Once his month of trial was over, Oliver was formally apprenticed to the undertaker. It happened to be a particularly unhealthy season just then. In business terms, the demand for coffins was rising, and within a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry’s clever plan to use Oliver as a professional mourner exceeded even his most optimistic hopes. The oldest inhabitants of the town could not remember a time when measles had been so widespread or so fatal to children. Consequently, there were many mournful processions led by little Oliver, whose hat-band reached down to his knees, much to the deep admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town.
Oliver also accompanied his master on most of his missions for deceased adults. This was intended to help him develop the calm composure and steady nerves essential to a professional undertaker. In doing so, he had many opportunities to observe the remarkable resignation and strength with which some people bear their losses.
For instance, when Mr. Sowerberry received an order for the burial of a wealthy old lady or gentleman, the house would be filled with nephews and nieces. These relatives, who had appeared completely broken-hearted during the illness and whose grief had seemed uncontrollable in public, would be perfectly happy among themselves. They were often quite cheerful and contented, conversing with as much gaiety as if nothing had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with heroic calmness. Wives, meanwhile, wore their mourning clothes as if they had decided to make their sorrow look as attractive as possible. It was also noticeable that ladies and gentlemen who were overwhelmed by anguish during the burial ceremony recovered almost as soon as they reached home, becoming quite composed before their afternoon tea was finished. All this was very interesting for Oliver to see, and he watched it with great curiosity.
I cannot claim with any confidence that Oliver himself learned to be resigned by watching these people. However, I can certainly say that for many months he continued to submit meekly to the bullying of Noah Claypole. Noah treated him far worse than before, as his jealousy had been provoked by seeing the new boy promoted to the position of a professional mourner, while he remained a simple assistant in his charity-school uniform. Charlotte treated Oliver poorly because Noah did, and Mrs. Sowerberry was his sworn enemy because her husband was inclined to be his friend. Between these three on one side and a constant flow of funerals on the other, Oliver was far from comfortable.
And now, I must record a very important event in Oliver’s life—an act that might seem small at first, but one which produced a significant change in all his future prospects.
One day, Oliver and Noah had gone down to the kitchen at the usual dinner hour to eat a small piece of mutton. When Charlotte was called away, Noah Claypole, feeling hungry and malicious, decided there was no better way to spend his time than by tormenting young Oliver Twist.
Intending to enjoy this "innocent" amusement, Noah put his feet on the tablecloth and began to pull Oliver’s hair and twitch his ears. He called Oliver a "sneak" and announced his hope of seeing him hanged one day. Noah continued with various petty annoyances, acting like the ill-natured bully he was. However, when he saw that Oliver was on the verge of tears, Noah decided to be even more personal.
“Workhouse,” said Noah, “how’s your mother?”
“She’s dead,” replied Oliver. “Don’t you say anything about her to me!”
Oliver’s face turned red as he spoke; his breathing became quick, and his lips trembled. Mr. Claypole, thinking this was a sign that the boy was about to burst into tears, decided to continue the attack.
“What did she die of, Workhouse?” asked Noah.
“Of a broken heart, some of the old nurses told me,” replied Oliver, speaking more to himself than to Noah. “I think I know what it must feel like to die of that!”
“How pathetic, Workhouse,” said Noah mockingly as a tear rolled down Oliver’s cheek. “What are you crying for now?”
“Not for you,” replied Oliver sharply. “That’s enough. Don’t say anything more to me about her; you’d better not!”
“Better not!” exclaimed Noah. “Well, listen to you! Don’t be disrespectful, Workhouse. Your mother, though! She was a nice one, she was. Oh, goodness!” Noah nodded expressively and curled up his small red nose in a look of pure contempt.
Emboldened by Oliver’s silence, Noah continued in a jeering tone of fake pity—the most annoying tone of all. “You know, Workhouse, it can’t be helped now. I’m very sorry for it, and I’m sure we all pity you. But you must know, Workhouse, your mother was a regular, low-class, bad woman.”
“What did you say?” Oliver asked, looking up very quickly.
“A regular, low-class, bad woman,” Noah replied coolly. “And it’s a good thing she died when she did, otherwise she would have been in prison, or sent away in chains, or hanged—which is more likely, isn't it?”
Red with fury, Oliver started up. He overturned the chair and table, seized Noah by the throat, and shook him with such rage that the older boy's teeth chattered. Then, collecting all his strength into one heavy blow, he knocked Noah to the ground.
A minute ago, Oliver had looked like the quiet, mild, and depressed child that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was finally roused; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His chest heaved, he stood tall, and his eyes were bright with anger. He seemed like a completely different person as he stood over the cowardly bully who now lay trembling at his feet.
“He’ll murder me!” Noah screamed. “Charlotte! Mistress! The new boy is murdering me! Help! Oliver’s gone mad!”
Noah’s shouts were answered by a loud scream from Charlotte and an even louder one from Mrs. Sowerberry. Charlotte rushed into the kitchen, while Mrs. Sowerberry paused on the stairs until she was certain it was safe to come down.
“Oh, you little monster!” screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with all her strength. “You ungrateful, murderous villain!” Between every word, Charlotte hit Oliver as hard as she could, screaming all the while to alert the neighbors.
Charlotte’s fist was heavy, but to make sure Oliver was defeated, Mrs. Sowerberry joined the struggle. She held him with one hand while scratching his face with the other. Seeing that Oliver was pinned down, Noah rose from the ground and began to punch him from behind.
This violent scene could not last long. When they were all exhausted and could no longer beat him, they dragged Oliver—who was still struggling and shouting, but not at all intimidated—into the dark dust-cellar and locked him inside. Once the door was bolted, Mrs. Sowerberry collapsed into a chair and burst into tears.
“Bless her, she’s fainting!” said Charlotte. “Get a glass of water, Noah, quickly!”
“Oh, Charlotte,” Mrs. Sowerberry gasped, as Noah poured cold water over her head. “What a miracle we weren’t all murdered in our beds!”
“A miracle indeed, ma’am,” Charlotte replied. “I only hope this teaches the master not to take in these dreadful creatures who are born to be criminals. Poor Noah! He was nearly killed before I arrived.”
“Poor boy!” said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking pityingly at Noah.
Noah, who was much taller than Oliver, rubbed his eyes and pretended to cry to gain more sympathy.
“What should we do?” Mrs. Sowerberry exclaimed. “Your master isn't home, and there’s not another man in the house. He’ll kick that door down in ten minutes!” Oliver’s loud kicks against the cellar door made this seem very likely.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” said Charlotte, “unless we send for the police.”
“Or the army,” Noah suggested.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, thinking of Oliver’s old enemy. “Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah. Tell him to come here immediately! Don’t wait to find your cap! Just go! You can hold a knife to that black eye as you run; it will stop the swelling.”
Noah did not wait to argue. He dashed out at full speed, much to the astonishment of the people in the street, who were surprised to see a charity-boy running frantically without a hat, holding a folding knife against his eye.