Summary: Oliver Twist. This is the story of Nancy's first meeting of Fagin when she was younger.
AN: I'm reading Oliver Twist for school and we had to write a piece about Nancy. I though I'd share.
I cautiously approach the stall that sells days-old fruit. There's nothing of great value, only a half-dozen or so nearly-rotten apples. Being small, I have to stand on my toes just to look over the counter.
I glance back at the man who said he would give me someplace to stay if I took one of the apples from this stand. I shiver though the day is warm, and turn my gaze back to the fruit stall, specifically to the man standing behind it. He's sitting on a stool with his back against one of the posts supporting the roof. His head is bent, with his chin nearly touching his chest. Between the hands resting on his large middle is a glass bottle, which even from across the counter I can smell holds some sort of spirits.
I take a deep breath and reach for the apple that is the least rotten of the bunch. Feeling its smooth skin, I clench the apple and dart back to the man. My heart is beating quickly; the piece of fruit is the first thing I've stolen. I've begged before, but I've never outright taken something. Though, and this surprises me, stealing doesn't feel wrong. Perhaps the promise of a decent place to stay, besides the gutter or alleyways, clouds the guilt.
As I approach the man, he extends his arm for the apple. I hand it over and, as he examines it, he smiles.
"Excellent. You've a quick hand. And no one will notice another filthy child running about the streets," the man says while looking at me, though I get the sense that he's speaking more to himself. He ponders something for a moment and then takes my hand.
"Where are you taking me?" I ask. He ignores me and we travel through the maze of streets that make up the more impoverished part of London. I assume we are going to the place where he said I could stay, though I'm not quite sure what to make of this man.
Before he had asked me to take the apple, I was begging in the streets. Just waiting for anyone to take pity upon me. I noticed the man standing at a street corner leaning on the building there. He had a calm, if a bit mad, expression upon his visage as he looked for something. Every so often he approached a child and conversed with him or her for several minutes. Each time the child had given him a shake of the head and scampered off to groups of adults or other children. Then the man had approached me.
"D'you have anyone expecting ye soon, dear?" he asked. I had replied with a small shake of my head.
He appeared sympathetic, though I could see the emotion didn't reach to his eyes. "D'you need someplace to stay? Some food, perhaps?"
I eagerly nodded, as I hadn't had either since three days or so before, when the house I had been staying in with my parents had collapsed. I managed to get out, but they hadn't had the chance.
It was then that he had told me he would give me the proffered things if I would take something from the fruit stall across the narrow street, and I obviously had accepted.
Jolting out of my memories, I see that we've arrived at a rundown, nondescript building located among many public houses.
The man leads me around the side of the building to the back where he knocks in a complicated pattern. The door opens a crack and the person inside must recognize the man grasping my arm, for he opens the door wider and ushers us in quickly.
"This it?" the new man asks.
"Yes, Sikes. She's a fine worker," the man with me and he releases my arm.
"Very well, then. I'll be in front if you need me," the new man, Sikes, says and he exits the back room through a small door in the corner. I rub my arm where the man had gripped it and look about the place. It's shabby but fairly clean. Now that I have seen the place the man offered, I feel even more grateful towards him. I hadn't known what to expect, but the room is far better than any other place I've stayed in before. I start to ask when food will be available, but another thought strikes me.
"I'm sorry, but what's your name? I don't know what to call you," I say.
"The name's Fagin. Would you like to play a game?" he asks while holding out several handkerchiefs, watches, and pieces of jewelry.