Is (9 page)

‘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.

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 better 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
your
self in your own quarters while I tidy
my
self.’