The master’s ladle was going to land on his head. Oliver darted to the side as the man lunged over the boiling pot, accidentally dipping his large stomach in it. Recoiling, he screamed in agony.
“Bet the gruel now tastes like him.” muttered a boy to general agreement in the vicinity.
Mr. Bumble, the parish beadle came into the room just then.
“The boy asked for more!” shouted the master, pointing his pudgy finger at Oliver.
Bumble beckoned the boy close and said “Look midget, we put you on a diet ‘cause we don’ have a lot of toilets ‘ere and the food is nasty.”
“Hey, it can’t be that bad! He wants seconds!” called an indignant cook from the kitchen.
“…it wasn’t terrible.” agreed Oliver timidly. “It’s missing some cinnamon and a dash of lemon, that’s all.”
Mr. Bumble pulled the worn-out hat off Oliver’s head and looked under it.
“I ain’t see no rat like ‘em movies.” He said suspiciously. “You don’t know nothin’ about cookin’.”
Oliver looked at his feet and said politely. “I saw a baker once… if you let me in the kitchen, I can make you something you can sell.”
“Sell?” Bumble’s beady eyes sparkled at the thought of money. “Come on.”
He grabbed Oliver by the collar and dragged him to the dimly lit kitchen. They were greeted by the sight of the greasy, cluttered utensils and squeaking mice hidden in the cabinets.
Oliver shrugged when he realized the cook expected him to be horrified.
“It’s cleaner than the orphanage.” He explained. “The rats are much smaller.”
“Stop yappin’ and start cookin’.” interrupted Bumble irritably.
“I’ll need some flour and sugar…” said Oliver recalling the recipe the kindly baker had taught him. Bumble blinded by the promise of money let Oliver putter about undisturbed in the tiny space. Soon enough, a sweet smell wafted through the air.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there was a lady in ‘ere.” said the cook admiringly. “It almos’ smells of perfume!”
Oliver held out a small spatula with some caramel cream to the two adults. “Taste?”
They took a small bit on their palms and licked, before staring at each other in surprise. This stuff was delicious!
“Make sixty more batches.” Said Mr. Bumble excitedly. “I’ll sell ‘em at the town square for a pound a box. I’ll tell me boss.”
“Wait a minu’t.” said the cook. “‘em fat men in waistcoats don’ need more money. I ‘ave a plan!”
“I’m listenin’.” said Bumble. He was smarter than he let on.
“Let’s sell ‘em on the sly.” whispered the cook. “We’ll be rich!”
Bumble agreed easily, eager to be his own boss. He didn’t know then, that soon Oliver would stop being frightened and lose the pinched hungry look. He never imagined, that emboldened by skill and self-belief, Oliver would run away two years later, to open his own shop where he would feed and employ many orphaned children in the years to come.
The Jovial Writer 