The Diddakoi (10 page)

In silence they watched while Miss Brooke knelt and gently turned Kizzy over. Kizzy’s eyes were shut, her head rolled limply, and a gasp went round. ‘They’ve broken her
neck.’ Miss Brooke pulled back the hood and examined Kizzy’s head; there was blood on her curls and a purple mark beginning to swell on her forehead. When Miss Brooke pulled her eyelids
up, they could see the whites of her eyes and two of the girls began to sob. ‘Is she . . . dead?’ Mary Jo spoke in a shocked whisper.

Miss Brooke stood up. ‘I think she is stunned, that’s all, but yes, you might have killed her.’ She looked them over and counted them:‘Mary Jo. Jennifer. Sally and Susan
White: Diana. Anne. Carol and Dawn: Judy. Mary Elizabeth. Elizabeth Oliver – you are Clem’s sister and Clem is Kizzy’s friend! Pauline. Louise. Prudence Cuthbert. Fourteen against
one. You cowards!’ said Miss Brooke. ‘Bullying little cowards.’

A car came down the lane, a car from the school house and the girls caught their breath. It was Mr Fraser, the headmaster.

Fourteen pairs of girls’ eyes watched Mr Fraser’s car drive Kizzy and Miss Brooke away. That evening, at home, everyone of the fourteen felt her heart leap each
time the telephone rang or anyone knocked at the door. They had seen Doctor Harwell’s car drive to the cottage; later Admiral Twiss came. ‘Is she very ill then? Will she die?’
They stole in one to the other, gathered in groups – and waited.

‘It was Prue and Mary Jo,’ whispered Susan, who really was a coward. ‘It was Jennifer and Anne. When my Mum finds out I shall tell her it was them . . .’

‘It was all of us.’ Mary Jo was more honest and the anxious questions went on. ‘What will they do?’ ‘What will Miss Brooke?’ ‘Mr Fraser?’
‘Admiral Twiss?’ ‘How can we go to school tomorrow?’ ‘But we’ll have to.’ ‘I feel sick,’ said Susan. ‘What will they do?’

It began to seem they would do nothing, which made the girls more nervous. ‘Wait till my Mum and Dad hear,’ Sally had said, but it seemed a miracle was in being: the village did not
hear. Then was nobody going to tell? ‘Remember the time some money was stolen?’ said Prue. ‘Mr Fraser sent for the parents.’ Wouldn’t he send for them now? It seemed
not; fathers and mothers were going about their ordinary and everyday affairs. ‘Is Kizzy not well then?’ asked Mrs Cuthbert.

‘I’m keeping her in bed for a day or two,’ Miss Brooke said smoothly. Then was Miss Brooke not going to tell?

Oddly enough the silence made Susan feel sicker and even Prudence felt filled with unease. The village naturally talked. ‘What has happened to the Lovell child now?’

‘She fell out of a tree.’

‘No, a tree fell on her.’

‘She is being X-rayed.’

X-rayed – the girls did not like the sound of that.

When Kizzy opened her eyes to find that, once more, she was in bed but with her head singing and throbbing, two tears had squeezed themselves out from under her lids; only two.

‘Cry Kiz,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘It will do you good.’

‘Won’t cry for . . . them,’ quavered Kizzy.

‘She has a tough little nut,’ said Doctor Harwell. ‘Fortunately for her – and for them. She’ll be all right. Little brutes. I should like to give them all a good
tanning.’

‘So would I,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘It would do them good, but it wouldn’t help Kizzy.’

‘But these are
nice
children,’ Mr Fraser had said in bewilderment. ‘Most of them are very nice.’

‘Until they gang up,’ said Miss Brooke.

‘Yes,’ Mr Fraser sighed. ‘One can’t understand but one sees it again and again. They gang up on a particular child – probably he or she is nice too. If one clamps
down as Mrs Blount did, it goes underground and it’s worse for the victim. How can it be dealt with?’

‘I think it’s dealt with already,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘For a moment they thought they had killed Kizzy They won’t forget that, and Kizzy, too, isn’t quite
innocent. She has hit and bitten and scratched and spat. Besides . . .’

‘Besides?’

‘It’s a children’s war. Let the children settle it.’

‘But . . . if it happens again.’

‘It won’t,’ said Miss Brooke. Elizabeth Oliver, Clem’s sister, had told Clem and Clem had come straight round to the cottage. ‘It won’t. The boys
know.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr Fraser.

‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?’ said Clem. ‘Rotten little stinkers. Dirty cowards.’ From their side of the playground, the boys
yelled, ‘Scaredy cats. Have to get fourteen of you afore you tackle one,’ and,

‘Cowardy-cowardy-custard

Can’t eat bread and mustard,’ the boys sang.

