by Joan Aiken
Whistles were blown, long and loud. Sirens sounded. There were shouts, apparently of warning.
‘One’s missing. One’s missing! They’re one short from the wagons. Where’s number two hundred and three? Search the train!’
Is, meanwhile, had crawled under a seat. It was all she could do. But, at the far end of the car, the two cleaners had begun pulling the seats from their sockets in the floor and rolling up the filthy carpet as they moved along.
‘Dag it, if it ain’t one thing it’s another,’ said one, at the sound of the whistles. ‘How could there be a kid missing? Sure there’s noon in here.’
‘In among baggage, mebbe. Joost as well they counts ’em in and oot so careful.’
They went on with their work, pulling out seats and rolling up carpet. Two minutes more, thought Is, and they are bound to find me.
But just then there came another outburst of shouts outside, and a man’s frantic scream.
‘Ah, ye black-hearted devils, don’t do that! I never! I never! I said naught to no one!’
‘Bowen says he heard ye talking to a passenger.’
‘I never! I was talking to my cat!’
The scream came again, and the furious yell of a cat. Under her seat, Is clenched her hands. The two cleaners walked back to the far entrance and looked out.
As soon as they did so, Is, with inspiration born of sheer terror, rolled out from under the seat and dived headfirst into the roll of Turkey carpet which lay halfway along the compartment.
She had just time to draw her legs out of sight before the two men came back to their job. One was saying doubtfully, ‘Well, I dunno. It’s a bit hard, I think. Poor devil. After all, they don’t knaw naught for sure . . .’
‘There’s a kid missing, ain’t there?’ said the other. ‘And they gotta make examples.’
They hoisted out two more seats and roiled up another section of carpet, with Is inside. It was dreadful in the roll; pitch-dark and fetid. She lay and shivered, thinking of the red-headed man. That had certainly been his voice outside. What had they been doing to him? And his cat?
When the cleaners had worked their way right along the compartment, uprooting all the seats and rolling up the whole length of dirty carpet, they carried it out of the train.
‘By gar, it’s heavy,’ said one.
‘All the moock that’s on it,’ said the other. ‘They’ll have a rare job washing it, this time.’
Is imagined them dropping the roll into a tank of soapy water with herself still inside. She gulped. However, this did not happen straight away. The carpet was dumped on a hard stone surface and left, presumably while they went back to give the same treatment to the other cars on the train.
Is dared not move, for she could hear people walking and talking close by. Miserably, she thought about the red-headed driver – and his cat – and wondered how long she could stand this imprisonment in the filthy roll of carpet. Each time the men had rolled it over, the layers around her had grown bulkier and heavier, more and more stifling.
‘How many, then?’ shouted a voice close at hand.
‘Three – and this one. T’others’ll pass.’
‘Fetch oop t’bogey, Dan.’
While Is was still wondering what a bogey might be, she felt the roll lifted with her inside it and dropped on to a different surface. There were thuds as more rolls, several more, were dumped alongside hers, and one on top.
‘Tie a cord over t’lot,’ somebody ordered. ‘Reet, that doos it. G’ddap, then.’
A horse’s hoofs clattered, iron wheels grated on stone. The motion that followed next was particularly sickening, as the bogey swayed and jolted violently over what felt like large cobbles. Fortunately the journey did not last very long. After about ten minutes – quite long enough – the cart came to a stop.
‘Heave ’em off here, will tha,’ said a new voice. ‘It’s too late to set aboot ’em tonight. A bit o’ snaw’ll not hurt. They’ll be fettled oop in t’morning.’
‘Time enow,’ somebody agreed.
Is it night again already? wondered Is. Did we spend a whole day on that train? It was possible, she supposed.
The rolls of carpet, including hers, were unroped once more and dropped on the ground. As the horse and cart clopped and rattled away into the distance, a man said, ‘We mid as well shoot oop shop for t’night,’ and a door slammed. Five minutes of complete silence followed.
Now’s my chance, thought Is. And I’d best make the most of it before somebody comes back.
