Is by Joan Aiken Page B

comand – the city has been entirely rebuilt inside it.’
    ‘Well, I’ll be ! A whole town inside of a cave! I suppose that way,’ said Is, thinking about it, ‘they don’t get no rain or snow. It would be jist prime for the street kids. No crossings to sweep, though, no mud. Is that where all the kids are?’
    ‘No,’ said Aunt Ishie.’ They are in the mines. Or the foundries. Or the potteries.’
    ‘In the mines?’
    ‘All children here,’ said Aunt Ishie, ‘are set to work. From age five. In the coalmines, in the foundries, in the breweries, in the potteries. The mines are far from the town, now, under the sea; they are very, very extensive. The children work and sleep there.’ Her voice sounded flat with exhaustion and depression.’ I send them comforts when I can get hold of a messenger. And I visit the ones who are closer at hand.’
    ‘Is that where you jist come back from?’ exclaimed Is, suddenly illuminated. ‘The old cove – Father Lancelot – said you was on a mission.’
    ‘Yes. Those poor wretches spend their lives working. They have no free time. I talk to them – tell them what I can. A little history. A few tales or poems – something to put into their minds, to lighten so many hours of drudgery.’
    ‘Their minds . . .’ said Is slowly.
    And suddenly – like a signal, like a summons – the same tingling shock exploded in her own mind as had roused her when she lay asleep in the goods wagon. It felt exactly as if somebody had reached out a cold vibrating tuning fork and touched her on her most sensitive point.
    ‘What is it, child?’ said Aunt Ishie. ‘You have turned white. Are you faint?’
    ‘N-n-no,’ said Is slowly. ‘It’s naught. Do you think my cousin might have been sent to work in the mines? If he travelled up here on that kids’ train?’
    ‘Almost certainly – either the mines or the foundries. That’s where boys go. They – the workers in those occupations – have to be replaced most frequently; there is a continual need for new hands. That is why – ’
    ‘That’s why they gotta fetch in new ones from the south all the time – now I see. What happens to the old ones? No,’ said Is, ‘you don’t hatta tell me, I can guess.’
    Aunt Ishie crossed her arms over her thin chest and bent her head.
    ‘Your grandfather and I – when your uncle became so rich he offered us a fine large house in the new city. Underground. He greatly dislikes our continuing to live here. But we do not – we could not – no, we could not. Grandfather, indeed, would be happy to remove entirely – go to some other region. Or at least so he sometimes says. But I – but I – no, I could not do that. Little though my efforts achieve, I would rather stay and do what I can. And your uncle – has a reason of his own for wishing to keep your grandfather here. But he strongly disapproves of us – of our habits. It makes him angry. He feels,’ Aunt Ishie finished with a wintry smile, ‘that we bring disgrace to the name of Twite.’
    ‘Disgrace to the name of Twite,’ repeated Is slowly. ‘Blimey!’
    A step was heard on the stair, and a tap on the door.
    ‘That will be Dr Lemman,’ said Aunt Ishie. ‘He is always very obliging about disposing of my bath water.’
    And indeed a head poked round the door and said, ‘Shall I take the tub now, Isabetta?’
    ‘Yes, thank you, Chester. And here is my great-niece, my nephew Abednego’s daughter, Is. She and I share the same name. She has come to us from the south.’
    ‘Good gad, dearie!’ said Dr Lemman, stepping completely into the room. ‘Don’t she know what a pilaguey dangerous spot she’s come to?’
    Is had no ready-made notion as to what a doctor should look like. She had not seen many. Doc Spiddle at Lewisham was fat and red-faced. But certainly Dr Lemman was far, far from anybody’s vision of a regular doctor. He was thin and wiry, with bristly, rusty-brown whiskers which seemed to sprout all over his head