
Dodger had found all of those things separately at some time or other, and occasionally one or two together in a little nest in a crack, which he would make a note of in his head and, of course, go back to again. But while he could often come back with some goods that would make Solomon smile, he had never come across that great pie of dirt and jewels and money that was the key to a better life.
But, he thought, what better life was there than a life on the tosh, at least if you were a Dodger? The world, which meant London, was built for him, just for him; it worked in his favour as if the Lady had meant it. Gold jewels and currency were heavy and got trapped easily, while dead cats, rats and richards tended to float, which was a good thing because you never like to tread in a dickie – thank goodness they floated. But, Dodger mused, as he almost absentmindedly but very methodically felt his way along the sewer, taking care to cover his favourite traps while at the same time keeping an eye out for any new ones, whatever would a tosher do if he got hold of such a thing as a real tosheroon? He knew them, the tosher lads, and when they had a good day, what did they do with their loot? What did they do with all the hard-earned money they had splashed through the muck for? They drank it, and the bigger the amount the more they drank. Maybe if they were sensible ones they’d put a bit aside for a bed for the night and a meal; in the morning they would be poor again.
There was a clink under his fingers! That was the sound of two sixpences together in the spot he called ‘Old Faithful’ – a good start.
Dodger knew that he had the edge on the other toshers; that was why he had broken every tosher rule and gone into a sewer during the storm, and it would have worked too if it hadn’t been for that fight and what had followed. Because if you had your eye to business, you could see places in the sewers where a tosher could hang on in a bubble of air while all around him the world raged. He’d found a good one, and while it was damned chilly, he would have been the first one down in this vicinity to reap the harvest of the night. Right now, he had to hurry because other toshers would be coming up the sewers towards him, and suddenly there was a glint in the gloom as the sun caught something. It went away instantly, but he had marked it in his mind and so he worked his way carefully to where his head told him the glint had been, and found a pile of muck on a little sandbank where the outflow of a smaller sewer flowed into this one; it was still dribbling.
There it was – a dead rat, and in its jaws what looked like a gold tooth but turned out to be, as it happened, a half sovereign gripped tightly in the teeth of Mister Rat. You never, if you could help it, touched a rat, which was why Dodger carried a little crowbar with him down there. Using it together with his knife, he levered the nasty little jaws open and flicked the half sovereign out. Balancing the coin on the blade of his knife, he held it up to the trickle coming down the wall, giving it something of what you might call a wash.