the cart came to a stop.
‘Heave ’em off here, will tha,’ said a new voice. ‘It’s too late to set aboot ’em tonight. A bit o’ snaw’ll not hurt. They’ll be fettled oop in t’morning.’
‘Time enow,’ somebody agreed.
Is it night again already? wondered Is. Did we spend a whole day on that train? It was possible, she supposed.
The rolls of carpet, including hers, were unroped once more and dropped on the ground. As the horse and cart clopped and rattled away into the distance, a man said, ‘We mid as well shoot oop shop for t’night,’ and a door slammed. Five minutes of complete silence followed.
Now’s my chance, thought Is. And I’d best make the most of it before somebody comes back.
She began trying to wriggle out of the rolled carpet. But the very first thing she discovered was that she could not move at all. She had been wedged in so tightly by the successive layers wound over her, that her arms were pressed into her sides and she seemed to be jammed as firmly as a cork in a bottle.
At least it was possible to breathe. On the cart, the roll had been bent at right-angles, which was nightmarish, for one fold had pressed right across her face, and she began to think she would suffocate. But whoever lifted the roll off the cart had unfolded it and left it lying straight so that, from the end of the roll, about an arm’s length beyond her face, cold fresh air could reach her.
It sure is cold too, Is thought, urgently struggling to move her hands. If I lie here a few hours like this, without moving, I’ll freeze up solid, and they won’t hafta worry about their perishing missing number two hundred and three. They’ll unroll the rug and out will tumble a frozen corpus.
The thought exasperated her so much that she began to struggle in good earnest. Giving up the battle with her arms and hands, she decided that she would have to lever herself along by means of her feet, alternately bending and straightening her ankle-joints. This seemed to work, if slowly; she felt the greasy rug bend and give, a very little, as she dug in her toes.
Up – down. Up – down. Her calves and ankles began to ache. In places the carpet was so oily and slippery that her toes slid back on the surface. Would ’a been better off if I’d ’a been barefoot, Is reflected. But then, I’d be even colder.
She thought about Penny’s stories. There was one about a man who had three wishes and married a swan. If I had three wishes, I know what I’d wish for, thought Is. I’d wish for those two boys to be found, and us all to be back on Blackheath Edge. She thought about Penny teaching her to read. ‘What’s the point of reading?’ Is had grumbled at first. ‘You can allus tell me stories, that’s better than reading.’ ‘I’ll not always be here,’ Penny had said shortly. ‘Besides, once you can read, you can learn somebody else. Folk should teach other folk what they know.’ ‘Why?’ ‘If you don’t learn anything, you don’t grow. And someone’s gotta learn you.’
Well, thought Is, if I get outa here, I’ll be able to learn some other person the best way to get free from a rolled-up rug.
Up – down. Up – down.
You might think, as you got closer to the edge, that the folds would be a mite looser. But that was not so. Twelve layers thick of stiff, rolled-up rug, all glued together with fried potatoes, formed a wrap that was solid as oakwood. And when at last her head did begin to emerge from its carpet-collar, Is found that she had nothing much to be thankful for. Instead of being pressed against filthy carpet, her cheek now lay on stony, gritty, freezing ground. It was dark, with no moon or stars to give comfort; on the contrary, a fine, thick snow was falling, blowing like dust into the folds of the rug.
‘Snow!’ said Is in disgust. ‘Why, it ain’t but November!’
But then she recalled how far north she had travelled, into a colder, darker part of the country. Humberland. The air
‘Heave ’em off here, will tha,’ said a new voice. ‘It’s too late to set aboot ’em tonight. A bit o’ snaw’ll not hurt. They’ll be fettled oop in t’morning.’
‘Time enow,’ somebody agreed.
Is it night again already? wondered Is. Did we spend a whole day on that train? It was possible, she supposed.
The rolls of carpet, including hers, were unroped once more and dropped on the ground. As the horse and cart clopped and rattled away into the distance, a man said, ‘We mid as well shoot oop shop for t’night,’ and a door slammed. Five minutes of complete silence followed.
Now’s my chance, thought Is. And I’d best make the most of it before somebody comes back.
She began trying to wriggle out of the rolled carpet. But the very first thing she discovered was that she could not move at all. She had been wedged in so tightly by the successive layers wound over her, that her arms were pressed into her sides and she seemed to be jammed as firmly as a cork in a bottle.
At least it was possible to breathe. On the cart, the roll had been bent at right-angles, which was nightmarish, for one fold had pressed right across her face, and she began to think she would suffocate. But whoever lifted the roll off the cart had unfolded it and left it lying straight so that, from the end of the roll, about an arm’s length beyond her face, cold fresh air could reach her.
It sure is cold too, Is thought, urgently struggling to move her hands. If I lie here a few hours like this, without moving, I’ll freeze up solid, and they won’t hafta worry about their perishing missing number two hundred and three. They’ll unroll the rug and out will tumble a frozen corpus.
The thought exasperated her so much that she began to struggle in good earnest. Giving up the battle with her arms and hands, she decided that she would have to lever herself along by means of her feet, alternately bending and straightening her ankle-joints. This seemed to work, if slowly; she felt the greasy rug bend and give, a very little, as she dug in her toes.
Up – down. Up – down. Her calves and ankles began to ache. In places the carpet was so oily and slippery that her toes slid back on the surface. Would ’a been better off if I’d ’a been barefoot, Is reflected. But then, I’d be even colder.
She thought about Penny’s stories. There was one about a man who had three wishes and married a swan. If I had three wishes, I know what I’d wish for, thought Is. I’d wish for those two boys to be found, and us all to be back on Blackheath Edge. She thought about Penny teaching her to read. ‘What’s the point of reading?’ Is had grumbled at first. ‘You can allus tell me stories, that’s better than reading.’ ‘I’ll not always be here,’ Penny had said shortly. ‘Besides, once you can read, you can learn somebody else. Folk should teach other folk what they know.’ ‘Why?’ ‘If you don’t learn anything, you don’t grow. And someone’s gotta learn you.’
Well, thought Is, if I get outa here, I’ll be able to learn some other person the best way to get free from a rolled-up rug.
Up – down. Up – down.
You might think, as you got closer to the edge, that the folds would be a mite looser. But that was not so. Twelve layers thick of stiff, rolled-up rug, all glued together with fried potatoes, formed a wrap that was solid as oakwood. And when at last her head did begin to emerge from its carpet-collar, Is found that she had nothing much to be thankful for. Instead of being pressed against filthy carpet, her cheek now lay on stony, gritty, freezing ground. It was dark, with no moon or stars to give comfort; on the contrary, a fine, thick snow was falling, blowing like dust into the folds of the rug.
‘Snow!’ said Is in disgust. ‘Why, it ain’t but November!’
But then she recalled how far north she had travelled, into a colder, darker part of the country. Humberland. The air
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