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,
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,
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