She began trying to wriggle out of the rolled carpet. But the very first thing she discovered was that she could not move at all. She had been wedged in so tightly by the successive layers wound over her, that her arms were pressed into her sides and she seemed to be jammed as firmly as a cork in a bottle.
At least it was possible to breathe. On the cart, the roll had been bent at right-angles, which was nightmarish, for one fold had pressed right across her face, and she began to think she would suffocate. But whoever lifted the roll off the cart had unfolded it and left it lying straight so that, from the end of the roll, about an arm’s length beyond her face, cold fresh air could reach her.
It sure is cold too, Is thought, urgently struggling to move her hands. If I lie here a few hours like this, without moving, I’ll freeze up solid, and they won’t hafta worry about their perishing missing number two hundred and three. They’ll unroll the rug and out will tumble a frozen corpus.
The thought exasperated her so much that she began to struggle in good earnest. Giving up the battle with her arms and hands, she decided that she would have to lever herself along by means of her feet, alternately bending and straightening her ankle-joints. This seemed to work, if slowly; she felt the greasy rug bend and give, a very little, as she dug in her toes.
Up – down. Up – down. Her calves and ankles began to ache. In places the carpet was so oily and slippery that her toes slid back on the surface. Would ’a been better off if I’d ’a been barefoot, Is reflected. But then, I’d be even colder.
She thought about Penny’s stories. There was one about a man who had three wishes and married a swan. If I had three wishes, I know what I’d wish for, thought Is. I’d wish for those two boys to be found, and us all to be back on Blackheath Edge. She thought about Penny teaching her to read. ‘What’s the point of reading?’ Is had grumbled at first. ‘You can allus tell me stories, that’s better than reading.’ ‘I’ll not always be here,’ Penny had said shortly. ‘Besides, once you can read, you can learn somebody else. Folk should teach other folk what they know.’ ‘Why?’ ‘If you don’t learn anything, you don’t grow. And someone’s gotta learn you.’
Well, thought Is, if I get outa here, I’ll be able to learn some other person the best way to get free from a rolled-up rug.
Up – down. Up – down.
You might think, as you got closer to the edge, that the folds would be a mite looser. But that was not so. Twelve layers thick of stiff, rolled-up rug, all glued together with fried potatoes, formed a wrap that was solid as oakwood. And when at last her head did begin to emerge from its carpet-collar, Is found that she had nothing much to be thankful for. Instead of being pressed against filthy carpet, her cheek now lay on stony, gritty, freezing ground. It was dark, with no moon or stars to give comfort; on the contrary, a fine, thick snow was falling, blowing like dust into the folds of the rug.
‘Snow!’ said Is in disgust. ‘Why, it ain’t but November!’
But then she recalled how far north she had travelled, into a colder, darker part of the country. Humberland. The air smelt of snow, and had also a queer, thick, disagreeable tang – like badly burned milk, she thought.
After another ten minutes of hard toe-and-ankle work, she had her arms free as far as the elbows. And then, at last, she was able to drag one hand into freedom. The fingers were quite numb, from having been jammed against her thigh for so long, but she bent them up and down against her chest until they began to tingle. Then she hoisted
out the other hand. Then, bracing both hands against the greasy mass of carpet, she managed to lever herself out into the snowy night.
‘Well, that’s better than a slap with a haddock!’ said Is, and looked around her with pride. She almost wished there had been an audience to applaud her triumph.
Not too many coulda got themselves outa there, she thought. I bet that fat Mary-Ann couldn’t, for one.
Still, perhaps it was as well there had been no audience.
Now, with eyes growing used to the dark, she was able to take stock of her surroundings. She seemed to be in a little cluttered yard with high walls round it, which lay beside a biggish one-storey building. Where they cleans the carpets, guessed Is. The yard had a high gate of slats but this, when she tried it, she found to be locked – or, anyway, fastened on the far side. A sharp wind blew stinging snow into her face.
