The Diddakoi (12 page)

‘Ah!’ said the Admiral.

‘But you
said
. . .’ Kizzy stopped in the cottage doorway flushed with running and disappointment. ‘You said we should have tea by the bonfire,’
yet there was Miss Brooke with the tea table drawn up to the sitting-room fire.

It was a month later. Through the end of September, and first weeks of October, they had had tea in the garden, ‘when it wasn’t absolutely deluging,’ said Miss Brooke. Kizzy
had found the kittle iron, though it was heavy to lug from the orchard, and Miss Brooke set it up; the Does had taken the kettle but Miss Brooke found an old one. The sheltering sheet of iron had
been made steady and a plank found for a bench instead of the ironing board; Miss Brooke had found a wooden box and it, too, had lettering on it:
McGregor Dundee.
Kizzy came home every day
to see smoke going up, the kettle on the boil. ‘I think tea does taste better in the open air,’ said Miss Brooke.

‘Olivia,’ said Kizzy solemnly. ‘I think I love you.’

Once Mrs Cuthbert almost caught them. They heard her knock, but Miss Brooke had locked the front door so that Mrs Cuthbert could not come in with her usual bounce; the only way into the garden
was through the house or the garage – that was locked too – ‘and the hedges pen us in,’ Miss Brooke said. She went to open the door for Mrs Cuthbert. ‘Why Olivia, your
hair’s all ends. You look thoroughly windblown. What
have
you been doing?’

‘Having tea in the garden.’

‘Tea in the garden! In this gale and cold!’

‘We were not cold.’

‘I do love you,’ Kizzy had said when Miss Brooke came back, but now . . . ‘You
said
I should have tea in the garden,’ she accused.

‘You are having tea in the garden.’

‘But you . . .’

‘You won’t need me,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘Go out and look.’

Kizzy went into the garden – but it was not the garden she had left that morning with its narrow flagged terrace edged with lavender, its square of grass – ‘my pocket
handkerchief lawn,’ Miss Brooke called it – that sloped down to the vegetable patch which was bounded by a high hedge overgrown with honeysuckle; the chicken house was in the corner
opposite the built-out L of Miss Brooke’s bedroom where the thatch came past her dormer window low to the ground. The terrace, the lavender and the hedge were still there, but the chicken
house and vegetables were gone, ‘spirited away’ Kizzy could have said had she known those words. Indeed, it seemed as if elf hands had been at work. ‘Funny sort of elves,’
Nat would have chuckled. ‘Me and old Peters and the Admiral – worked like slaves we did. Everything brought at dead of night in the horsebox lorry and hidden in the garage so the Paul
Prys wouldn’t see. Anyway, those who were awake were glued to the telly,’ but it was magic to Kizzy.

Below the small lawn, what had been the vegetable patch was turfed now, and planted with trees that made a screen from the house, little bush apple trees, not much higher than Kizzy’s
head, but there were apples on them, rosy ones; she put out a finger and touched one. It was real, with a real smell. Apple trees cannot be planted when they are in fruit, but Miss Brooke had
skilfully threaded small red apples with fine string and tied them to the trees, so that they looked as if they were growing on them. Through the trees Kizzy could see firelight – ‘and
somethin’ else,’ whispered Kizzy. On tiptoe with wonder she stepped between the apple trees that, she saw now, made a little orchard round a clearing where a fire had been built, not a
heaped bonfire like Miss Brooke’s, but a proper cooking fire built in a hollow. Over the fire was a kittle iron, not big and heavy like Gran’s, but ‘small enough for me,’
and from it hung a stout doll-size kettle from which a plume of steam was coming out; when she saw the steam Kizzy’s knees went weak with wonder. The shelter had become half-size, with a
half-size bench, a smaller box, and, drawn up to the fire, was a wagon, a true real wagon, exactly like Gran’s, ‘only hers was so shabby.’ This was new and painted blue and green
with a carved and gilded front, its wheels hooped with iron; its bottom half-door was shut, the top half open, a flight of steps led up to it, all the right size for Kizzy, a child’s wagon;
no grown-up could come into it. Even Miss Brooke, small as she was, could only have put her head in or else bent double.

