He lowered his candle and Is exhibited her find. It was, in fact, a small heart-shaped case on a slender chain.
‘Yes, that belonged to my sister-in-law. You had best give it here.’
‘And welcome,’ said Is, handing it over. ‘Well, mister, I reckon some other body musta nipped in ahead and unbuckled Mrs M an’ spirited her off somewhere. You can tell your lady at least she’s outa the brig.’
He merely grunted in reply. It was plain that he had hated his errand, hated the fact that it had failed, and particularly hated being obliged to hold a conversation with Is. Blowing out his candle, he made for the stairs to the hall, which could be seen dimly ahead of them.
Is lingered behind, thinking that she would wait a few minutes until he had left the library before returning to Aunt Ishie and Grandpa Twite. They would not wish their presence advertised.
At that moment something bit her leg and she let out a gasp of fright.
‘What?’ Mr Gower said, irritably, half turning.
‘Nothing – nothing, mister . . . !’
But she had felt teeth sink in her calf, no question. What could it be: a dog, a wolf, a boar, a wildcat, a giant rat? What other creatures might inhabit this underground maze?
Mr Gower strode on up the stairs and vanished from view. And then close by, not loud, but distinct, Is heard a familiar sound: the kind of caterwaul – half threatening, half playful – that a young torn makes, warning a stranger off his boundaries.
For a moment she felt desolate, longing for her friend Figgin and her own woods; then she spun round and, with heart beating fast, called softly, ‘Hey! Who’s there? Where are you?’
The sound came again from farther away, and to one side: ‘Morow! Wow!’
Is took a deep breath, gulped, and followed. The course that the creature led her was a jerky and confusing one, zigzagging among the stacks. As she turned a sharp corner, her candle died again, but then, luckily, she began to see a faint gleam of daylight ahead, towards which the beast – person? animal? – seemed to be making. And in fact a few minutes more brought Is out through a side entrance, up a crumbling flight of area steps into an alley. Ahead, to the left, a dark shape was just vanishing round a corner.
Putting on more speed, she went in pursuit.
By now the short winter day was nearly done. And the foggy dusk was made more obscure by a whirl of snowflakes; only the quick, jerky movements of her quarry helped Is to keep him – or her, or it – in view. Across ruined building plots, round corners, over blocks of stone, under tottering arches, up flights of steps, it bounded and gambolled. Showing off! thought Is crossly, as she slipped and stumbled in the rear.
Now they were on the edge of the town, were in little streets that looked more like country lanes. Soon Is recognised where they were, not at all far from Corso Mill, and five minutes more brought them to the ruined bridge over the millrace. The creature ahead ran out on to the broken arch of bridge and then, with a wild extravagant leap, cleared the gap and hurled itself across to the other side.
Is measured the distance with her eye. There was a twenty-foot drop below. I ain’t fool enough to try and jump that, she thought; it’d be downright stupid, plain susancide. I’ll jist stay on this side.
‘Hey!’ she called across the race. ‘I’m not acoming no farther. I’m fair tucked-up. You come back here!’ And she sat down on a bit of ruined wall.
A mocking meow came in reply.
‘Listen!’ Is called again. ‘I don’t mean you no harm! You must know that by now. Why don’t you come back and talk a bit, sensible? I won’t even bite you!’ rubbing her bruised leg.
She was answered by a chuckle. Now it was too dark to see across the white, racing water.
I’ll stay two more minutes, resolved Is, then I’ll step into the mill and tell the old gals what’s been going on. They’ll want to help Aunt Ishie and Grandpa.
‘So long then; I’m off,’ she announced, after a couple of minutes had passed; and she was standing up to leave when a skinny black form came flying back over the millrace and a strong hand pushed her imperiously down again.
‘Stay! Sit!’ commanded a voice that was perfectly human.
Is, with great composure, brought out the stub of candle which she had stuck in her pocket on leaving the library and re-lit it. By its light she looked at the person facing her.