If I can get outa that rug, I can get outa this yard, Is thought firmly. She looked about for something to climb on and found an old washtub. That, tipped on end, would raise her enough to grapple her fingers over the top of the wall. With a wriggle and a struggle she was up, and kicked away the tub so that it would roll to a distance and not put ideas into anybody’s head about how it had been used.
One thing about the snow, there won’t be any footprints by morning.
She perched on top of the wall and looked down. The drop on the far side was greater – about twice her own height – because the ground sloped. With great care she slithered on to her stomach, hung by her fingers, and let go, landing on cobbles.
Now, where do we go from here? she wondered. And wondered, also, what had happened to those other children, all two hundred and two of them. Were they in the Joyous Gard Hotel? Where was that? And where was the red-haired man, what had happened to him?
I don’t like Humberland, thought Is. I reckon it’s right spooky. There ain’t a good feel about it, not one bit. Playland, my aunt Fanny! I don’t reckon as much playing gets done here.
She looked about her.
She was standing in what seemed to be a narrow, cobbled lane, running downhill. The buildings on either side were not dwelling-houses, but might be stables, or sheds, or storehouses, and most of them looked dark and derelict. There were no lights to be seen anywhere at all. Farther off in the distance, a lumpy skyline suggested that the land hereabouts was both hilly and covered with buildings, but more than that she could not guess; the snow veiled everything and blew into her eyes, making her blink.
‘Wish I could find a haybarn,’ Is muttered. ‘I wonder where the bogey driver took his rig?’
The night was quite silent. Where’s all the fun and dancing and frolicking? she wondered. I don’t hear much of that.
She started slowly down the hill. A massive stone building loomed up on her right. There was a bulky tower, not very high, with spikes and a steeple on top. A church. Is had never been inside a church; none stood near where she and Penny lived in the woods, and during her earlier life in London nobody in her household ever had any dealings with churches.
But somewhere she had once heard that church doors are always open.
It’s worth a try, I’ve naught to lose, she thought.
The first door she approached had a white paper on it, just visible, and writing on the paper: PLEASE ENTER BY SOUTH DOOR.
There! she could hear Penny’s triumphant voice: now do you see how handy it is to be able to read? Yus, and which way is south? Is retorted, but she acknowledged that if she kept walking round the church she must, in the end, find the south door.
In fact it was on the next side she came to, a big arched wooden door with a heavy iron latch which turned obediently in her grasp. She slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her.
The air inside the church was not especially warm, but it certainly was a much more comfortable temperature than the snowy blast outside. And there was a faint radiance from one dim candle burning on a table somewhere a long way off. Is did not approach it. Close at hand she found rows of wooden benches with upright backs. There were no cushions, but she was in no mood to find fault. She stretched herself out luxuriously, had time for one longing thought of Figgin, then fell asleep.
When she woke next, a kind of grey dawn-twilight was beginning to filter through high-up rows of pointed, greenish windows.
What the blue blazes am I doing here? Is thought, lying on her back.
Then her memory came back with a rush, and she sat up. She saw what had doubtless been responsible for waking her – an old gentleman in a black gown, who was pottering gently about in the distance, kneeling and standing and talking to himself. Or at least, he was not talking to Is.
She waited patiently until he had finished his business and was coming slowly towards her along a gap between the benches. He was, she noticed, entirely bald, which gave him a somewhat startled expression, since his forehead seemed to go up and up, over the back of his head. He had large round eyes and a large mouth, and reminded her of Humpty-Dumpty.
But still, he looked quite sensible.
She greeted him. ‘Hey, mister!’
He was so startled at the sight of her that he almost dropped the lamp he carried. But he recovered himself in a moment and replied to her kindly enough:
‘My child! How in the world did you arrive here in St Bridget’s?’ He added after a moment, rather hesitantly, ‘Are you – are you attempting to take sanctuary?’
