by Joan Aiken
He shook his head quickly, violently, then leaned closer to her and murmured – while his eyes still continued to dart about the crowd – ‘Can’t be done, young ’un. There’s spies everywhere. The only cove I heard on what took back a message, he fell off the footboard while the train was goin’ acrost the Wash bridge – that was the end of him. I dassn’t do it, see, kid?’
And he quickly walked away from Is, back to the engine and his one-eyed mate.
Very thoughtful indeed, Is pulled herself up the steps and entered the train.
Inside, she saw, the passenger car was gaily decorated in the same style as the station hall – in gaudy reds, blues, yellows and greens, with pictures of palm trees waving, dishes of greasy-looking tropical fruits, golden crowns and butterflies.
YOU ARE ON YOUR WAY TO PLAYLAND said a sign. There were brass fittings and pink-shaded lamps, and the seats, set in alternately facing rows with an aisle down the middle, were covered in red canvas. On the floor was a red Turkey carpet, very much worn and spotted with grease.
Is, who had never seen a train before, let alone travelled on one, found everything remarkable.
‘Why ain’t there any windows?’ she asked one of the red-coated men as he passed by, making sure that everybody was fitted into a seat somewhere.
‘Why,’ he replied, looking somewhat startled, as if no one had ever asked such a question before, ‘it’s because – that is to say – this train only travels by night – in the dark – so there’d be no point in having windows.’ And he went quickly on his way.
‘How long does the trip take?’ she called after him, but got no answer.
Is found an empty seat beside a shabbily-dressed, dirty-faced, yellow-haired girl, who looked pretty, knowing, and stupid. She was already giggling and winking at the two boys in the facing seats opposite.
‘What’s yer name?’ the girl asked Is.
‘Is.’
‘Is? That’s a crummy kind o’ monacker! Mine’s Mary-Ann. What did you work at? Where’re you from?’
‘Blackheath,’ said Is, not bothering to answer the first question.
‘Blackheath? I never been south o’ the river,’ said the girl, as if this was a virtue. ‘I was a milliner’s ’prentice in Spitalfields. My mum ’prenticed me when I were six, cos there’s ten of us at home. It was crool long hours, I can tell you: start at eight, most nights we wan’t done till two or three. Stitch-stitch-stitch, all day long, only bread and taties to eat, an’ not much o’ them. So I made up me mind to cut an’ run. How d’you hear tell of Playland?’
‘From a fellow in the street.’
‘One o’ the other gals told me,’ went on Mary-Ann, paying little attention to what Is said. ‘It’s a reel prime place, she sez; all you want to eat all day long, no work to do unless you fancies workin’, fun an’ frolic an’ dancin’ every night, every gal has a room of her own with her own bed. Ooooh! I jist can’t wait to get there.’ And she hugged herself and wriggled joyfully on her seat.
‘What about the girl who told you?’
‘Susie? She went off three weeks ago an’ I never saw her no more.’
‘If nobody works in Playland, unless they want to,’ said Is doubtfully, ‘how can they make it pay?’
Mary-Ann stared at her. ‘I dunno! I don’t worrit me head about stuff like that.’ And she tossed her yellow head which did not, indeed, look as if it were capable of worrying much about anything. She caught the eye of the boy opposite, gave him a grin, and said,
‘What’s your name? Mine’s Mary-Ann.’
‘Abel,’ he said. ‘And my friend’s Tod.’
With a gentle jerk, the train started on its way. Once it was rolling along, it made remarkably little sound, above a regular thud-thud-thud from the engine.
‘Ain’t it quiet,’ said Is.
‘That’s acos they got the wheels wrapped in felt,’ explained Abel with a knowing nod. ‘I noticed that, time I got in. And they say the train runs mostly below ground, or anyways in a deep cutting. That way it can’t be seen, see? It’s a secret train.’
‘How often does it run?’ asked Is.
‘Once a month, Susie told me,’ said Mary-Ann. ‘The night afore new moon. I reckon she was right. So, when owd Ma Walters give me the stick for crumpling the pink sarsnet last night, I reckoned I’d up and hop it, fust chance I got. An’ she sent me out today on an errand, to get some more pink worsted, so I jist prigged the fourpence and scarpered.’ She giggled. ‘If this train was to be searched by the rozzers, I bet they’d find a deal of prigged stuff aboard.’
The boys nodded.
‘I run off from a candle-factory,’ said Abel. He exhibited a bag of fat wax candles.
‘Who’ll want them in Playland?’ said Mary-Ann scornfully.
‘Oh, you never can tell. They must have dark there, same as everywhere else.’
‘Oh, you! Think you’re mighty clever, don’t you!’ said Mary-Ann. She and the boys began to exchange a great many jokes, which meant little to Is, unused to this kind of talk. She found them boring, and moved across the aisle to a vacant seat on the other side. Mary-Ann, she could see, would not miss her in the least; in fact she was already beckoning to Abel to come and sit beside her.
Opposite Is now were two girls, younger than herself; one might have been eight, the other nine. They puzzled her because their faces were identical, with pointed chins, triangular mouths and neat little noses, but their colouring was completely different: the bigger one had thick dark hair and brown eyes, the smaller was red-haired and blue-eyed.
‘You two sisters?’ asked Is. They nodded, shyly.
‘How come you’re so different, then?’
‘We got the same mum,’ said the elder one, ‘but we got different dads. My dad took and died, and Mum married again. I’m Tess, she’s Ciss.’
‘And my dad is allus horrible to her,’ explained the younger sister. ‘He clobbers her all the time, and won’t let Mum give her enough grub, and said he was going to send her to the ’formatory. So we 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 re
called 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.
