by Joan Aiken
‘A slave.’
‘And that’s the status children have here – douls – until they are twenty. They have to make their contribution to society. And so will you, if you stay.’ He gave her a glance of dislike.
‘Don’t worry, Roy, she’s already ’prenticed to Chester Lemman,’ said Aunt Ishie placidly, rethreading her needle.
At that moment Dr Lemman himself walked into the room.
‘Hilloo, dearie,’ he said coolly to Uncle Roy. ‘Saw your rig outside. How’s the liver – eh? Giving us a bit of a twinge – eh? I can see that, from the colour of your cornea. Let’s have a look at the tongue. Open wider – ’ and he peered thoughtfully into the huge red cavity of Uncle Roy’s open mouth. ‘Hmnnn, not very pretty; no, by Joshua! You’d best lay off rich food, pastry and stimulants for the next few weeks. No more Early Purl. Stick to broth and rice pudding – that’s my advice.’
Uncle Roy looked glum, but seemed prepared to pay heed to the doctor’s counsel.
‘Follow the example of the gaffer, here,’ went on Lemman, patting Mr Twite’s bony shoulder and darting a bright-brown, needle-sharp malicious glance at each man in turn. ‘You want to live to a hundred and two like him – eh? Then moderate your way of life, my dear fellow!’
The malicious smile moved, like a sunbeam, to Grandpa Twite’s face.
He said, ‘Roy hasn’t my constitution, more’s the pity! Here’s a conundrum for you, Roy:
My first is a vessel, my second revered
First’s round as a penny, second wears a beard
And my first holds my whole, neither wine nor wealth,
Which keeps my second in good health.
Well? What’s the answer, my dear grandson?’
‘You know perfectly well that I’ve no time for your cursed nursery-rhyme balderdash!’ said Roy angrily. He seemed ready to burst with exasperation, but restrained himself and, after a moment, went on, ‘I came to invite you to a review. But what welcome do I ever get here? Can’t think why I trouble to come, no I can’t, damme!’
‘A review of what, Roy dear?’ mildly inquired Aunt Ishie, stitching two of her canvas squares together.
‘Of the militia, what else? Are those broadsheets ready, by the bye? We have got a tolerable troop now, but we should have double the number.’
‘Yes, yes, they are done.’
Old Mr Twite returned to the cellar and reappeared with an armful of posters. The cat Montrose came in through the back door, let out a kind of subdued, angry caterwaul at sight of Uncle Roy, and made a beeline for the cellar. Grandfather Twite tripped over him and he lashed out with a forepaw, drawing blood from the old man’s leg, but this seemed a routine occurrence; nobody expressed surprise. Except Uncle Roy, who muttered, ‘Why you keep that ill-conditioned, mangy beast – ’
Aunt Ishie broke in, as she selected another pair of squares:
‘How can you expect to recruit a sizeable troop of young men, nephew, when most of the lads do not survive into their twenties?’
‘Oh, there’s always a new supply from the south,’ he returned carelessly. ‘So – how about the review? You wish to attend? You may sit in my box, provided you arrive at least two hours beforehand. It is at three tomorrow.’
Aunt Ishie shook her head. ‘Thank you, Roy, I am far too busy.’ At which he hardly tried to conceal his relief. ‘Papa may wish to come, perhaps.’
‘I doubt it, I doubt it,’ said old Mr Twite. ‘Perhaps if I finish my pamphlet for the Nautical Union.
I can break and mend again
I wear a crest and a snowy mane
I can whisper, I can roar
And I shall last for evermore.’
He grinned broadly at Roy, who scowled. ‘How about Is, here? She’d like to see the review, Roy. All your gallant young fighters.’
‘Certainly not! The Moderator’s family are one thing, children another,’ said Roy sharply. ‘That would be a shocking example for the lower orders.’
‘Anyway, reckon I’ll be out with the Doc here,’ said Is. ‘Working.’
She had taken a strong dislike to her Uncle Roy, and thought it a pity that he had not met the same fate as his brothers. Not enough wolves in these parts, she thought; reckon they stay south, where it’s warmer.
