Dodger

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;