Free Is by Joan Aiken Page B

that your aunt derives her weather-wisdom, but I am not personally acquainted with that side of the family.’
    ‘You come from Brittany, Great-grandpa?’
    ‘No, child; my great-grandfather did.’
    Is could not contain her next question any longer. ‘Great-grandfather, how old are you?’
    ‘A hundred and two, my child.’
    ‘A hundred and two?’
    He smiled a little, privately, to himself, pouring hot beverage from the saucepan into three not very clean mugs.
    ‘There, child; you must be chilled.’
    Is tasted her drink. It was rather strange; slightly sweet, with an earthy, peppery flavour, at first not disagreeable. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
    ‘Saloop; an old recipe, made from orchid roots. Your aunt Ishie finds them for me.’
    ‘My aunt Ishie – ’
    ‘She is out, just at present.’
    ‘On a mission, Father Lancelot said?’
    ‘Let us hope that she will be back shortly.’ It seemed that Grandfather Twite preferred not to discuss the mission. Father Lancelot, looking slightly ill-at-ease, now rose, placing his empty mug on a corner of the desk.
    ‘That was most excellent, sir. Ah – I will leave you to your family affairs.’ He turned in the doorway to say, ‘And I shall not – of course – mention this – arrival – to anybody – anybody at all – ’
    ‘I am obliged to you, Lancelot,’ Grandfather Twite answered. ‘It will, I daresay, be advisable not to. At present.’
    ‘Great-grandpa,’ burst out Is, when the door had closed, ‘what happens to kids in this place? Where did they take all them ones from the train I come on? What’s the Joyous Gard Hotel? Where am I a-goin’ to find my cousin Arun – if he’s here? Or the other – ’ She checked herself and gazed urgently at the old man.
    He, like Father Lancelot, looked uncomfortable and depressed.
    ‘It is a disagreeable topic, child. I think I should prefer to leave it to your Aunt Ishie to explain . . .’
    He rummaged about and found a loaf of brown bread wrapped in a mouldy old towel; having broken off a piece with some difficulty he gave it to Is, saying, ‘Eat, my child.’
    She chewed gratefully. It was the first food that had come her way for over twelve hours and, though hard as a brick, tasted delicious.
    ‘You arrived on the – on the train, then, child?’ She nodded, munching. ‘How was it, then, that you – that you became separated from the others?’
    ‘A cove – the engine driver – he warned me. Told me I best get out o’ there, if I valued my skin. So I cut and run.’
    ‘Most resourceful,’ he murmured to himself.
    ‘Great-grandpa – how in the world do you get to be so old? If you don’t mind me askin’? I mean – how come you didn’t die years ago?’ demanded Is bluntly.
    Again he smiled to himself – a rather teasing smile – looking down at his empty mug.
    He’s a funny old cove, but he ain’t a bad ’un, decided Is. I like him – I think. He’s better than Dad, at least.
    A random ray of sunshine filtered through the window on to the spot where she sat, and toasted her comfortably. The stale brown bread and warm, rather disgusting, saloop had put new confidence into her. Maybe, arter all, I’ll be able to find those boys, she thought.
    ‘You wish to know the secret of my long life?’ said Mr Twite. ‘You are not the first to ask me that question, my dear, and you will not be the last. Your Uncle Roy, for one, would dearly like to know the answer. Riddle me ree, riddle me Roy.’ He grinned to himself.
    ‘My Uncle Roy? So I do have an uncle in these parts, then?’
    ‘Oh, my word, yes! You do indeed. Your uncle resides,’ her great-grandfather explained in a tone of distaste, ‘he chooses to reside in the new part of Blastburn which, for heaven knows what fanciful reason, he and his colleagues have decided to rechristen Holdernesse.’
    ‘Is Holdernesse the same as Playland?’
    ‘Oh – Playland. Playland is just a figment.’
    ‘What’s a figment?’
    ‘A