turn saving him by turning him from Warrigal the savage into Peter Cole, a Christian valet. This was greatly approved of and their heads turned to smile on him but he just stared into nothing and ignored them. I told them that it wasnât the way of the abo to get emotional in public.
How I went from bad apple to good egg was a story I told with much carefulness. I knew it was important to show how, on one hot night in the colony, Jesus had appeared in a dream and finally talked some sense into me. But I also wanted to hint to the middle daughter that I wasnât changed all that much. It is a truth universally acknowledged that some girls love a rotter, and Amy Cherry seemed to be one of them. While she may not have cared a tuppence for wealthy Jack Dawkins of Dawkins Wool, the story of the Artful Dodger had been more successful in touching her girlish heart. She was sat opposite me at the crowded table and announced to everyone present that she felt most ardently that Mr Dawkins was not to blame for his bad behaviour. This was indeed the caseas, under the table, she had removed her dainty shoe and we had been enjoying the occasional unseen leg stroke ever since the pudding was served and it was very much her that started it.
âThis tart is divine,â said reverend Cherry, and I agreed with him. He was unaware of the goings-on down under and had been asking me many questions about my moral education in the colony. I told him that I had been taught to read and write by the teachers there who had used Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. But in truth I had been taught to read much earlier than that in the London rookeries by Mr Fagin, who had used the
Newgate Calendar
and
Dick Turpin
.
Chapter 4
The Strike of the Midnight Hour
Showing how the Devil makes mischief for restless sleepers
âIt is simply wonderful to me,â said the reverend as dinner came to its end and our plates was cleared, âthat a fine young man such as Mr Dawkins here, whose crimes could only be the fault of our modern society, should be cast away so casually, only to return home again a Whittingtonian success. I find his story to be quite ⦠oh, what is the word?â
âUnbelievable,â said Bracken, his voice cold.
âYes, unbelievable,â agreed the reverend. âAnd inspirational,â he added, and everyone, except Bracken, agreed that it was. Brackenâs hard face suggested he still considered our modern society to be an innocent bystander in the story of my life.
We all stood up to bid each other goodnight and Junior Officer Martin said that my story was of such a heart-warming kind that I should consider telling it to some novelist cove to put down in a book. I told him that I might do better than that and write the thing myself. He laughed, as if the notion of me writing my own book was very droll, and told me that he looked forward to reading such a curious work of literature one day. I wished him good luck with the naval career and said that I hoped he wouldnât drown.
Mrs Cherry, who had developed a taste for elderflower wine as the evening had gone on, was unsteady on her feet as she passedme out of the dining room and, holding on to her husband for balance, said that it was a pleasure to meet me, and insisted that I call her Annabel from now on. Amy Cherry was next. We locked eyes and I kissed her hand in a slow, saucy way to let her know that what had passed between us that night was special and full of meaning for me and that we was two hearts that was beating as one.
Then I did exactly the same thing to Lucy, just to make Amy jealous.
But the hardest goodnight I had to make was the one to Constance as she and her fiancé passed by. She held out her hand with the diamond ring on it and, as I took it in mine and pressed my lips close to the precious jewel, I felt as though my heart was breaking. That I would have to abandon any attempt that I may have made to take it for my own, just
How I went from bad apple to good egg was a story I told with much carefulness. I knew it was important to show how, on one hot night in the colony, Jesus had appeared in a dream and finally talked some sense into me. But I also wanted to hint to the middle daughter that I wasnât changed all that much. It is a truth universally acknowledged that some girls love a rotter, and Amy Cherry seemed to be one of them. While she may not have cared a tuppence for wealthy Jack Dawkins of Dawkins Wool, the story of the Artful Dodger had been more successful in touching her girlish heart. She was sat opposite me at the crowded table and announced to everyone present that she felt most ardently that Mr Dawkins was not to blame for his bad behaviour. This was indeed the caseas, under the table, she had removed her dainty shoe and we had been enjoying the occasional unseen leg stroke ever since the pudding was served and it was very much her that started it.
âThis tart is divine,â said reverend Cherry, and I agreed with him. He was unaware of the goings-on down under and had been asking me many questions about my moral education in the colony. I told him that I had been taught to read and write by the teachers there who had used Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. But in truth I had been taught to read much earlier than that in the London rookeries by Mr Fagin, who had used the
Newgate Calendar
and
Dick Turpin
.
Chapter 4
The Strike of the Midnight Hour
Showing how the Devil makes mischief for restless sleepers
âIt is simply wonderful to me,â said the reverend as dinner came to its end and our plates was cleared, âthat a fine young man such as Mr Dawkins here, whose crimes could only be the fault of our modern society, should be cast away so casually, only to return home again a Whittingtonian success. I find his story to be quite ⦠oh, what is the word?â
âUnbelievable,â said Bracken, his voice cold.
âYes, unbelievable,â agreed the reverend. âAnd inspirational,â he added, and everyone, except Bracken, agreed that it was. Brackenâs hard face suggested he still considered our modern society to be an innocent bystander in the story of my life.
We all stood up to bid each other goodnight and Junior Officer Martin said that my story was of such a heart-warming kind that I should consider telling it to some novelist cove to put down in a book. I told him that I might do better than that and write the thing myself. He laughed, as if the notion of me writing my own book was very droll, and told me that he looked forward to reading such a curious work of literature one day. I wished him good luck with the naval career and said that I hoped he wouldnât drown.
Mrs Cherry, who had developed a taste for elderflower wine as the evening had gone on, was unsteady on her feet as she passedme out of the dining room and, holding on to her husband for balance, said that it was a pleasure to meet me, and insisted that I call her Annabel from now on. Amy Cherry was next. We locked eyes and I kissed her hand in a slow, saucy way to let her know that what had passed between us that night was special and full of meaning for me and that we was two hearts that was beating as one.
Then I did exactly the same thing to Lucy, just to make Amy jealous.
But the hardest goodnight I had to make was the one to Constance as she and her fiancé passed by. She held out her hand with the diamond ring on it and, as I took it in mine and pressed my lips close to the precious jewel, I felt as though my heart was breaking. That I would have to abandon any attempt that I may have made to take it for my own, just
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