Cold Shoulder Road

by Joan Aiken

  They walked east, then north, Arun going confidently, Is sticking close to him. She guessed that they must now be passing right over the railway, after it had plunged into its tunnel. The sun on their right was like a silver penny, faint in the mist.

  Neither of them had anything to say. The scene with the train, and the masked men, and the murder, had been too sudden, too silent, and too shocking, after all their struggles and hardships in the cave. They had come out believing that the worst was over and that things would get better – and instead, they had got much worse.

  It’s like a nightmare, thought Is, trudging silently over short downland turf, through cold wet mist. It’s like a bad dream that goes on and on.

  At last they struck into a well-worn, white chalk track, which presently led them to a carriage-road, running east and west.

  “Which way?” from Is.

  Without answering, Arun turned right. And Is followed without argument. This road would lead them away from Folkestone, which she had thought a glum and unfriendly town. And if it was the Admiral’s notion of a joke to shut them in the cave, he was a cove to leave strictly alone. And even more so, if it was not a joke.

  After a while they came to a signpost which said DOVER 4 miles.

  “But we don’t want to go to Dover, do we?” said Is, rousing herself from a daze of hunger and weariness. Her fingers stung and throbbed from all that digging and scraping; her arms and legs ached and bled from bramble scratches.

  “No. I thought we’d go to Seagate. That’s not far, on beyond Dover. Just to make sure that my Mum’s not there with the Sect.”

  “All rug to me,” agreed Is, tiredly setting down one aching foot after another. The poor boy’s head is full of bees, she thought; he’s haunted by his Mum. He’ll not rest till he gets some news of her; well, maybe one or another of those Silent Folk will be able to tell him summat useful . . . If they can’t, though, it’ll be bad for him.

  Oh well, no sense climbing stiles till you come to ’em.

  She was so tired that the mere idea of climbing a stile made her knees buckle.

  Then she grabbed Arun’s arm.

  “Hark. I can hear a horse-and-cart a-coming along behind us. You don’t think it could be one of them?”

  “No,” he answered decisively. “They’d no carts, remember? It was all pack ponies. Anyway, they were heading westwards; to London, likely.”

  “Ay, that’s so.”

  Despite this, they both glanced uneasily about them. Around here there was no cover whatsoever; the road ran unfenced across bare Downland.

  But the cart coming slowly up behind them seemed to offer no threat. It was a battered farm wagon drawn by a solid plodding cob, its load was a pile of brown stuff which gave off a sharp pungent smell.

  “Hop manure,” said Arun. “That smell always tells you you’re in Kent.”

  As the cart drew alongside, Is noticed that the driver was studying Arun. He was a tall, skinny, weatherbeaten man, with a long, sad face (not unlike that of his horse). He wore black trousers, a faded blue shirt, and a battered black straw hat.

  “This feller seems to know you?” said Is, as the cart came to a slow stop.

  “He’s one of the Sect, he was a friend of my Dad. Name’s Micah Swannett. He’s offering us a ride. Shall we go with him? He’s a decent cove.”

  The driver was silently jerking his head and gesturing with his thumb at the card behind him.

  “Why not?” agreed Is, yawning. “I’ll be right glad to get off my plates. Thank you kindly, Mister.” The driver nodded silently. “Maybe he can tell you summat about your Mum, Arun?”

  “He can’t talk,” Arun pointed out. “And we’ve nothing to write on . . .”

  They clambered on to the cart. The hop-litter stank ferociously, the smell wrapped itself round them like rotten porridge, but they were in no mood to grumble; they sank into its dusty comfort and were asleep even before the cob was in motion again.

  By the time they woke, they could see that the day was well-advanced, for the sun hung directly overhead. The distance from Folkestone to Seagate, Arun told Is, was not above fifteen miles, so plainly the cob had not hurried.

  The chalk hills had dropped away behind, and the land they were crossing now was flat; on their left, marshy fields stretched inland, studded with sea-lavender and gorse; to the right the sea rolled and murmured against a long shingle bank.

  Ahead of them lay a small huddle of houses.

  Seagate was a much humbler place than Folkestone, hardly more than a hamlet. It consisted of two rows of houses facing each other across a sandy lane which ran parallel to the beach.