He was a tall, bony boy. His hair, very thick and shaggy, fell round his face in a kind of ruff, and he had the beginnings of a beard; he had streaked his face with tar or black paint in tigerish stripes, and his jerkin and breeches were made from alternating stripes of brown and grey fur. But what mostly made him seem like a cat was the way he moved: the supple neatness with which he cocked his head, turned his spine and, as now when he sat down, tucked his hands and feet tidily out of sight.
Is took a long, careful look at his face through the falling snow; then she grinned.
‘You ain’t a cat, boy, whatever you may think,’ she said. ‘You’re my cousin. You and I are the image of each other. Your da once told me that. You’re Arn Twite.’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, I’m not! Whatever I am, I’m not, and never going to be that. If I’m not a cat, then I’m Bobbert Ginster.’
‘And what kind of an outlandish monacker is that?’ asked Is.
‘I found it on a tombstone.’
Now he had decided that Is was to be trusted, Arn, or Arun, seemed perfectly at ease with her; he pulled a couple of apples from inside his jacket and passed her one. ‘I reckon what’s on a tombstone ain’t private property no more and I can use it.’
‘What’s wrong with Twite?’ Is, who had missed her noon meal and was ravenous, took a huge bite of the warm apple.
‘Who’d want to be that? All the Twites are wrong ’uns.’
‘I’m not! And Grandpa’s not a bad old coot – if he’s still alive. And Aunt Ishie’s a real one-er.’ She thought and said, ‘You might as well say you don’t want to be a person.’
‘Well, I don’t. For a long time I wasn’t a person. And I’m not going back to be one.’
‘You got no choice,’ said Is, finishing her apple in another large bite that included the core. ‘And your dad’s dead, grieving for you, and your mum’s a-crying her eyes out every night, back in Folkestone. They missed you sore when you left home.’
He gave a snarl of impatience. ‘Why the pest couldn’t they think of that when I was alive? Stupid, pig-headed fools!’
‘You mean, when they was alive? Anyway, your mum still is alive – so far’s we know – and if you don’t go back and see her, you’ll be the pig-headed one.’
‘I’m never going back,’ he said. ‘I’m not saying things are right up here – they aren’t, they’re as bad as they can be – but at least here I’m me, I’m myself, I’m some use. D’you know what they wanted me to do down there – make wigs! I was to be apprenticed to a wigmaker! For fifteen years! And you say I ought to go back? Are you crazy? Or do you think I am?’
‘That’s right, your dad did say summat about wigs,’ Is remembered.
‘What happened to him?’ Arun asked after a moment or two. ‘He was healthy enough?’
‘He got wore out, tracking back and forth to London. Then the wolves got him.’
After another pause she went on, ‘You might at least write a letter to your mum. To tell her you’re alive.’ She thought of poor King Dick and his lost son. ‘Did you really know Davie Stuart?’
‘Yes. I knew the bloke. He and I came up north together. He wanted to find out about Playland. Thought it was his job to find out.’
‘Is he really dead?’
‘As a tent-peg.’ Arun sat with his chin on his hands for a while, then said: ‘I carried his button around for a bit.’
‘It’s gone back to his dad now.’
‘Who sent it?’ he said sharply. ‘They’ll miss it at the works.’
‘I sent it,’ said Is. ‘I’d made a promise. But I put my own one in
its place. They give me one, back in Lunnon; when I came a-looking for you and Davie.’
‘You had one too?’ Arun turned and faced Is. The candle had long burned out. But perhaps, she thought, he really had taught himself to see in the dark like a cat.
‘Yus, I had one; but I gave it to a boy called Col.’
After staring at her a moment he said, ‘Don’t you see what that means?’
‘No, what?’ Is began to feel shaky and sick. She longed to be in the mill with the old sisters, beside their fire, being given kind conversation and a roast turnip.
‘It means that things are going to change. It was said that when somebody else came with another button, that would be the start of things getting better.’
‘But that wasn’t – I mean – you mean – you think I’m the cove with the other button?’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh, save us,’ muttered Is. After another pause she said, ‘What do you think I oughta do?’
‘I expect it’ll be laid on you,’ said Arun. Echoing what she had said to him, he added, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll have any choice.’
