Is (7 page)

After a while the travellers began singing. This, too, seemed to have been prompted by the red-coats, and had the effect of keeping people in their seats; it was plain that the train staff wished to discourage their charges from too much wandering up and down the aisle.

As they sang, Is recognised many of her father’s old songs: ‘Calico Alley’, and ‘Oh, How I’d Like to be Queen’, ‘Three Herrings for a Ha’penny’, and ‘Hopsie Toe’. Some of the songs had been given new words. To the tune of ‘Oh, How I’d Like to be Queen’, the children sang:

Is, for her own reasons, had always specially detested ‘Oh, How I’d Like to be Queen’. Many of her father’s tunes reminded her of her miserable childhood, but that one did so more than all the rest. It recalled days of beatings, being locked in the damp cellar, being obliged to run errands through snow and rain in ragged thin clothes and wretched old broken shoes.

When the passengers began singing that song, she got up, dodging a red-coated steward who was offering small fried potatoes on sticks with a pale yellow sauce to dip them in. (Is had tried one already and found it very sickly and nasty).

‘Where you off to, Missy?’ the man asked. ‘We don’t like the young ’uns shifting about too much.’

‘See a friend, farther back,’ said Is, nipping quickly past him.

She worked her way along the coach, past singing, laughing, talking, eating, sleeping children of all ages.

‘How come you’re going to Playland?’ she asked a boy as they both waited for a red-coat to serve small sponge fingers and move on down the aisle.

‘Had enough o’ being a chimney boy,’ he answered shortly. She saw that his skin was all grimy, pitted and scarred, as sweeps’ boys became after a few years of climbing up hot, sooty chimneys.

‘Don’t they have chimneys in Playland, then? Wonder who climbs ’em there?’

‘Whoever does, it won’t be me,’ said the boy flatly.

‘You ever come across a boy called Arun Twite? Or a feller called Davie?’

‘Nope,’ snapped the boy, and slid back into his seat.

Unsurprised, Is made her way into the baggage wagon. She had feared that it might be locked, and was greatly relieved to find that the door to it opened when she turned the handle, and that nobody appeared to notice her going through.

This wagon was piled high – almost to the roof – with bales, boxes and sacks. Only a narrow gangway had been left along one side, giving access, she guessed, to the engine and coal tender.

Is, an expert tree-climber, had no trouble in clambering up on top of all the packages. Having edged her way to the back, between baskets of clinking china and what smelt like coffee and spices, she burrowed herself a comfortable nook among bales of muslin and folded carpets.

I wonder if these are all smuggled goods? she thought sleepily. Wally’s dad said the frontier was all closed off between the south country and the north. So this must be a smugglers’ train, besides carrying the kids.

She lay in comfort, lulled by the rocking motion of the train, listening to the distant voices of the children, now beginning to grow peevish and quarrelsome. Glad I’m here and not there, thought Is, hope nobody else’ll have the bright idea of coming to this car.

‘
I want my mum!
’ she heard somebody cry. ‘I wanna go home! Stop the train, I wanna get off. I feel sick!’

Is thought sadly of the big airy barn where, at night, she and Penny could hear no sound but the wind, the hoot of an owl, the distant cry of wolves.

I’d rather be there than here, she thought. It’s pretty stuffy in this baggage van. Hope Penny and Figgin are looking after one another. I wish I was in our barn, listening to some of Penny’s stories.

Since there was no point in such a wish, Is sensibly went to sleep.

How much later she woke up, she could not be certain; a good many hours, she thought. The train, at one point, had stopped for quite a considerable period; through her dreams she had been vaguely aware of this. Now it was going again, and she could hear the wheels rattle with a hollow note beneath her, as if they were crossing over a wide bridge, maybe above an estuary or tidal river.

But what had woken Is was neither sound nor light; though it felt like a mixture of both, and with an extra unknown something added. She felt as if she had been touched by some thrilling flash – or wave, or wind – making immediate contact with an unused, inside part of herself that had been waiting for a long, long time, ready for such a moment.

It was like being pierced by a needle, or a long, cold finger.

‘What is it, what’s up?’ mumbled Is, jerking bolt upright and banging her head quite hard on the roof. At first she thought some person must have called her name; but no, here she crouched, amid smells of straw and coffee and carpet-wool, and the train was steadily, speedily thudding on its way northwards.

Next moment she heard another kind of sound, as a cat, which had been comfortably sleeping on her stomach, shifted itself to a new spot and started up a hasty, polite purr.

‘And what the dickens are
you
doing here, kitty?’ Is asked it, recognising, from its thick fur and small size, that it must be the red-headed engine-driver’s friend.

Indeed, not long after, she heard his voice calling, ‘Ginge? Ginger? Where the plague have you got to?’

‘Here he be!’ called Is, wriggled herself and cat to the edge of the stack of bales, and looked over.

