smelt of snow, and had also a queer, thick, disagreeable tang – like badly burned milk, she thought.
After another ten minutes of hard toe-and-ankle work, she had her arms free as far as the elbows. And then, at last, she was able to drag one hand into freedom. The fingers were quite numb, from having been jammed against her thigh for so long, but she bent them up and down against her chest until they began to tingle. Then she hoisted out the other hand. Then, bracing both hands against the greasy mass of carpet, she managed to lever herself out into the snowy night.
‘Well, that’s better than a slap with a haddock!’ said Is, and looked around her with pride. She almost wished there had been an audience to applaud her triumph.
Not too many coulda got themselves outa there, she thought. I bet that fat Mary-Ann couldn’t, for one.
Still, perhaps it was as well there had been no audience.
Now, with eyes growing used to the dark, she was able to take stock of her surroundings. She seemed to be in a little cluttered yard with high walls round it, which lay beside a biggish one-storey building. Where they cleans the carpets, guessed Is. The yard had a high gate of slats but this, when she tried it, she found to be locked – or, anyway, fastened on the far side. A sharp wind blew stinging snow into her face.
If I can get outa that rug, I can get outa this yard, Is thought firmly. She looked about for something to climb on and found an old washtub. That, tipped on end, would raise her enough to grapple her fingers over the top of the wall. With a wriggle and a struggle she was up, and kicked away the tub so that it would roll to a distance and not put ideas into anybody’s head about how it had been used.
One thing about the snow, there won’t be any footprints by morning.
She perched on top of the wall and looked down. The drop on the far side was greater – about twice her own height – because the ground sloped. With great care she slithered on to her stomach, hung by her fingers, and let go, landing on cobbles.
Now, where do we go from here? she wondered. And wondered, also, what had happened to those other children, all two hundred and two of them. Were they in the Joyous Gard Hotel? Where was that ? And where was the red-haired man, what had happened to him?
I don’t like Humberland, thought Is. I reckon it’s right spooky. There ain’t a good feel about it, not one bit. Playland , my aunt Fanny! I don’t reckon as much playing gets done here.
She looked about her.
She was standing in what seemed to be a narrow, cobbled lane, running downhill. The buildings on either side were not dwelling-houses, but might be stables, or sheds, or storehouses, and most of them looked dark and derelict. There were no lights to be seen anywhere at all. Farther off in the distance, a lumpy skyline suggested that the land hereabouts was both hilly and covered with buildings, but more than that she could not guess; the snow veiled everything and blew into her eyes, making her blink.
‘Wish I could find a haybarn,’ Is muttered. ‘I wonder where the bogey driver took his rig?’
The night was quite silent. Where’s all the fun and dancing and frolicking? she wondered. I don’t hear much of that .
She started slowly down the hill. A massive stone building loomed up on her right. There was a bulky tower, not very high, with spikes and a steeple on top. A church. Is had never been inside a church; none stood near where she and Penny lived in the woods, and during her earlier life in London nobody in her household ever had any dealings with churches.
But somewhere she had once heard that church doors are always open.
It’s worth a try, I’ve naught to lose, she thought.
The first door she approached had a white paper on it, just visible, and writing on the paper: PLEASE ENTER BY SOUTH DOOR .
There! she could hear Penny’s triumphant voice: now do you see how handy it is to be able to read? Yus, and
After another ten minutes of hard toe-and-ankle work, she had her arms free as far as the elbows. And then, at last, she was able to drag one hand into freedom. The fingers were quite numb, from having been jammed against her thigh for so long, but she bent them up and down against her chest until they began to tingle. Then she hoisted out the other hand. Then, bracing both hands against the greasy mass of carpet, she managed to lever herself out into the snowy night.
‘Well, that’s better than a slap with a haddock!’ said Is, and looked around her with pride. She almost wished there had been an audience to applaud her triumph.
Not too many coulda got themselves outa there, she thought. I bet that fat Mary-Ann couldn’t, for one.
Still, perhaps it was as well there had been no audience.
Now, with eyes growing used to the dark, she was able to take stock of her surroundings. She seemed to be in a little cluttered yard with high walls round it, which lay beside a biggish one-storey building. Where they cleans the carpets, guessed Is. The yard had a high gate of slats but this, when she tried it, she found to be locked – or, anyway, fastened on the far side. A sharp wind blew stinging snow into her face.
If I can get outa that rug, I can get outa this yard, Is thought firmly. She looked about for something to climb on and found an old washtub. That, tipped on end, would raise her enough to grapple her fingers over the top of the wall. With a wriggle and a struggle she was up, and kicked away the tub so that it would roll to a distance and not put ideas into anybody’s head about how it had been used.
One thing about the snow, there won’t be any footprints by morning.
She perched on top of the wall and looked down. The drop on the far side was greater – about twice her own height – because the ground sloped. With great care she slithered on to her stomach, hung by her fingers, and let go, landing on cobbles.
Now, where do we go from here? she wondered. And wondered, also, what had happened to those other children, all two hundred and two of them. Were they in the Joyous Gard Hotel? Where was that ? And where was the red-haired man, what had happened to him?
I don’t like Humberland, thought Is. I reckon it’s right spooky. There ain’t a good feel about it, not one bit. Playland , my aunt Fanny! I don’t reckon as much playing gets done here.
She looked about her.
She was standing in what seemed to be a narrow, cobbled lane, running downhill. The buildings on either side were not dwelling-houses, but might be stables, or sheds, or storehouses, and most of them looked dark and derelict. There were no lights to be seen anywhere at all. Farther off in the distance, a lumpy skyline suggested that the land hereabouts was both hilly and covered with buildings, but more than that she could not guess; the snow veiled everything and blew into her eyes, making her blink.
‘Wish I could find a haybarn,’ Is muttered. ‘I wonder where the bogey driver took his rig?’
The night was quite silent. Where’s all the fun and dancing and frolicking? she wondered. I don’t hear much of that .
She started slowly down the hill. A massive stone building loomed up on her right. There was a bulky tower, not very high, with spikes and a steeple on top. A church. Is had never been inside a church; none stood near where she and Penny lived in the woods, and during her earlier life in London nobody in her household ever had any dealings with churches.
But somewhere she had once heard that church doors are always open.
It’s worth a try, I’ve naught to lose, she thought.
The first door she approached had a white paper on it, just visible, and writing on the paper: PLEASE ENTER BY SOUTH DOOR .
There! she could hear Penny’s triumphant voice: now do you see how handy it is to be able to read? Yus, and
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