A sallow-faced man with straight black hair falling to his shoulders now stepped into the room and said to Roy, ‘Your Worship, we shall be late for the Managers’ Conference if we don’t leave here directly.’ He sent a supercilious glance over the shabby room and the people in it.
‘Oh, very well. Very well. Though it won’t hurt those fellows to wait for me. Take those posters, Dagly. Here – you – ’ said Roy to Is, ‘step out of doors with me a minute, will you?’ – beckoning her with a stubby, short-fingered hand.
Is caught Aunt Ishie’s eye. It was full of warning.
Slightly mystified, Is followed Roy, who had stumped ahead out into the little, untidy, snowy front garden. In the road beyond waited a handsome carriage, drawn by four fat glossy horses.
‘Listen you – what’s-your-name,’ said Uncle Roy. ‘Lord knows how you found your way here, and you’re devilish lucky not to be down the mines this very minute. And I want you to keep that in mind! I’m the Moderator of this Region, and if I choose to send you down the mine, that’s where you’ll go. Understand?’
Is nodded.
‘Well then! Remember that! I don’t object to your working for Doctor Lemman – he’s a clever doctor, and he could use some help – so long as you work hard and pay heed and learn all he can teach you. That way you can make yourself useful. But you’ll be doing it on my sufferance. And there’s something I want you to do for me in return. Understand?’
‘What, Uncle Roy?’
‘You’re staying here with your great-grandfather and aunt?’
She nodded again.
‘Good. That is, it ain’t good, it’s devilish annoying, to have my own family practically squatting in such filthy, beggarly conditions. Lord knows, I’ve tried – but that ain’t to the purpose. – You may have noticed that your great-grandpa is – is a strapping, likely old fellow for his age – eh?’
‘Yus,’ said Is.
‘You may have wondered how he got to such an age – you may even have asked?’
‘Yus.’
‘Did you ask?’
‘Yus.’
‘And did he – by any chance – let fall the cause – er, that’s to say, the regime, nostrum, jorum, physic, diet, whatever it is he does or takes – to which he attributes his great number of years?’
‘No,’ said Is stolidly. ‘He didn’t.’
‘Oh.’ Roy’s face fell. He fiddled with his hatband. ‘Well – see here! You seem to me like a gal with good sense. Like your old man, eh? He was a one-er, if ever there was!’ Uncle Roy grinned, a most unpleasant grin. ‘Had it over me, Desmond did, when we were boys, many a time! Anyway, that ain’t to the purpose either. What I want you to do is keep your eyes peeled – comprenny? Just you keep an eye on your grandpa, see what he does or takes. For it’d be a shocking pity if one of these days he were to topple off the twig – as he must in the end, you know; none of us can expect to go on for ever, damme – and carry off his secret with him. Wouldn’t it, now?’
‘Dunno as I’d want to live to a hundred and two,’ said Is thoughtfully.
‘You stupid child! Who cares what you want? That ain’t the point!’
‘What is the point?’ asked Is, wondering if the strong liquors brewing in Mr Twite’s cellar had anything to do with his great age.
‘The point is that you are in a very, very good position to watch him and see what he does every day to keep himself alive. If you find out and tell me – damme, I’ll see you get a handsome reward! Yes, I will!’
‘What kind of reward?’ inquired Is, her mind on the lost boys.
‘Cash!’ he said impressively. ‘Maybe as much as twenty pounds. But it’d have to be the true duff, mind. You can’t pull the wool over me.�
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‘Can’t promise,’ said Is.
‘Well – you’d better do your best,’ he said, suddenly losing patience. ‘Or I may decide to have you sent off to the foundries anyway. So be warned. Remember you are nothing but a doul. – Oh, very well, Dagly, here I come – ’ And he sprang into the carriage, the door of which had all this time been held by the black-haired man, evidently his secretary, who looked despisingly at Is as he followed his master.
Is returned to the kitchen.
‘My love, I hope you didn’t tell your uncle anything?’ said Aunt Ishie quickly and anxiously. ‘About – about where you came from, you know – or anything of that kind? I should have warned you that it is a great, great mistake ever to tell your uncle anything at all. He makes use of every scrap of information to his own advantage, and everybody else’s disadvantage.’