‘And what the pest might
you
be doing there?’ said the red-haired driver sharply. ‘You’re s’posed to be in the parlour coach along with all the other little devils.’

‘I couldn’t sleep there. They was all yelling songs, and some was sick. A body couldn’t get no peace or quiet.’

‘Well, what the pize did you expect? And it’ll be a sight worse than that where you’re bound for,’ he muttered under his breath, reaching up for Ginger, who jumped on to his shoulder.

‘Where
are
we bound for, then?’

‘The Hotel Joyous Gard, they call it. And
that
’s summat to take with a pinch of salt,’ he muttered in the same gloomy undertone.

‘Why? Ain’t it joyous?’

‘Listen here, young ’un,’ he told her, in a different voice. ‘Dunno why, but I’ve took a fancy to you; saving Ginge like you done. I sure to goodness wouldn’t want you on this train if you was one of
my
fambly – which, thank providence, I got none. Listen: if you puts a value on your skin, you won’t go along wi’ the rest of ’em when they gets off.’

‘Why?’

‘Never mind why. It ain’t healthy, that’s all.’

‘What had I best do, then?’

‘When we stops (you’ll know just before, acos we crosses another big river), when we stops, the kids’ll all pile out and scamper for the exits. And there’ll be folk there waiting to pack them into wagons to take ’em to Joyous Gard. See? So what
you
best do is drop down t’other side o’ the train, where no one won’t see you. It’ll be dark, time we gets there. And you better go back acrost the bridge – you’ll hafta dodge the guard – and make the best of your way back to Lunnon. I’ll take you a week or ten days I reckon, chancy goin’ – but that’s healthier than where you’re bound for. Where you’re goin’ ain’t no ways wholesome for kids.’

‘But’, argued Is, ‘I don’t want to go back to Lunnon. I came here to hunt for somebody – a boy. For two boys.’

‘
You came here to look for two boys
? Young ’un,’ he said heavily, ‘you won’t find no boys here. Boys in Playland comes and goes faster than raindrops.’

An icy chill crept down her spine at the words, and at the way in which he said them.

But she answered stubbornly, ‘I
gotta
look for them. I said I would.’

‘Then I hope you got as many lives as Ginge here,’ he snapped. ‘And I washes my hands of you.’

He was turning to go back to the engine when one of the red-coated stewards came through the door from the parlour car and said sharply,

‘Who are you talking to? Is one of the brats in here?’

The driver said, ‘I was talking to Ginge, here. Can’t a man talk to his own cat?’

Is lay flat as a mat, and held her breath. Apparently the red-coat had not spotted her, for he said, ‘That’s as well. You know it’s against the rules to talk to the cargo. As you’re here you can take the grub through for you and Stritch. And remember the rules, no kids in the baggage car. You know that.’

He gave another unsatisfied glance round, but missed Is.

‘Certingly I knows that. But there’s no rule agin cats that I knows on.’

The red-coat was still suspicious; he hoisted himself up and peered about over the top of the piled goods. Luckily by this time Is had squeezed down behind a barrel of shrimps, or something that smelt like shrimps. He failed to spot her.

‘You know the penalty for talking to passengers!’ he called out menacingly; but Ginge’s owner had already made his way forward towards the engine.

Is went on holding her breath, and after a while heard the steward go back the way he had come; after a longer time she felt the train slow down, then clank its way over a wide bridge, then reduce speed even more.

Then she heard voices crying: ‘PLAY – land! PLAY – land! PLAY – land!’

4

There was an old man, and he lived in Middle Row
 . . .

Now what’ll I do? thought Is. I can’t stop here, for they’ll come to unload the goods truck. Most likely, though, they’ll get all the kids out of the way afore they does that. So I’ve a few minutes.

From outside, she heard a gale of sound – shrieks, footsteps, yells and laughter – as the train doors opened and the children cascaded out.

She could also hear the voices of the attendants.

‘This way!
This
way, if you please! Keep in line there. One at a time.
This
way!’

I’m right hungry, thought Is. Wonder when they’ll give ’em breakfast. Wonder
if
they’ll give ’em breakfast?

She remembered the driver’s words.
Boys in Playland comes and goes faster than raindrops
. The same chill ran down her back now as when he had said it.

Very quietly indeed, she crept down from the stack of wrapped bundles and stole into the parlour coach. It was empty, silent, and stank horribly of greasy food, unwashed children, vomit, and worse.

At that moment, Is heard voices. Two men entered the car at the opposite end, carrying brooms and pails.

‘By gar!’ said one. ‘What a hogo. It’s worse than cages in the zoo.’

‘Tha’s reet,’ said the other. ‘Filthy little tykes. It gets worse every trip.’

Is had ducked down behind a bank of seats when they entered, and was about to beat a retreat to the freight car. But now she heard more voices, coming from behind her. It seemed that any minute she must be spotted.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside.

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?