Is by Joan Aiken Read Free Book Online Page B

reckoned we’d run off.’
    ‘Mum’ll cry, though,’ said Tess, looking rather miserable about it. ‘We was a help to her, lookin’ arter the little ’uns.’
    ‘We’ll write her a letter from Playland,’ said Ciss consolingly. ‘She ’on’t grieve so when she knows what a real prime time we’re having there.’
    The two girls hugged each other in joy at the prospect.
    Now the train was sliding along soundlessly at what seemed a very rapid rate; Is could feel its gentle vibration as it carried them farther and farther north. After a while the passengers began to grow restless – they laughed and shrieked and chattered and bounced in and out of their seats – but the red-coated attendants worked extremely hard at keeping the noise level down by dashing to and fro every few minutes with trays of tit-bits and sweets. This kept the children from larking about too much, in case they missed their turn for a treat. There was never anything very substantial, but always something to nibble, so nobody was ever satisfied, but always ready for more.
    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:
    ‘Carry me quickly to Play – land
    Let’s start on that journey of joy!
    Off to the happy and gay land
    That welcomes each girl and each boy . . .’
    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