21. Can I Have More?

THROUGH THE GATES OF TIME, part 21

“Now tell me,” began Roger when May brought the now clean and almost shining Oliver Twist down the stairs, “Is that really your name? Are you really called Oliver Twist?”

The boy looked timid, as though the very act of answering a question might bring trouble to him.

“It’s what I was called,” replied the boy, a little shyly, then he perked up and explained. “I was born in a cold December in the year of our Lord 1840, that is ten years ago in our house on Henry Street, and ma explained to me that folks who could read talked about this kid in a magazine called Oliver Twist, and my dad’s name was Bernard Twist, so when it came to thinkin’ of what to call me Oliver sprang to mind. He’d never read the stuff, though, in the magazines, or he might have called me summat else. My dad only went and died while I were still a babby and my mum died last year, the Lord bless her.”

“Oh dear,” almost wept May, her heart feeling as though it was heaving with sympathy for the boy, “that's heart-breaking, young fellow. To lose both of your parents before you've grown old enough to get by on your own is very sad. Is there someone else who can see to you? And where do you live now, Oliver?”

“I get along, misses, that I do. I live in the same 'ouse, it ain't very big, not like this place. It was gettin’ along what brought me here.”

“What do you mean, Oliver?” asked Roger, hoping beyond hope that he would find a way of returning the boy to where he rightly belonged if the boy's answer offered him even the smallest of clues. “hoe did getting along bring you here?”

“Well, mister, you see, I do jobs, all sorts of jobs, for whoever wants a job doin', an' if I'se lucky I gets a penny or maybe two for doin' them. I was burnin' old bones for the butcher, helpin' him to burn rotten old bones as the rag an' bone man wouldn't take on account of the stink of 'em, an’ he’s not the nicest of blokes is the butcher, but a lad’s got to earn a penny here an’ a penny there, an' 'e don't 'ave to worry too much about the stink o' things, when I came upon this ‘ere door as should never be there sort of unexpected, like, ‘cause it’s never been there afore...”

“A door?” interrupted Roger.

“Yes, mister, a blooming’ door, an’ when I pushes it, it opens an’ I find mysen in this ‘ere room with you folks as I don’ know, an’ a bossy girl, like, and then all this lovely warm water an’ a real lady as should ‘ave been my mum but wasn’t, an’ a whole new outfit makin’ me the smartest tyke in the town, I shouldn’t wonder...”

“And that’s it?” asked Roger, disappointed.

“Yes, mister, you can flog me with the cruellest switch an’ I’ll not tell you any difference ‘cause it’s true as anything was true...”

“Nobody's going to hurt you, Oliver,” cut in May, “I can promise you that much!”

“But that door...” continued Roger, “where was it?”

Oliver Twist looked a little unsure of himself. “You ain't goin' to believe this, mister, but it was sort of floatin' in the air, like it was a dream-door, an' when you see dream doors they take you to wonderland until you wake up, see,, but this ain't wonderland, though the butcher's fire was there...” he pointed at where a fireplace must have been in the long ago of time, one that had been blocked up and replaced by a shelving unit years ago.

“But it opened there!” He pointed then at the closet door that had already caused a huge amount of bother that Christmas day.

“I don't know what to say,” murmured Roger, “only that I'll oil that keyhole and lock the darned door before we get too many other visitors from all of human history.”

“I'd say let's leave it until tomorrow, forget that Oliver doesn't live here, at least for today, and give him a bite to eat before we call it a day,” decided May, frowning at Roger in order to warn him that agreeing with her was the only thing open for him to do, “and anyway he might find the television interesting. There's a film on one.”

She scurried into the kitchen and prepared a meal of left-overs from their dinner, which she reheated in the microwave and offered him on a tray rather than make him sit at the dining table on his own. The rest of them were having a plate of sandwiches between them while they watched the television, sandwiches that May had already prepared.

Oliver wolfed his meal down. That was the only way they could put it because in almost no time his plate was bare of anything unless you count gravy stains, which he looked as if he might want to lick off.

“Is that enough?” asked May, seeing the look on his face.

“Please miss, I mean please ma'am, could I have some more?” he asked quietly, holding his plate towards her, “'cause it were lovely,” he added

May was touched. The boy was clearly very hungry if their left-overs appealed to him.

“Of course you can,” she said, beaming at him, “would you like to see what's on the television?”

He frowned at her. “What's a telly-thingy?” he asked.

“Switch it on while I get the poor lad a second helping, Roger. He might at least see what the future holds,” murmured May.

“Put it on the film channel, dad,” asked Apple, “my teacher says a stranger to Earth would find out more about life here from a good film than from anything else, and Oliver might learn a bit about our life.”

“Maybe she's right,” grunted Roger, “though I can't help wondering what a stranger to Earth would make of Star Wars!”

He switched the television on, and it alarmed Oliver more then they'd thought it would. From the moment a picture appeared he sat bolt upright, his eyes open wide. The film was Oliver Twist and a boy, not unlike him, the one from the closet, was holding a plate out and asking a fierce looking man for more.

© Peter Rogerson, 12.12.20