Is by Joan Aiken

showed her how to ram the press-handle down in order to press the message on to the prepared paper.
    ‘Croopus, Grandpa, you really could print a book of stories on this!’
    ‘No reason why not,’ he answered sombrely, ‘but, as Ishie says, who would read them? Now, riddles!’ He picked up his candle, declaiming, ‘In a white petticoat, with a red nose, the longer she stands, the shorter she grows!’ and moved to the far end of the cellar. Here stood a quantity of large earthenware vats, stone jars, wooden kegs, firkins and puncheons, which appeared to be full of liquor in various stages of preparation. Some of them bubbled gently; thick oily liquids trickled at a slow pace down through glass tubes, bubbles rushed upwards through other pipes, and then, cooling again, dripped down to be collected in stoppered flasks.
    There was a warm, yeasty smell of brewing, much more welcome than the sharp odour of burnt milk which hung over the whole of Blastburn and even crept into every corner of the rooms upstairs.
    ‘What a deal o’ toddy!’ said Is, looking round.
    ‘Distilling is my hobby,’ explained Grandpa Twite. ‘Alcoholic drink is very bad for you, and I hardly ever touch it myself; but, it is my hobby to make it.’
    ‘So who drinks it? Aunt Ishie? The Reverend?’
    ‘Bless me, no! Various people, at various times,’ he answered vaguely, and repeated for the third time, ‘Making it is just a little hobby of mine.’
    ‘My dad used to get flaming drunk,’ said Is. ‘And then he’d clobber me.’
    ‘Disgraceful,’ said old Mr Twite. ‘It is as well he – ’
    Aunt Ishie called down the cellar stair’s. Her voice was raised, as if in stress or annoyance.
    ‘Father! Your grandson Roy is here to see you!’
    ‘Oh, perdition it. I wish my grandson Roy were at the bottom of the Red Sea!’ muttered the old man, beginning to climb the cellar stair.
    Is could hear her Uncle Roy’s loud voice, and his loud rattling laugh, long before she saw him – it seemed to fill the whole kitchen, thundering and booming, echoing from one wall to the other. She was quite startled when she came in sight of Roy: he hardly seemed big enough to account for such a row. Though short, he was thick and stocky, grey-haired and whiskered. His face, round and red, had a blob of nose in the middle. Two pale, close-set blue eyes fastened at once on Is and studied her sharply. The eyes had a bright, suspicious stare, like that of a scarlet-faced baby grasping and sucking at its bottle, sure that the whole world intends to snatch it away. He wore a suit of reddish plush – to match his face, Is thought – and a tall hat of the same fretful colour. The hatband was a broad gold ribbon, sparkling with coloured stones. A kind of crown, in fact. So he’s Gold Kingy, she pondered; he’s the one in charge of this whole shindig. He owns the mines and the foundries; it was his notion to split off this land from the south. He’s the enemy of poor old King Richard.
    And he looks like an enemy, sure enough.
    ‘Gad’s teeth! I don’t know how you can stand to live in this kennel,’ Uncle Roy was declaring irritably. He flung his hat down on the table. ‘’Pon my soul, I don’t indeed! It’s a disgrace, a downright disgrace to me ! I’m more ashamed and mortified each time I come here.’
    ‘Then it is odd, Roy, that you come so often,’ remarked Aunt Ishie tranquilly.
    She sat by the table with a bale of coarse canvas, and was cutting squares from it with a pair of sharp scissors. Glancing up, as she completed a square, she went on, in the same tone, ‘And here is your brother Desmond’s daughter Is, come to visit us.’
    ‘How do, Uncle Roy?’ said Is.
    ‘ Desmond ’s brat? How can she be that?’ he demanded. ‘I thought he had only the two, Penelope and Dido. Come to think, though, I suppose she does have a look of Desmond.’ Is scowled at this suggestion. Uncle Roy went on, ‘Well, my girl, you’d best get right back