  The houses were humble, too. Mostly built of weatherboard, with tiled roofs, they squatted close to the ground. Narrow alley-ways threaded between them; the shingle bank which protected them from the sea was strewn with a clutter of upturned dinghies, spars, oars, piles of nets and tackle, anchors, and pieces of rusty iron. At either end of the village were boat-sheds and shacks and tall sail-lofts, mostly painted black. A few larger ships appeared to be still seaworthy, but others were merely rotten hulks. Small pebbly gardens contained coils of rope and lobster-pots instead of plants.

  Many of the houses, Is noticed, as the cob clopped its slow way along, were empty and derelict. Windows were broken, doors hung ajar, piles of sand could be seen within. Seagate had suffered badly from the flood. The place was very quiet indeed, and very few people were about in the street. Most of them were dressed like Micah Swannett, the men wearing blue shirts and flat, black straw hats, the women in white shirts, blue pinafore dresses, blue scarves bound tightly round their heads. Small girls wore dark-blue bonnets and blue pinafores like their mothers; the boys had blue shirts. They were all extremely neat, silent, and sober, walking along with their eyes on the ground, never speaking a word to each other. When two people met, they greeted one another by each laying a finger on their own lips.

  A right rum, dismal place, Is decided. Even worse than Folkestone.

  Only three or four people were not dressed in the blue-and-black costume. And these seemed, if anything, more downcast than the others. They trudged gloomily about their affairs, taking no notice of Micah Swannett and his load.

  Well, it must be a rare rum go for the folk who lived in this town before the flood, Is thought, to have so many of their neighbours drownded, and then to have all these Silent Fellers turn up and quarter themselves here. If I’d lived in Seagate afore, I shouldn’t fancy it above half. I reckon I’d be pretty down in the mouth.

  Micah Swannett pulled his cob to a halt halfway along the main street. Here a large inn, The King’s Head, stood on the edge of the beach. It seemed to be a very old building, timbered, with all manner of odd gables, tall twisted chimneys, extra bits built on, of many different materials, flint, stone, weatherboard, and brick. Upper storeys overhung the street, and a hanging sign showed a sad, dark-haired, bearded king in a gold crown. Licensee Tom Braeburn, said the sign underneath.

  Micah Swannett was beginning a complicated series of gestures relating to himself and his passengers and the inn, when a bearded man walked out of its door. The newcomer bore such a strong likeness to the portrait on his sign that Is was quite startled; then she realised that he must have sat as the model for the picture, which looked newly painted.

  He greeted Swanett in a friendly enough fashion: “Good day to ye, neighbour! Fetched along Sandy Smeeden’s load of hop-dung, did ye? He’ll be right glad to have it. And who are these little hop-o’-my-thumbs?” as Arun and Is jumped down from the cart.

  By his gestures, Micah seemed to be offering to pay for a meal at the inn for his two passengers. But Aruh, quickly catching on, said, “Thank you, sir, that is very kind of you to have brought us so far. But we can pay for ourselves—”

  Can we? wondered Is. First I knew that Arun had any mint sauce left.

  But he thrust a hand into his pocket and fetched out a few coins. The wink of silver was visible through dust and
sand.

  Micah nodded, satisfied, raised a hand in farewell, and drove silently on his way. Getting news out of these Silent Coves is going to be hard work, thought Is.

  “Mind you,” remarked the landlord, eyeing his customers, “I never did see such a pair of filthy little corner-creepers in my entire. What happened to ye? And how do I know that rhino is honestly come by?”

  “Certainly it is!” said Arun haughtily. “I found it buried in a cave . . . Only then the roof fell on us, which is why we’re so dusty.”

  “Oh? In a cave, eh?” The innkeeper looked extremely alert. “True it is, there’s caves in this country that holds more cargo than you’d reckon. But, myself, I’d be mighty wary about helping myself to any of what’s there – you tread on some folks’ toes round here, you end up with a split gizzard. Where was that ’ere cave?”

  “Ever such a long way from here,” Is put in hastily. “A long ride to the south.”