Kizzy’s empty place was like a sore mark in the classroom. ‘I wish Mr Fraser would send for us and tell us off.’ Mary Jo spoke for them all. ‘It would be even
then.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Prudence loftily. ‘I’m glad. I don’t care a pin for Kizzy Lovell.’

‘You’ll soon care,’ said Clem, ‘if I catch you after her again.’

Prue started to chalk ‘Clem Oliver loves Kizzy Lovell’ on the wall, but Clem came and rubbed it out with a look of unutterable disdain. ‘Kick her,’ said one of the
boys.

‘I don’t kick girls,’ said Clem, ‘but I can give them barley sugar.’ Barley sugar was twisting an arm behind the victim’s back. He only gave Prue’s arm
one twist and let her go. ‘That’s a taste of what you’ll get,’ said Clem. Prudence hissed like an angry little cat but Clem simply walked away.

‘I’m not coming back to school,’ Kizzy would have told Clem if she told anyone, but she knew how to keep secrets, which is by not telling anyone at all.
‘I can’t go to the orchard,’ she said to herself in that time in bed. ‘They can’t have me at the House so, soon as I’m up, I’ll get Joe and Joe and me will
go away.’ She could not say ‘run’ away because Joe could only plod. She began gathering scraps of food in a carrier bag Miss Brooke said she could have. She had kept every penny
of the pocket money Miss Brooke gave her, ‘to buy sweets or any little thing you want,’ but Kizzy bought nothing. ‘Don’t you like sweets?’ Kizzy did like the few that
had come her way but buying them meant going to the village shop, ‘where they ask questions.’

There was one question she herself asked Miss Brooke as soon as her head was better. ‘Can I go to the House on Saturday?’

‘I expect so – if you keep quiet.’

‘I’m always quiet with Joe.’

‘Doctor Harwell thinks you can go back to school on Monday.’

To Miss Brooke’s surprise Kizzy only nodded, as if it did not matter, yet she must mind, thought Miss Brooke. It must be an ordeal. She looked across at Kizzy’s face which seemed
– contented, thought Miss Brooke. How could she be contented, this unfathomable child? But Kizzy was far away, far over the Downs on Joe’s back. They would walk along at night –
when everyone’s in bed and no one will see us – and camp in woods and orchards, build a fire; she would collect sticks and pick up old dung for fuel. Why, Joe himself could supply a
fire. An old saucepan, thought Kizzy – there was an old one Miss Brooke used for the chickens; she had two so could spare one. I must take matches, planned Kizzy – she had not a flint
like Gran’s. A blanket, some sacks, a net of hay for Joe – Nat would not miss one – her bag of scraps. I can pick onions and potatoes from people’s gardens – she was
small enough to get through hedges – p’raps find an egg. Then, when they were far enough away, she would build a house of branches, or find a hollow tree – ’s good I
am
so small – only first she must be well enough at the weekend to go to Amberhurst House.

She would spend Saturday there, get full of food, stuff myself, thought Kizzy so it will last, collect and hide all her things. Go again on Sunday and, after lunch, when the Admiral and Peters
dozed and Nat went to the Lodge to read the Sunday papers, say goodbye to Kezia Cunningham then put the things on Joe, an’ we’ll just go, thought Kizzy. She suddenly gave Miss Brooke a
beaming smile.

‘Kizzy,’ said Miss Brooke at breakfast. ‘Admiral Twiss telephoned last night.’

Kizzy stopped, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. ‘He didn’t say I couldn’t come? But I must,’ she said. ‘I have to see Joe.’

Miss Brooke made a queer sound like a hiccough and put down her cup. It seemed as if she were going to say something but changed her mind. ‘As soon as you’re ready, we’ll
go.’ Kizzy was too busy with her own plans, hiding the blanket, filling her pockets with matches, bringing out the loaded carrier bag, ‘scraps for Joe,’ she said, which was partly
true – there were one or two apples. Miss Brooke made another of her queer noises and, queerly too, did not put Kizzy down at the gates but drove her up to the House, which did not suit
Kizzy’s plans. ‘Tell Admiral Twiss I will come if he wants me,’ said Miss Brooke as she let Kizzy out.

Why should the Admiral want her? He, Peters, Nat, Kizzy did not want anybody on Saturdays and Sundays; and why did Miss Brooke look grave – and as if she were sorry? Why should she be
sorry? For a moment a cold little puzzlement touched Kizzy, then she shook it off; if Miss Brooke were in trouble she was sorry but this was Saturday – and tomorrow . . . With the blanket on
her shoulder, the carrier bag bumping against her legs, Kizzy set off for the stables, and stopped.

Usually she went straight to the stables and meadow. Later on she and Nat would go to the House and have cocoa in the kitchen with Peters. Usually Kizzy did not see the Admiral till lunchtime
and not always then – often he stayed in his workshop – but this morning he was in the stable yard, waiting. Waiting for me . . . and Kizzy’s heart seemed to skip a beat. He did
not call out to her, but waited and, as she came up to him, she saw that the look on his face was the same as Miss Brooke’s, grave and sorry – sorry to sadness.

