by Joan Aiken
He can’t be my uncle, she thought. He certainly can’t be Hosiah Twite’s brother. Or my dad’s. That just couldn’t be possible. Compared to him, Father Lance is a choir boy.
Mr Twite looked unbelievably old. His skin was greyish-brown, netted finely all over with wrinkles, but shiny, like weathered wood; in fact he resembled some aged tool which has been used by the same family for hundreds of years, bent, seamed, shaped, and polished with constant use. His eyes were blue – like mine, thought Is – but very faded. His hands were knotted like roots, and shook gently all the time. He wore a kind of dressing-gown, which seemed to have been made out of a thick grey blanket; his skinny legs were bare, and on his feet he had red-and-green slippers, quite new and clean, with red bobbles on them. Somebody looks arter him right well, thought Is.
And his voice, when he spoke again, was clear and collected.
‘Who is this young person? How does she come to be here? How is it that the constables or the wardens have not taken her up?’
‘I found her in my church, not ten minutes since,’ explained Father Lancelot, ‘and she was asking for you.’
Is recovered her voice.
‘I’m a-searching for my cousin – Arun Twite,’ she explained. ‘His dad – that’s my Uncle Hose – he ast me to see if I could find the boy. I’m from down south, I ain’t never been in these parts before. But my Uncle Hose, he said that we got another uncle what lives hereabouts, and he’d a notion the boy might ’a run this-away. That’s why I come.’
She stared hopefully at the aged Mr Twite, and he stared back at her, slowly taking this in.
‘Your name, my child?’
‘Is.’
Old Mr Twite thoughtfully nodded his head up and down several times.
‘Is. Indeed that name brings back memories. Is. Isabett. You were named after your great-grandmother, then. A Breton name. Isabett was from Brittany. My cousin, in fact. Yes, indeed . . .’
‘But,’ said Is, thunderstruck, ‘then – who the plague are you, mister? You surely ain’t my Uncle Twite?’
‘No, child; I am your great-grandfather. At least, I conclude that you are the daughter of my grandson Abednego – a gifted but worthless fellow. Where, by the way, is he?’
‘He’s dead,’ said Is shortly.
‘And his brother Hosiah?’
‘Dead too. The wolves got ’em.’
‘An ill-fated pair,’ commented their grandfather calmly.
He seemed prepared to stand discussing the affairs of the Twite family indefinitely in the passageway, but Father Lancelot suggested,
‘Shall we remove to the kitchen, sir? I daresay your great-grandchild would not be averse to a warm drink.’ His tone was hopeful, as if he would not be averse to one himself.
Old Mr Twite slowly nodded his head again.
‘The kitchen. Yes, indeed . . .’ He turned and led the way back along the passage. Is and Father Lancelot followed.
The room he ushered them into plainly combined various functions. A fire burned in one corner, and shelves around the fireplace held pots and plates. A desk, littered with papers, occupied another corner. An easel supported a half-finished painting; a fantastic map, with figures and buildings in it. An untidy unmade bed was heaped with books, which had also spilled on to the floor. Strings of onions hung from a hook in the ceiling. A saucer of milk near the fire suggested the presence of a cat somewhere. The room was L-shaped, with two windows commanding an extensive view down a snowy valley full of derelict buildings.
Mr Twite gestured vaguely towards a chair which was loaded with books; removing these to the bed, Father Lancelot sat down. Is squatted on the floor, which was covered by a thin, torn rug; this made her grin, recalling last night’s escape. She watched her great-grandfather, who moved slowly to a shelf from which he took a saucepan; then he reached up for a jar which stood on a higher shelf. As he did so, he trod on the edge of the milk saucer on the floor, which tipped up and splashed its contents over his foot. This startled him so that his hand, reaching for the jar, struck a basket hanging on the wall and knocked it down; the falling basket dislodged a pile of tin plates balanced on a shelf below, which fell, and in their turn toppled over a colander full of walnuts, which, together with the plates, all cascaded on to Mr Twite’s foot.
