Cold Shoulder Road by Joan Aiken

indignant gestures as of one who shooes away intrusive pigeons.
    “Hush , boy! Go away !” he hissed when he was within whispering distance. “You disturb our Holy Quiet. Suppose the Elder heard you!”
    “What if he had?” said Arun defiantly. “He’s not my leader.”
    But, already, the spirit that had so suddenly taken hold of him seemed to be ebbing out as fast as it had come; he shrugged, kicked a pebble, and turned away from the door, which was shut quickly but softly behind him.
    Then Is noticed that the girl in the red dress was running towards them. All the blue-shirted boys from the class had begun dispersing in different directions, walking very quietly, looking at the ground, clasping their piles of school-books. Lessons were done for the morning, it seemed. Only the girl skipped along cheerfully, kicking up her heels, staring curiously at Is and Arun.
    “Hey, was that you singin’, you boy?” she asked Arun. “It was a real spanger, that tune! Sing it again! Who are you? Are you staying here? What’s your names? Why are you so dirty? I’m Jen Braeburn. I’m the worst girl in the town. Everybody’ll tell you that!”
    “Why are you the only girl in the school?” Is asked.
    “Cos the Silent girls ain’t allowed to go to school. They gotta stay home and do the dishes. But my Dad runs the King’s Head, he ain’t Silent, and he won’t have me about the pub in opening hours. So I goes to school. My little sister Fenny, she useta go, too, but she got took by the Gentry for a Handsel. It’s a precious shame. I’m the only one that—”
    Somebody tapped Is on the shoulder.
    She turned, to see a small, brown-faced woman regarding her searchingly.
    The woman wore the regular clothes of the Silent Sect – blue pinafore, white shirt – but her soft, curly white hair escaped here and there from under the tight blue headscarf. Her face was weathered, and very much lined, with deep grooves from nose to mouth, but its expression was friendly. Her eyes were a dark brown.
    She tapped herself on the breast, then gestured along the street, then beckoned Is and Arun to follow.
    “That’s Mrs Swannett,” said Jen Braeburn helpfully. “Reckon she wants you to go along to hers. I’ll see you later. On the beach, maybe? Or . . . I’ll tell you what—” she suddenly leaned close and whispered, “I’ll see you at the Talkfest! At Birketland! We has rare times there! We play word-games! It’s prime! You come along to Birketland; then you can sing that song again.” She put her finger to her lips with a mocking grin, hissed “Lomak!” then scudded away towards the King’s Head.
    They followed Mrs Swannett, who led them along the main street, still beckoning them to follow. Her house was the last, at the northern end of the town. Beyond lay the beach, littered with driftwood. The house was white-painted, trim, and had a small yard in front which contained nothing but cobblestones.
    Mrs Swannett opened the front door and stepped inside, beckoning them to follow.
    The front room, neat and clean, was furnished as plainly as possible. There were four chairs, a table, shelves with some china, and a few pots. No pictures, no ornaments. Their hostess beckoned them through this room into a back kitchen, which had in it a curved copper washtub perched on brick pillars above a fire of driftwood and sea coal. The water in the tub steamed enticingly.
    “Reckon the lady thinks we’d like a wash-up,” suggested Is.
    Mrs Swannett nodded. Her eyes rested calmly on their bruises and scrapes and general state of filth.
    “Well . . . I reckon we are a bit mucky,” Arun conceded.
    But, wondered Is, if we take our duds off, how’ll we ever get them back on again? Mine are just about in shreds. If we had anything else to put on—
    To her surprise, Mrs Swannett seemed to catch her thought; she pointed at the ceiling, then again, decisively, at the hot water. She appeared to measure Is with her eye, then left the