Then Kizzy was frightened, more frightened than when Mr Blount had come and taken her to school, or when Peters fetched her and Gran was dead, when the wagon was burned and the Does talked about
her and Joe, when she dared take Joe to the Admiral, or when she was sent to Miss Brooke and when the girls caught her on her way from school. As she looked up at the Admiral, her eyes were
stretched wide with fear. ‘Kiz,’ said the Admiral. ‘It’s Joe.’

‘Joe?’ It came out as a gasp.

Admiral Twiss never dodged, but said things plainly. ‘Joe died last night, Kiz. He is dead.’

Dead. The gravel seemed to tilt under Kizzy’s feet, the stable cupola to run up into the sky. She dropped the blanket and bag. Admiral Twiss steadied her and brought her to the old
mounting block.

‘Nat went to give him his hay at seven o’clock and found Joe with his head hanging, dozing. Nat gave him a pat and held out some sugar, but Joe did not look at it, then he went down
on his knees. Nat ran and got some beer.’

Joe – liked – beer.’ The words seemed to be torn from Kizzy.

‘But, again, he wouldn’t look. Then Nat said he rolled over on the grass and was dead.’

‘Was – he – ill?’

‘No,’ said the Admiral, ‘but he was old – and tired. Nat says his teeth were all worn down, which was why we couldn’t fatten him, but Joe died in his own time, Kiz;
not many horses do that, and in his meadow on his own grass where he had lived.’

‘Show me him,’ said Kizzy.

‘Show a child a sight like
that
!’ Mrs Cuthbert was indignant when she heard. ‘Trust a man to do such a thing.’

‘You can trust the Admiral,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘He knows Kizzy wouldn’t have believed him else.’

‘But to let her see such a sight!’

Joe had not been a sight. When Admiral Twiss took Kizzy to him, he was lying peacefully in the grass. Kizzy held the Admiral’s hand.

Nat came out, took Kizzy’s other hand and together the three of them stood looking at the big still body, at Joe’s head with the white blaze on his nose, his eyelashes – Nat
had closed his eyes – his great legs and mighty hooves that were split and grey – it was a long while since he had worn shoes. His bay coat still shone, Nat had given it many a rubbing;
Joe seemed as if he were asleep, but deep deep asleep.

Kizzy went nearer. ‘Careful,’ said Nat. ‘He’s getting stiff.’

‘Will – will the knacker, the hounds, get him now?’

‘They can’t,’ said Admiral Twiss.

‘Can’t?’ Kizzy’s head came up.

‘Joe’s safe,’ said the Admiral, ‘because this isn’t Joe. He’s not here.’

Kizzy broke from him and put her hand to Joe’s nose, not touching him. ‘He doesn’t huff,’ she said.

‘Of course not. He isn’t there.’

Kizzy looked at the Admiral as if weighing what he said and put down her hand again to Joe. ‘The warm is gone.’

‘Yes.’ Admiral Twiss came to her and gently touched Joe’s body. ‘This is just his old clothes, Kiz. He doesn’t need them any more.’

‘Where is he?’

Mrs Blount might have said, ‘In the horses’ heaven,’ but Admiral Twiss was plainer. ‘We don’t know. Nobody knows, but I believe we shall find out.’

‘When we’re dead?’

‘Perhaps. It seems to make sense, doesn’t it?’ said the Admiral. ‘If Joe isn’t here, he must be somewhere else. Come. We’ll leave his body to Nat.’

‘Shall I go to the House this morning?’ Kizzy asked Miss Brooke on Sunday.

‘Of course.’

For what, Kizzy could have asked, but, as if she had, ‘Admiral Twiss and Peters are there,’ said Miss Brooke, ‘and Nat, and there are other horses.’

That was what Nat said. ‘You have to swaller this.’ Kizzy, almost automatically, had gone to him in the stables where he was hosing down Flavius, a colt who had a swollen leg.
‘Swaller it down. Joe was a hoss and, like it or not, hosses won’t last you all your life. They come and they go; dealin’ with hosses you have to learn that. Near broke my heart,
I did, when Royal went at Beechers.’

‘Beechers?’

‘The jump in the Grand National, stupid. What a jump! Feels as if you drop twenty feet. Must clear the water. He went in; had to pull him out with ropes but his neck was broke. Royal and
Taggart – reared him by hand I did – and Bonbon; used to put her nose in my pocket for sugar, and did she nip if there wasn’t any. Right spoiled she was; peppermint creams too,
but blest me if she didn’t get moon blindness; went blind bit by bit, so she had to be put down. You have to swaller it.’