Some time during the night Is found that she had decided on a course of action. This is a real havey-cavey place, she had concluded; I get a strong notion that kids is not treated right up here. I better find me a friend who isn’t a kid, who’ll maybe stand by me if there’s trouble. What good is family if they don’t look out for you, after all? I gotta find my Uncle Twite. And then, if things comes up rough, maybe he can help out.
So, to the old gentleman’s question, she replied,
‘No, mister, I ain’t taking anything. I jist stopped in here to get a bit o’ shut-eye and wait till day. Now it’s light, can you help me? I’m looking for a cove called Twite, Mister Twite.’
Again the old gentleman seemed greatly amazed. He studied Is long and doubtfully, then muttered to himself,
‘Well! I can do no more than accede to her request. In fact I can do no less. – My child, I am in a most favourable position to grant your wish, since I myself live in the same building as the gentleman you mention, Number Two, Wasteland Cottages.’
‘You do? Now ain’t that fortunate!’ said Is. ‘Can we go there now, mister? Is it far from here?’
For she thought, firstly, that the sooner she was off the streets the better, in case the men who ran the Playland Express were still searching for their lost passenger, number two hundred and three; and, second, she felt very hollow and rather hoped that her Uncle Twite might be inclined to offer her breakfast.
‘No, not far,’ replied her companion. ‘You may, by the way, address me as Father Lancelot. We will go there directly.’
He led the way out into an icy-cold and foggy morning.
Is glanced about her with curiosity as they made their way down the hill. Through the fog and the snow, which continued to fall thinly, she could see glimpses of what looked to be a mournful, derelict and battered landscape. Everything that could be done to it had been done. It had been dug up, piled into heaps, covered with machinery and buildings – including hundreds of immensely tall, thin factory chimneys – and then it had all been allowed to go to ruin.
It’s like a birthday cake someone jumped on and forgot to light the candles, thought Is, looking at all the spidery chimneys.
‘Is this place Playland?’ she asked the old gentleman.
‘I believe by some people it has been so designated,’ he told her. ‘Its proper name is Blastburn.’
Blastburn! Aha! thought Is, but she said no more, for the old gentleman walked at such a swinging pace that she almost had to trot to keep up with him.
The place was all slopes, uphill and
downhill, steep ridges with narrow valleys between, and odd rows of little two-storey houses set here and there in what seemed a very random manner. They were built mostly of grey stone, with roofs of grey slate, but some were of brown freckled bricks. All seemed unoccupied.
After going up and down several short cobbled roads, Father Lancelot came to a stop outside a row of houses which, apparently because of being crammed into a particularly narrow gap between two steep ridges, were taller than the rest, four or five storeys high. They looked unnaturally tall and narrow, like books in a half-filled bookshelf. One, at least, was inhabited; smoke trickled from its chimneys. A sign at the end of the small row said WASTELAND COTTAGES.
‘Here we are,’ announced Father Lancelot, and picked his way across a small untidy snow-covered garden patch, littered with half bricks and broken pots.
He opened the front door, which gave on to a steep flight of stairs and a passage leading through to the back.
‘Mr Twite?’ he called. ‘Mr Twite, are you there? Are you awake?’ – taking a step or two along the passage. Then, turning to Is, he explained, ‘My chamber is upstairs, on the second floor. Mr Twite lives here on the ground level. His daughter occupies the third floor upstairs. She, of course, might be a more proper person to receive you,’ he added doubtfully, ‘but I fancy that she is away at present on a mission.’
‘His daughter? On a mission?’ Is gaped at the clergyman in astonishment. It was news to her that her Uncle Twite had a daughter – but quite welcome news.
At this moment shuffling footsteps could be heard, and a man carrying a candle made his appearance, coming slowly along the passage.
The hand holding the candle trembled so much that melted wax flew all over the flagged floor. That was the first thing Is noticed.
‘You don’t require that candle, sir. It is day,’ said Father Lancelot kindly and, stepping forward, blew it out.
‘Eh? Day? Oh. No doubt you are right.’ Mr Twite laid the candle carefully down on the floor. Then, slowly straightening himself, he stared at Is. She stared back, quite silent with surprise.