‘That’s all betsy, Auntie. I didn’t tell him a thing,’ Is assured her.
‘Why did he want to speak to you?’
‘A horse to a hen I know!’ said Dr Lemman, grinning. ‘He wants you to try and find out what keeps your grandpa ticking over, ain’t that so?’
Is nodded.
‘And you couldn’t tell him, for you don’t know. Right?’
She nodded again.
‘I bet he told you that the welfare of the whole human race depends on finding out the old boy’s secret?’
‘No. He didn’t,’ said Is.
‘Well, he will next time! Depend on it, he’ll keep on at you. He can’t stay away from this house. He’s round here morning, noon, and night.’
‘Poor Roy,’ said Aunt Ishie, rather as she might refer to some toad or small ugly beetle, ‘he envies us so.’
‘And he’s frightened of you, Isabetta,’ said Lemman affectionately.
‘Frightened of Aunt Ishie? Uncle Roy is? Why?’ Is wanted to know.
‘Frightened of her and her friends. Because they can tell about the weather beforehand, and he doesn’t know what else they may be able to do.’
Aunt Ishie sighed and said, ‘He is so stupid.’
‘At least it means he lets you stay here in peace. In relative peace.’
‘Now, my love,’ said Aunt Ishie briskly, ‘are you going to help me with these pockets for the children, or are you going on his rounds with Doctor Lemman?’
‘I’ll go out with the Doc now, and help you when I get back.’
Grandfather Twite had long since retired to the cellar, from which thumps and clangs could be heard, as he operated his press.
Dr Lemman made his rounds in an unimpressive pony-trap, drawn by an elderly and docile mare.
‘Now listen, dearie,’ he said as they rattled downhill. ‘You are going to see a deuce of a lot of things here that you won’t like at all. Things that’ll maybe put you in a passion and make you low-spirited. None of us back in that house are happy with the way matters go on in Blastburn. But there ain’t a deuce of a lot we can do. Roy ’ud have us clapped under hatches if we tried to interfere. Your aunt takes comforts to the kids – those she can get to – and reads to ’em. Your grandpa, he makes up riddles for ’em. Maybe it don’t help, maybe it does. Who can say? Father Lance – well, he prays. Only Father Lance knows if that helps or not. At least it can’t do harm. And I – I do what I can. I look after the rich folk to make ends meet, and the others – at other times. See? So you keep a quiet tongue in your head. Your aunt tells me you are hunting for some boy?’
‘There are two,’ said Is. ‘You see – ’
‘Don’t tell me any names, dearie,’ he said quickly. ‘Mum’s the word. No title, no treadmill. What I don’t know, I can’t tell. You never can tell here, if you follow me.’
‘You don’t surely mean – ’ began Is, horrified – and then, yet again, she suffered from the queer visitation that had come three times before, as if the very focus of her being were suddenly pounced on and pierced by some outside force.
‘Let me alone!’ she gasped in a kind of childish rage. ‘Leave me be! Get away!’
Dr Lemman pulled the mare in to the side of the road and looked hard at Is.
‘What’s up, dearie? Are you all right? You’re white as lint!’
‘I dunno!’ gulped Is. ‘It feels like I’m a-going mad. Every now and again I can hear a voice, kind o’ calling. Did you hear a voice, Doc? Jist now? A voice calling help?’
‘No,’ he said slowly, staring at her even harder. ‘But that’s not to say it didn’t call. You say you have heard it before?’
‘Once on the train, and again in Aunt Ishie’s house. And each time louder. It’s the sort of call,’ she said, hunting for words, ‘that you can’t stand not to do summat for ’em, it sounds so broken-hearted – but where is it?’
‘You heard it on the train? And then again in Ishie’s room? And now here? Was it the same each time?’
‘No. It gets louder. If it gets much louder, I shan’t be able to stand it!’
‘Have you tried answering?’ he suggested, giving her a thoughtful, observant look.
‘Answering? How d’you mean?’
‘In the same way that it comes to you. Try to think a message and send it back – that you are a friend, that you’d like to help if you can – something of that kind.’