‘You ever hear voices, Arn?’
‘Voices, what kind of voices? I hear birds,’ he said. ‘And owls.’
‘Ah. Never mind.’
‘I’ve been following you for days, you know that?’
‘Why?’
‘To try and make out your lay.’
‘It would have made more sense to ask me. And been more civil.’ Then she asked him, ‘What sort of a cove was Davie Stuart?’
Arun said: ‘He was the best. The best friend a person could ask for. Funny – made you laugh – knew a whole lot of things – never in a bad skin – Hey! Watch out!’
Half a dozen black figures had stolen up and now laid hands on them. Arn sprang away, his eyes flaring. A voice said:
‘Ech, it’s only the crazy cat-boy. Pay no heed – we weren’t told to take him up. It’s the girl we want.’
‘You taking me to Uncle Roy?’ Is asked, sucking a cut lip, after they had thrown her into a carriage.
‘No, we’re not!’ snapped the driver. ‘Your uncle’s had good and plenty of you; he don’t want to see you no more. Ever. You’re going where you should have gone at the start: into the mines.’
10
Every knave will have a slave
You or I must be he . . .
It gave Is a very strange feeling to find herself back in Blastburn station, helpless in the grip of her guards, and to watch the arrival of the Playland Express. So little time seemed to have passed since she had been a passenger on that train herself, but what a great deal more she knew now! She felt like a different, much older person than the Is who had scrambled inside the roll of carpet and escaped on the cleaners’ cart. As the great red-and-gold train slid smoothly into the station, and the doors opened, and the whooping, laughing children began to tumble out into the station hall, Is felt like a stranger from a different continent. What I could tell them, if I was able, she thought. Poor devils. If only I was able to warn them. But she could not; one of the guards had stuffed a wad of dirty rag into her mouth.
And yet this next part of the victims’ journey was one she had not shared. Oddly, she almost felt that she owed it to them, and was not sorry when her guards shoved her in with the group that were being marshalled into the first wagon, outside in the station yard. The children were yawning, giggling, stretching their arms and legs after the long train-ride, chattering about what they hoped they’d get for breakfast.
‘Five eggs an’ a slice o’ plum-cake!’
‘Hot chocolate an’ twenty pieces of toast!’
‘Hey – pooh – it’s a bit cramped in this-here wagon, ain’t it? You’d think they’d do us better – ’
‘Miss Twite! Miss Twite! Miss Twite!’
Unaccustomed to this form of address, Is took several seconds to realise that the frantic whisper was being directed to her as, among all the other new arrivals, she was pushed and hustled up the ramp and into the wagon. To her astonishment she saw the tall, thin figure of Mr Gower nearby, feverishly waving at her.
With great difficulty she fought her way to the side of the wagon and gestured to him between the wooden slats that prevented the passengers from either falling or jumping out. He helped to loosen the gag around her mouth.
‘Mr Gower! What’s to do?’
His face was distraught, white as wax; his eyes burned like red-hot pokers.
‘My little boy – my Coppy – he has gone – he has vanished. Miss Twite – if you see him in the mine – if you see him – ’
Oh, my laws, thought Is. Little Coppy being nabbed was my fault. I should have held my tongue.
Gower’s voice was soon drowned in the chatter of the children and the clatter of wheels on cobbles as the first wagon rolled on its way. Is, familiar now with the streets of Blastburn, knew at once that it was taking the shortest way to the mine entrance, across the dock and through the Strand Gate. Other wagons, she supposed, would carry their cargo of workers to the foundries or the potteries.
Soon the clamour of excited voices began to hush, in the gloom of the underground streets of Holdernesse.
‘Rum sort of set-out here, ain’t it? Where’s this Hotel Joyous Gard, then?’
By the time the wagon reached the big dark square, the equestrian statue of Gold Kingy and the guarded gates of the mine, there was almost complete silence inside it.
‘I don’t like this place!’ wept one small frightened voice. ‘I’d rather go home.’