He gazed at them mildly, seeming neither perturbed nor surprised. Is helped him pick up the plates and the walnuts, then she wiped away the spilt milk with a hideous old rag which she found hanging from a nail, while Mr Twite poured more milk from a can into his saucepan, mixed it with grey powder from the jar, and set the mixture on the hob to heat. As he did this, he murmured to himself:
‘Is, yes. The name of a drowned city. Off Finisterre; which, of course, means World’s End. Can this be a portent? And Twite, too, is a Breton name; origin obscure. Thouet, possibly some kind of bird? Or a towline? We have kinsfolk, of course, in the region of Finistèrre, and it is undoubtedly from the Breton line that your aunt derives her weather-wisdom, but I am not personally acquainted with that side of the family.’
‘You come from Brittany, Great-grandpa?’
‘No, child; my great-grandfather did.’
Is could not contain her next question any longer. ‘Great-grandfather, how old are you?’
‘A hundred and two, my child.’
‘A hundred and two?’
He smiled a little, privately, to himself, pouring hot beverage from the saucepan into three not very clean mugs.
‘There, child; you must be chilled.’
Is tasted her drink. It was rather strange; slightly sweet, with an earthy, peppery flavour, at first not disagreeable. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Saloop; an old recipe, made from orchid roots. Your aunt Ishie finds them for me.’
‘My aunt Ishie – ’
‘She is out, just at present.’
‘On a mission, Father Lancelot said?’
‘Let us hope that she will be back shortly.’ It seemed that Grandfather Twite preferred not to discuss the mission. Father Lancelot, looking slightly ill-at-ease, now rose, placing his empty mug on a corner of the desk.
‘That was most excellent, sir. Ah – I will leave you to your family affairs.’ He turned in the doorway to say, ‘And I shall not – of course – mention this – arrival – to anybody – anybody at all – ’
‘I am obliged to you, Lancelot,’ Grandfather Twite answered. ‘It will, I daresay, be advisable not to. At present.’
‘Great-grandpa,’ burst out Is, when the door had closed, ‘what happens to kids in this place? Where did they take all them ones from the train I come on? What’s the Joyous Gard Hotel? Where am I a-goin’ to find my cousin Arun – if he’s here? Or the other – ’ She checked herself and gazed urgently at the old man.
He, like Father Lancelot, looked uncomfortable and depressed.
‘It is a disagreeable topic, child. I think I should prefer to leave it to your Aunt Ishie to explain . . .’
He rummaged about and found a loaf of brown bread wrapped in a mouldy old towel; having broken off a piece with some difficulty he gave it to Is, saying, ‘Eat, my child.’
She chewed gratefully. It was the first food that had come her way for over twelve hours and, though hard as a brick, tasted delicious.
‘You arrived on the – on the train, then, child?’ She nodded, munching. ‘How was it, then, that you – that you became separated from the others?’
‘A cove – the engine driver – he warned me. Told me I best get out o’ there, if I valued my skin. So I cut and run.’
‘Most resourceful,’ he murmured to himself.
‘Great-grandpa – how in the world do you get to be so old? If you don’t mind me askin’? I mean – how come you didn’t die years ago?’ demanded Is bluntly.
Again he smiled to himself – a rather teasing smile – looking down at his empty mug.
He’s a funny old cove, but he ain’t a bad ’un, decided Is. I like him – I think. He’s bette
r than Dad, at least.
A random ray of sunshine filtered through the window on to the spot where she sat, and toasted her comfortably. The stale brown bread and warm, rather disgusting, saloop had put new confidence into her. Maybe, arter all, I’ll be able to find those boys, she thought.
‘You wish to know the secret of my long life?’ said Mr Twite. ‘You are not the first to ask me that question, my dear, and you will not be the last. Your Uncle Roy, for one, would dearly like to know the answer. Riddle me ree, riddle me Roy.’ He grinned to himself.
‘My Uncle Roy? So I do have an uncle in these parts, then?’
‘Oh, my word, yes! You do indeed. Your uncle resides,’ her great-grandfather explained in a tone of distaste, ‘he chooses to reside in the new part of Blastburn which, for heaven knows what fanciful reason, he and his colleagues have decided to rechristen Holdernesse.’
‘Is Holdernesse the same as Playland?’
‘Oh – Playland. Playland is just a figment.’
‘What’s a figment?’
‘A nothing. A zero. A cipher. A duck’s egg.’
‘Just as I figgered!’ said Is in triumph. ‘Just a Banbury story to fetch the kids in.’