‘No,’ said Is, ‘reckon I hadn’t thought of that. But I will try, next time. If there is a next time. It comes on me so sudden, it’s like a sickness. I’m not a-going mad, am I?’ She shivered violently.
Dr Lemman flicked at the mare to start her again.
‘Let me know, if you are able, another time when it happens. – No, I am quite sure you are not going mad. When human misery reaches a certain peak,’ he said thoughtfully, half to himself, ‘I think it may distil into another form . . .’
‘Like Grandpa’s brew in them bottles?’
‘Could be. And some people are able to pick up those echoes more acutely than others. You, it seems, are of that kind. Your aunt, and some of her friends, have another kind of extra sight. You will find how to use it.’
‘Maybe,’ said Is. She did not wholly understand his explanation but it made her feel a good deal more comfortable. At least he seemed to recognise and respect her plight.
‘Why did you choose to conduct your search in this part of the country?’ he asked after a while.
‘I made a promise to a cove.’ She explained about Uncle Hose and his dying wish, and mention of an uncle in the north. ‘But I didn’t know about Grandpa.’
Dr Lemman nodded thoughtfully. Then he said,
‘By the way. About old Mr Twite. I think I should warn you – ’
A maidservant in cap and apron came running towards them along the cobbled street.
‘Doctor, oh, Doctor! I’m so thankful to have caught you! Can you come directly? Missus is having such a screaming fit – she’s got the histricks summat shocking. No one can’t do nothing with her, not the housekeeper nor any of the footmen – ’
‘Yes, I’ll come,’ said Lemman, sighing. ‘Jump in the trap and I’ll drive you back.’ And he added to Is, ‘Now, dearie, you’ll get to see where old Blastburn ends and new Holdernesse begins.’
The pony-trap rattled on through some derelict streets composed of what had once been handsome buildings: banks, chambers of commerce, churches and large stores – all empty now and ruinous. Then, where a steep hill rose ahead, the street ran in under a wide archway and through a tunnel, which was lit by brilliant white lights. The road was well paved and wide enough to take three carriages abreast but there was no other traffic on it. On the curved white walls were written up slogans in huge letters:
NEW IS BETTER THAN OLD! UNDER IS BETTER THAN OVER!
‘Not far to go, fortunately,’ said Lemman. ‘Mr Gower lives in the main square of Holdernesse. He is the Keeper of the Exchequer – one of your uncle’s most important aides.’
After about five minutes in the tunnel they came out into what, Is could see, must be a huge cavern, with a roof so high that it was hardly vis
ible, for lights hung below it suspended on cables. (They were, Lemman told Is, electric discs fed by currents from electro-magnetic machines.) They flung brilliant light into every corner.
‘Don’t they never let them out?’
‘At night they reduce the power.’
The main square of Holdernesse town seemed to Is about the same size as the new Trafalgar Square in London, and resembled it in having a large central statue on a column, surrounded by four granite lions. The figure here, Is recognised when they passed nearby, was that of her Uncle Roy: squat, stubby and scowling.
Two sides of the square were occupied by grand public buildings with pillars and porticoes; the other two appeared to be handsome private houses. Dr Lemman halted his pony-trap outside one of these. ‘Hold the mare, will you?’ he asked Is. ‘I’ll not be more than a minute or two. Here – ’ and he tore a prescription form from a small block, having first scribbled on it, ‘The girl Is Twite is my official assistant. Chester Lemman.’
Then, with the maid, he vanished inside the house, from which loud jerky hysterical screams could be heard issuing.
It was lucky that Lemman had given Is the paper for, almost at once after he had left her, a dour-looking man in dark-green uniform strode up to her and said, ‘What’s a doul your age doing on the street? Why ain’t you at work?’
She silently handed him her credentials and he read the paper with slow, laborious care, moving his lips as he battled with each word.
‘Is Twite. B’goom, are ye any kin o’ Gold Kingy, then?’
‘Yes,’ said Is coldly. ‘He’s my uncle.’
‘Ye’re a loocky lass for sure. N’wonder ye bain’t in the foundaries.’ But just the same, the look he gave her was hostile rather than respectful.