Being Here by Barry Jonsberg Page B

me. The candle’s flame swirls and the print dances from light to shadow. When it rests, I read.
    The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his cook’s uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys whispered each other, and winked at Oliver; while his next neighbours nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:
    â€˜Please, sir, I want some more.’
    The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys with fear.
    â€˜What!’ said the master at length, in a faint voice.
    â€˜Please, sir,’ replied Oliver, ‘I want some more.’
    The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arms; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.
    The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said,
    â€˜Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!’
    There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.
    â€˜For more!’ said Mr. Limbkins. ‘Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?’
    â€˜He did, sir,’ replied Bumble.
    â€˜That boy will be hung,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. ‘I know that boy will be hung.’
    Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.
    â€˜I never was more convinced of anything in my life,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning:
    â€˜I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung.’
    I lower the page.
    The boy was reckless with misery. He was reckless with misery before asking for more. I want to know why. I want to know the history. And the prophecy. The boy will be hung. It is an arrow to the future, sharp and pointed in its urgency. I must know Oliver. I must walk at his side.
    â€˜Got it!’ says Adam. He steps into my circle of light, a page in his hand. He presses it on me, an offering, a gift. His face is lit, not just by the wash of candlelight, but also by his smile. He glows from within.
    I take the page and study it. It is damp. Water stains are forming. It looks diseased and old. But the words survive. I place it carefully away from the others. I do not even have to speak. Adam knows. I stand and we move among the piles, searching for order.
    It takes many hours and all my remaining candle stubs, but we succeed. At some stage the storm passes. At some point the night passes. When the book is complete, dawn is struggling through the walls of the barn. Birds sing in the new beginning.
    Pages 221 to 234 are missing. I never find them. Though I read the book many times over the years, in many different editions, I resisted the urge to fill that gap. Always I would skip those fourteen pages.
    I am too tired to start reading and I am old enough to know the miracle of story is now fixed. It is asleep and waiting for my eyes to kiss it to life, like