‘I suppose you could say that.’ Again her great-grandfather wore his look of unease. But it cleared when he cocked his head and said in relief, ‘Ah, now I hear the footfall of your Aunt Ishie. What a comfort that she has come home. She, without doubt, will be able to explain everything you wish to know. And will be able to decide what it is best for you to do.’
Hurrying as fast as he could in his loose slippers along the passage, he called, ‘Ishie! Ishie! Can you come in here a moment, if you please? We have here a most unexpected visitor – your great-niece from the south country, Desmond’s daughter.’ And he gave a mumbled explanation.
To Is, the first sight of her great-aunt Ishie was a severe disappointment. The person who now hobbled into the kitchen was very odd-looking indeed: quite short, hardly as tall as Is herself, and dreadfully lame, so that she was obliged to hoist herself along with a sideways, crablike motion. She dragged behind her a kind of sledge, or box on wheels, which it seemed she used when she went out for transporting either herself or her belongings. She was quite remarkably plain, with a backward-sloping forehead, no chin to speak of, and large bulging eyes like those of a hare. She was also amazingly filthy – covered in grey dust from head to foot, all her long trailing grey clothes furred with greasy slate-coloured powder, as was the kerchief over her head.
But her voice gave Is another surprise, for it was warm, clear and sensible.
‘My niece from the south country. What an unexpected pleasure! But here I am, as you see, quite unfit to receive company. Give me ten minutes to step up and make myself presentable – or, better still – ’ as she seemed to pick up some inaudible plea for help from old Mr Twite, ‘or better still, my dear, why do you not accompany me upstairs. For you will be needing somewhere to sleep, and can be settling yourself in your own quarters while I tidy myself.’
Is therefore followed Aunt Ishie up three remarkably steep flights of stairs, necessarily at a very slow pace.
‘The rooms on the first floor are let to Dr Lemman,’ explained Aunt Ishie, somewhat breathlessly, as they passed two closed doors. ‘He is a very clever medical gentleman, quiet in his habits, and out a great deal of the time on his rounds, which suits your great-grandfather very well. Father Lancelot is on the second floor, and you, my child, may have the attics all to yourself. I am afraid it may be rather dangerous for you in this part of the country – has your great-grandfather gone into that at all?’
‘No, missus. He said you’d explain everything.’
‘Oh dear, did he? (Call me Aunt Ishie, my love, do. I am, I suppose, your great-aunt, but we will waive the great.) Now, this is my little territory – ’ opening a door on the third floor, ‘and I will just step in and make myself fit to be seen. You may continue on upwards and take possession of your own quarters. Come down again as soon as you choose, my love, when you are quite established.’ And she vanished behind the door.
Is climbed the last flight – which was very steep indeed, almost a ladder – and found two tiny rooms with sloping ceilings, facing each other across a narrow strip of landing. She looked out through each window in turn. One faced into a rocky, heathery hillside, the other commanded a wide prospect, down across the network of valleys so confusingly jumbled with ruined houses, mills, warehouses, viaducts, and skyward-pointing chimneys and dyehouse towers. Far in the distance high, snow-covered mountains reared up like sharks’ teeth against the dark grey sky. And down to the left, beyond the massed chimneys, lay a faint dark horizontal which might perhaps, Is thought, be the sea.
But where in all this cold, deserted, mutilated landscape were David and Arun? And the two hundred and two children from the Playland Express?
Is very soon ran down the stairs again, and tapped on Aunt Ishie’s open door.
‘Come in, my love,’ called a voice from behind a screen. ‘Sit down and make yourself at home.’
From the splashing behind the screen, Is concluded that her aunt was taking a bath. In a moment or two she appeared, wrapped in a garment made from a grey blanket like that of Mr Twite.
‘Axcuse my asking, Aunt Ishie, but I’m still not quite straight: is the old gent your father or your grandpa?’
‘He is my father, love; and an excellent parent he has always been, I am glad to say. Now: did you find all well upstairs? Shall you be comfortable up there?’
‘Some kind of bed ’ud be nice,’ said Is. (There had been no furniture of any kind.)
‘A bed. Oh dear me, yes. Yes, if you are to sleep in this house, you should certainly have a bed. Dr Lemman may have something suitable; we must see about that.’
