which way is south? Is retorted, but she acknowledged that if she kept walking round the church she must, in the end, find the south door.
In fact it was on the next side she came to, a big arched wooden door with a heavy iron latch which turned obediently in her grasp. She slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her.
The air inside the church was not especially warm, but it certainly was a much more comfortable temperature than the snowy blast outside. And there was a faint radiance from one dim candle burning on a table somewhere a long way off. Is did not approach it. Close at hand she found rows of wooden benches with upright backs. There were no cushions, but she was in no mood to find fault. She stretched herself out luxuriously, had time for one longing thought of Figgin, then fell asleep.
When she woke next, a kind of grey dawn-twilight was beginning to filter through high-up rows of pointed, greenish windows.
What the blue blazes am I doing here? Is thought, lying on her back.
Then her memory came back with a rush, and she sat up. She saw what had doubtless been responsible for waking her – an old gentleman in a black gown, who was pottering gently about in the distance, kneeling and standing and talking to himself. Or at least, he was not talking to Is.
She waited patiently until he had finished his business and was coming slowly towards her along a gap between the benches. He was, she noticed, entirely bald, which gave him a somewhat startled expression, since his forehead seemed to go up and up, over the back of his head. He had large round eyes and a large mouth, and reminded her of Humpty-Dumpty.
But still, he looked quite sensible.
She greeted him. ‘Hey, mister!’
He was so startled at the sight of her that he almost dropped the lamp he carried. But he recovered himself in a moment and replied to her kindly enough:
‘My child! How in the world did you arrive here in St Bridget’s?’ He added after a moment, rather hesitantly, ‘Are you – are you attempting to take sanctuary?’
Some time during the night Is found that she had decided on a course of action. This is a real havey-cavey place, she had concluded; I get a strong notion that kids is not treated right up here. I better find me a friend who isn’t a kid, who’ll maybe stand by me if there’s trouble. What good is family if they don’t look out for you, after all? I gotta find my Uncle Twite. And then, if things comes up rough, maybe he can help out.
So, to the old gentleman’s question, she replied,
‘No, mister, I ain’t taking anything. I jist stopped in here to get a bit o’ shut-eye and wait till day. Now it’s light, can you help me? I’m looking for a cove called Twite, Mister Twite.’
Again the old gentleman seemed greatly amazed. He studied Is long and doubtfully, then muttered to himself,
‘Well! I can do no more than accede to her request. In fact I can do no less . – My child, I am in a most favourable position to grant your wish, since I myself live in the same building as the gentleman you mention, Number Two, Wasteland Cottages.’
‘You do? Now ain’t that fortunate!’ said Is. ‘Can we go there now, mister? Is it far from here?’
For she thought, firstly, that the sooner she was off the streets the better, in case the men who ran the Playland Express were still searching for their lost passenger, number two hundred and three; and, second, she felt very hollow and rather hoped that her Uncle Twite might be inclined to offer her breakfast.
‘No, not far,’ replied her companion. ‘You may, by the way, address me as Father Lancelot. We will go there directly.’
He led the way out into an icy-cold and foggy morning.
Is glanced about her with curiosity as they made their way down the hill. Through the fog and the snow, which continued to fall thinly, she could see glimpses of what looked to be a mournful, derelict and battered landscape. Everything that could be done to it had been
In fact it was on the next side she came to, a big arched wooden door with a heavy iron latch which turned obediently in her grasp. She slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her.
The air inside the church was not especially warm, but it certainly was a much more comfortable temperature than the snowy blast outside. And there was a faint radiance from one dim candle burning on a table somewhere a long way off. Is did not approach it. Close at hand she found rows of wooden benches with upright backs. There were no cushions, but she was in no mood to find fault. She stretched herself out luxuriously, had time for one longing thought of Figgin, then fell asleep.
When she woke next, a kind of grey dawn-twilight was beginning to filter through high-up rows of pointed, greenish windows.
What the blue blazes am I doing here? Is thought, lying on her back.
Then her memory came back with a rush, and she sat up. She saw what had doubtless been responsible for waking her – an old gentleman in a black gown, who was pottering gently about in the distance, kneeling and standing and talking to himself. Or at least, he was not talking to Is.
She waited patiently until he had finished his business and was coming slowly towards her along a gap between the benches. He was, she noticed, entirely bald, which gave him a somewhat startled expression, since his forehead seemed to go up and up, over the back of his head. He had large round eyes and a large mouth, and reminded her of Humpty-Dumpty.
But still, he looked quite sensible.
She greeted him. ‘Hey, mister!’
He was so startled at the sight of her that he almost dropped the lamp he carried. But he recovered himself in a moment and replied to her kindly enough:
‘My child! How in the world did you arrive here in St Bridget’s?’ He added after a moment, rather hesitantly, ‘Are you – are you attempting to take sanctuary?’
Some time during the night Is found that she had decided on a course of action. This is a real havey-cavey place, she had concluded; I get a strong notion that kids is not treated right up here. I better find me a friend who isn’t a kid, who’ll maybe stand by me if there’s trouble. What good is family if they don’t look out for you, after all? I gotta find my Uncle Twite. And then, if things comes up rough, maybe he can help out.
So, to the old gentleman’s question, she replied,
‘No, mister, I ain’t taking anything. I jist stopped in here to get a bit o’ shut-eye and wait till day. Now it’s light, can you help me? I’m looking for a cove called Twite, Mister Twite.’
Again the old gentleman seemed greatly amazed. He studied Is long and doubtfully, then muttered to himself,
‘Well! I can do no more than accede to her request. In fact I can do no less . – My child, I am in a most favourable position to grant your wish, since I myself live in the same building as the gentleman you mention, Number Two, Wasteland Cottages.’
‘You do? Now ain’t that fortunate!’ said Is. ‘Can we go there now, mister? Is it far from here?’
For she thought, firstly, that the sooner she was off the streets the better, in case the men who ran the Playland Express were still searching for their lost passenger, number two hundred and three; and, second, she felt very hollow and rather hoped that her Uncle Twite might be inclined to offer her breakfast.
‘No, not far,’ replied her companion. ‘You may, by the way, address me as Father Lancelot. We will go there directly.’
He led the way out into an icy-cold and foggy morning.
Is glanced about her with curiosity as they made their way down the hill. Through the fog and the snow, which continued to fall thinly, she could see glimpses of what looked to be a mournful, derelict and battered landscape. Everything that could be done to it had been
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