  “Well, if I was in your shoes,” said the landlord earnestly – he looked at their scuffed and filthy footwear as if to emphasise his point – “if I was ye, I’d not go back to that place no more. Or there might be someone a-waiting for ye.”

  He glanced round him warily.

  “In the meantime I’ll take sixpence of what ye’ve got to pay for your brekfasses. Only ye won’t object to eating outside on the step, sooner than mux up my clean taproom floor, what Susan just scrubbed?”

  He gestured to a broad brick terrace which ran between the inn and the beach, adding, “And you’re a mite pongy, if ye don’t mind my saying so, along of Micah Swannett’s load. Hot rolls and eggs and chocolate suit ye?”

  They agreed that these things would suit very well. When the landlord came back with a loaded tray, Arun paid with one of his handful of silver coins.

  Is then recollected that, as well as some coins of her own, she had pocketed a chain of beads. She pulled out the chain and studied the beads: pale, clear, brownish stones, the size of acorns, the colour of milkless tea. “That’s not much use!” she said disgustedly. “I wish I’d taken more chinkers instead.” Still, she stuffed the necklace back in her pocket.

  When Arun handed one of his coins to the innkeeper, the man stared at it with astonishment.

  “Bless me soul, young feller! Is this what you picked up in the cave? Rex Carolus, it says. This is from King Charles’s day; him as had his head cut off up yonder.” He nodded at the sign which swung above. “And ye say ye found it?”

  “Won’t it do to pay for the rolls?” said Is.

  “Oh, it’ll do right enough, dearie. Being as I’m an honest feller I’ll tell ye it’s worth thribble as much, maybe more; I’ll give ye some change. Well I never did! Reckon . . . reckon I’ll keep it in the bar as a curiosity. Where did ye say that cave was? Dover way?”

  Luckily a woman’s voice from inside shouted, “Tom? Are you there?” and they were not obliged to give him an answer just then.

  “And I don’t know that we should,” said Arun. “It might lead to trouble. Considering where the cave came out, and what we saw.”

  Is agreed. But she wanted to ask a question of her own.

  “Mister,” she said, when the landlord appeared with a handful of change. “Who painted that sign of yours up there? It’s new, and it’s a picture of you, ain’t it?”

  “Ay, ’tis that,” he agreed. “Clever, beant it? Everybody’s allus said I had a likeness to owd King Charley the First, and when my sign got blowed off and smashed in the gale, a lady what came to spend a night in the town, she said she’d paint my likeness, if I wanted, for a new signboard.”

  “A lady painted it?” Is was very excited. “Arun! It must have been your Mum! When was this, Mister?”

  “Well—” he gave it some thought. “It were after the gale, but it were a piece afore the Silent Beggars came to town. A two-three months back.”

  “Is the lady still here?”

  “No, she only stayed a night. Then she went her ways.”

  “Did she have a child with her? Or another lady?”

  The innkeeper looked at them very attentively. “No,” he said at length. “She didn’t. But she went to my cousin Rena Sloop’s shop and bought a passel of child’s clothes . . . Ye say that lady was your Mum?”

  “My cousin’s Mum,” said Is. “He’s a-seeking for her. It sounds mighty like her.”

  The landlord thought for some minutes. Then he said, “I’ll get my Susan,” went indoors, and fetched his wife – a lanky woman with a lot of large teeth and shiny, grey false curls poking out from under her frilly cap.

  “Ye are looking for a lady and a kid?”

  “Maybe two ladies,” said Is cautiously.

  “What size kid?”

  “Quite a small one. About four or five, maybe.”

  The woman shook her head, pressing her lips together.

  “A lot of kids goes missing around here.” She glanced warily up and down the terrace. Seeing nobody, she said, “The Merry Gentry put up signs outside of inns and post offices and churches. The signs said as how their Handsel Kid had been took, and if it weren’t sent back, other kids’d be took, by them. And, sure enough, two weeks later, our Fenny was took, and we’ve never seen her since.”

  Is and Arun looked at one another.

  “How dreadful!” said Is. “It’s the same here as at Folkestone.”