The gates swung open, the wagon rolled through, the gates shut behind them with a clang. Several of the children wailed with alarm, and one fairly burst out boo-hooing. To Is, from this point on, the road was unfamiliar and she looked about carefully; but she could see little, as the lights were not very bright and set far apart. It was plain that the track sloped downhill quite steeply, for the cart tilted and the tightly crammed children, all standing, began to slide helplessly forward.
The ride lasted for rather more than half an hour. Then the wagon drew to a stop, the tail-gate was unloosed and the ramp let down. Stiff and subdued, the passengers began to clamber out, into a stone underground space lit by overhead lamps.
Here there were a great many guards, all large, tough, and armed with truncheons and leather thongs. These, with the speed of long practice, sorted the new arrivals into groups of four or five, and herded them away in different directions. Is, in her group, found herself led off along a passageway which was just wide enough to take two people side by side, and no higher than a short man.
‘Where the deuce are we?’ asked a boy.
‘Where are we going?’ wailed a girl.
‘When do we get our breakfast?’ somebody called out.
‘You’ll get it at the same time as your dinner; when you’ve earned it!’ said one guard. He was a big, burly man, who carried a club and a lamp. ‘Where are you? You’re in the bord, and you’re going to the coalface.’
‘But what is this place?’ they kept repeating.
‘It’s a coal mine,’ said the escort impatiently. ‘Ain’t you never heard of a coal mine before? Well, now you’re in one. And your job will be to get out the coal. If you work, you’ll get your grub. Them as don’t, won’t. Understand?’
A terrified, thunderstruck silence followed his words.
‘And don’t try to run away,’ he added menacingly. ‘Because there’s plenty of fellows back there at the gate with clubs and chains and persuaders who’ll be happy to teach you that running away here doesn’t pay. First, there’s nowhere to run to. Those gates we come through are locked, and they stay locked. And that’s the only way out.’
Now almost all the group were gulping or crying.
‘Stow that row,’ said the man sharply. ‘It’s no use to whine and pipe; you’ll just have to get used to it here. Plenty have done before you.’
‘Where do we live? Where do we sleep?’ somebody asked.
&n
bsp; ‘Why, right here in the pit.’ By now the group had been walking for about twenty minutes and had reached a smaller open space, about the size of Aunt Ishie’s kitchen in Wasteland Cottages.
‘This is where you sleep,’ the guard said. There were some wooden bunks against one wall. People were sleeping in them, and on the ground also.
‘There ain’t enough bunks,’ a boy said. ‘Not for all of us.’
‘Sleep on the floor, then. You ain’t the only ones; first come, first served,’ the guard said. ‘Besides, there’s others working.’
In the distance could be heard the sounds of tapping and hammering. Three passages led away from where they stood: ahead, and to right and left. These were much lower – about the height of a chair-back. The only light came from the guard’s lamp. The ground was wet – as they walked they sank into an inch of slushy, gritty mud – and the place stank with a salt, sharp, dank, disagreeable odour.
‘Mind out,’ said the guard. ‘Someone’s coming with a corf. Stand to the side.’
They could hear a rumbling, and in a moment a girl crept from one of the low entries, dragging behind her a basketwork truck on wheels, filled with coal. It was about the size of a wheelbarrow; she hauled it on a chain fastened to a strap round her waist. She was barefoot and wore only a skimpy skirt, nothing else; except, Is noticed, that she had one of Aunt Ishie’s pockets strapped to her forearm. She took no notice of the group of new arrivals but went on her way.
‘Now, you see that lass,’ said the guard. ‘She’s a hurrier. She fetches the coal from the heading to where it’s taken up to the surface by the whim-gin. Half of you new lot’ll be hurriers, the other half’ll be colliers; those are the ones that cuts the coal on the heading. Got that?’
He lifted up his voice and shouted: ‘What ho, there! Colliers! There’s a new draft in. Come and show them what to do!’
Some blackened, coal-dusty workers appeared, a few of them with candles. It was hard to tell whether they were male or female. Tools and baskets for the new workers were produced from a kind of cupboard in the rock-face. The members of the new group were led away in different directions by the old hands. The guard remained in the central spot to see there was no trouble.