‘Any old folded rug would do,’ said Is. ‘I ain’t particklar.’
‘And you are the daughter of my nephew Abednego,’ said Aunt Ishie reflectively. ‘Are you fond of him?’
‘Couldn’t stand him,’ said Is briefly. ‘But he’s dead.’
‘A most teasing, unreliable boy,’ recalled Aunt Ishie. ‘But he was able to compose, as I well remember, tunes that found their way into one’s head and stayed there for ever. So he is dead. Ah, then; where are his tunes now?’
‘All over everywhere,’ said Is, thinking of the children singing on the train. ‘Aunt Ishie – please tell me, I gotta know – what happens to all the kids hereabouts? And where are all the folks? This is like a dead town. In Lunnon there ain’t any kinchins – here there ain’t no one at all. Looking outa the window up there, I couldn’t see a single soul – not one! Nor even a thread o’ smoke. All the houses ruined – where is everybody? Is there some monster what eats them all?’
Aunt Ishie, after inviting her niece inside, had vanished again behind the screen; from time to time the sight of a hand or a foot protruding and waving about suggested that she was putting on her clothes; but at this moment her entire head came out from the side of the screen. She looked, thought Is, who was now getting used to her, not unlike an otter. Particularly now with her damp grey hair slicked back; her flat-topped grey head and large friendly wide-set eyes quite powerfully suggested that gentle timid creature.
‘Monster!’ said Aunt Ishie. ‘Yes! There is a monster. But not the sort you have in mind. This monster’s name is Greed.’
Next minute she emerged entirely, robed in another long grey cotton gown which fell about her in folds and was tied round the waist with a cord.
She sat down on the bed. (Aunt Ishie’s room was furnished very sparsely, with a narrow cot, a box, the stool on which Is was sitting, the screen – behind which presumably there stood a tub – and some hooks on the wall from which clothes hung.)
‘You have not yet met your Uncle Roy?’
‘No, ma’am – Aunt Ishie. I did wonder if he’d help me find Arun.’
‘Most unlikely. Your Uncle Roy,’ said Aunt Ishie, ‘is a very rich man. When he was
young he made money, selling old iron off a barrow. He did well, bought the iron foundry, then the pottery, next he bought the coal mine, and by now he owns the whole region. First he was made Mayor, then President, and now he is Moderator of the Regional Council.’
‘Fancy!’ said Is. ‘But if he’s so grand, surely he oughta know if his own nevvy’s about the place.’
‘I would not depend on that. Not at all,’ said Aunt Ishie. ‘Were you aware that New Blastburn – or Holdernesse, as they call it – is an underground town?’
‘Under ground? Save us! Why?’
‘While digging out and enlarging the first coal mine, they discovered a huge natural cavern under Holdernesse Hill and so – at your uncle’s comand – the city has been entirely rebuilt inside it.’
‘Well, I’ll be! A whole town inside of a cave! I suppose that way,’ said Is, thinking about it, ‘they don’t get no rain or snow. It would be jist prime for the street kids. No crossings to sweep, though, no mud. Is that where all the kids are?’
‘No,’ said Aunt Ishie.’ They are in the mines. Or the foundries. Or the potteries.’
‘In the mines?’
‘All children here,’ said Aunt Ishie, ‘are set to work. From age five. In the coalmines, in the foundries, in the breweries, in the potteries. The mines are far from the town, now, under the sea; they are very, very extensive. The children work and sleep there.’ Her voice sounded flat with exhaustion and depression.’ I send them comforts when I can get hold of a messenger. And I visit the ones who are closer at hand.’
‘Is that where you jist come back from?’ exclaimed Is, suddenly illuminated. ‘The old cove – Father Lancelot – said you was on a mission.’
‘Yes. Those poor wretches spend their lives working. They have no free time. I talk to them – tell them what I can. A little history. A few tales or poems – something to put into their minds, to lighten so many hours of drudgery.’
‘Their minds . . .’ said Is slowly.
And suddenly – like a signal, like a summons – the same tingling shock exploded in her own mind as had roused her when she lay asleep in the goods wagon. It felt exactly as if somebody had reached out a cold vibrating tuning fork and touched her on her most sensitive point.