  “Folkestone? That where you come from?” said the landlord. “That’s where all these perishing Silent Gagers come from. Well, I just wish they’d go back there. Honest, I will say they are – that Micah what fetched ye along, he’s a right decent chap – but they’re like a blight on the town. Fingers on their lips all day long. Them and their Holy Silence. And never a dram at the pub. I say, if they want to keep quiet, let ’em go and do it somewhere else, in the New World, if that’s what suits ’em. Not here in our town. That Elder of theirs – de la Twite – he’s a rare rum ’un. I’d not trust him with my winnings. He’s the only one who’s allowed to speak, by their rules, and my view is, he’d do best to keep his gob shut.”

  “Why?” asked Is.

  “He keeps on and on about how we oughta stand up to the Merry Gentry. And that’s just asking to have your toes used for live bait. Fetches the Gentry around like wasps.”

  Susan nodded sadly. “They’re just too strong to be stood up to, the Gentry. We just havta put up with ’em – like bad weather, like floods. We lose our Fenny. Only seven, she was. What can we do? Nowt. But, about your mother, dearie—”

  A chaise was trotting along the sandy road towards the inn. It held two men. One of them raised his whip commandingly.

  “Talk o’ the Devil,” muttered the landlord under his breath. His wife said, “Tell you another time, love,” and vanished indoors.

  The chaise came to a halt by the inn’s main entrance. A tall grey-haired man got down from it.

  Is said to Arun, “Why don’t we walk about and take a look at the place, Arun? If your Mum was here – and it do seem so – we might hear news of her. We can come back later and ask Mrs Curly-locks what she was going to say.”

  Arun nodded, and slowly followed as Is jumped down from the terrace and crossed the road. Poor thing, she thought, he thought his Mum would be here.

  Well, maybe somebody here can give us news of her.

  The town was so extremely quiet that it was a comfort to hear the sea thrash and tumble on the far side of the shingle ridge. A few blue-shirted men walked about, their eyes on the ground. If questioned, each of them would shake his head and lay a finger on his lips.

  Here and there, a door stood open. Is peered through one, inside which a voice could be heard, apparently talking to itself, and found that she was looking into a schoolroom, where twenty blue-shirted boys and one girl in a red dress sat listening to a teacher, who was telling them about Julius Caesar. Once in a while the girl would put up her hand and ask a question. The teacher seemed relieved when she did so. The boys diligently made notes and kept quiet.
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br />   I bet the teacher would rather they yelled rude words and threw ink-balls, thought Is. Wonder why there’s only one girl? She ain’t a Silent Secter. They’d never let her wear that red dress, I’ll lay.

  “Come here!” called Arun softly, beckoning from farther along the street. He had found a largish, slightly ruined building, which might once have been a small church or a large chapel. Its door, also, stood open, and is looked inside, wondering what caused a soft, shuffling, scraping noise that came from within. It was like ears of corn blowing, or feet walking through dead leaves.

  The hall, quite roomy inside, was packed with people, gravely and silently dancing. There must have been forty at least, and they were all elderly. All wore the blue and black clothes of the Silent Sect. Two lines of them faced each other, soundlessly clapping their hands and stamping their feet. Couples took it in turn to perform figures in the middle, passing, gliding, turning, bowing. A Master of Ceremonies, who stood on a chair, silently conducted the proceedings by waving his arms.

  Nobody smiled. Everybody was serious.

  To Is, the sight seemed extremely sad.

  They sure need some music, she thought. One o’ my Dad’s tunes – ‘The Day Afore May-Day’ – that’d put a bit of zip into their doings. Ain’t it half queer, though, to see ’em figuring away like that, footing it up and down, without even the squeak of a fiddle.

  Arun evidently felt so, too, for he suddenly – and most unexpectedly – burst into song:

  “Heel and toe,

  High and low,

  Hold her tightly,

  Swing her lightly,

  And sing, everybody, sing!

  Speech is the queen, and music is the king!”

  Forty elderly, astonished, and scandalised faces were turned towards him.

  The man who had been conducting the dance hopped down from his chair and came to the door, making indignant gestures as of one who shooes away intrusive pigeons.

  “Hush, boy! Go away!” he hissed when he was within whispering distance. “You disturb our Holy Quiet. Suppose the Elder heard you!”

  “What if he had?” said Arun defiantly. “He’s not my leader.”