There were crisp muslin curtains at the windows and window boxes with earth in them. ‘They are planted with bulbs – miniature bulbs,’ said Miss Brooke, who had followed Kizzy
out. ‘Tiny daffodils and tulips. In spring they will come out.’ A line of washing was stretched between two apple trees, ‘like ours used to do,’ hung with Kizzy’s
jeans and socks and a small apron held by doll clothes pegs. The shafts were lowered into the grass; the only thing missing was the net of hay for Joe that Gran had kept slung under the wagon.

Inside the wagon a light was burning and, going up the steps, Kizzy could see a lamp with a pink shade just like Gran’s, only the lamp was six inches high. There were two bunks –
‘as there were for Gran and me,’ – with pillows and blankets and patchwork quilts. ‘Can – can I sleep here?’ ‘When it’s warmer,’ said Miss
Brooke. There was a child-size table and chair – Gran had had a chair – a strip of carpet, a postcard-size mirror and, on a shelf, a set of china, white with pink roses, doll-size.
‘They belonged to the Admiral’s grandmother,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘Kezia!’ whispered Kizzy.

A small saucepan and frying pan hung side by side: ‘I can make a pan fried cake.’ There were china ornaments and a doll vase of the plastic flowers Kizzy thought so beautiful. A twig
broom stood in the corner. ‘We didn’t need a dustpan. We just swept dust outside, but we did need a bucket.’ There was a small bucket, ‘There’s . . .
everything,’ whispered Kizzy.

The wagon in the firelight threw its shadow on the grass – a child-size shadow; the lamplight shone through the windows in the dusk. Kizzy gave a long sigh, a sigh of happiness.
‘It’s mine.’

The Court had been hearing a case of damage at the village school by ‘two young hooligans’, said Mr Blount and, ‘As we are all here again,’ said the
Chairman, ‘tell us – the traveller child, Kizzy Lovell, is she happy and well?’ and he asked, ‘Miss Brooke? Mr Blount?’

‘Would you like me to leave while you discuss her?’ asked Miss Brooke.

‘There isn’t anything to discuss,’ said Mr Blount. ‘Kizzy is well and putting on weight. She seems to conform now without any difficulty, though she keeps to herself
– that’s perhaps because of an unfortunate episode after school . . .’

‘What episode?’ Mrs Cuthbert, who was there representing the School Board, was instantly alert.

‘It seems some of the children set on her, the girls . . .’

‘Well, it certainly wasn’t my Prudence . . . and, may I ask, why were we not told?’

‘Mr Fraser thought it better to let the children settle it themselves – which they have done,’ and before Mrs Cuthbert could speak again Mr Blount went hurriedly on.
‘Kizzy can read now. Miss Brooke has been coaching her in the holidays and evenings. She is beautifully kept. I feel, sir,’ he said to the Chairman, ‘Miss Brooke should be
congratulated; it might all have been most difficult.’

‘It isn’t finished yet,’ said Miss Brooke. Indeed, Mrs Cuthbert spoke to her afterwards.

‘I didn’t say this in the courtroom because I didn’t want to shame you, Olivia, but I don’t believe you are making such a success of that child. If there’s another
opportunity, I shall feel bound to speak.’

‘Is that a threat?’ asked Miss Brooke, smiling.

‘Olivia Brooke! As if I would threaten, but that little girl is too solitary.’

‘I quite agree.’

‘Then why do you let her be? The fact is, Olivia, you have become possessive. That’s what I meant when I said a single woman shouldn’t take a child. Possessive.’

‘What do I do?’ asked Miss Brooke.

‘Keep her away from everybody – except the House, of course. If any of
us
ask her out you won’t let her come, never let her ask any child near.’

Miss Brooke’s lips twitched. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice, Kizzy,’ she had said some days ago, ‘if you invited some of the girls to see your orchard and wagon?’

‘It would be horrid.’

‘Just one or two,’ coaxed Miss Brooke.

‘No.’

‘They would be fascinated.’

‘No.’

‘Think of showing them the Kezia china.’

‘
No!
’ – ‘And Kizzy got into a state worse than when I suggested asking them to the House,’ Miss Brooke told the Admiral. ‘Yet I feel I must
try.’

‘Don’t,’ said Admiral Twiss. ‘Let her be.’

Clem had been allowed to see – ‘If you won’t tell,’ said Kizzy. ‘Promise not to tell, not even Elizabeth. Particularly not Elizabeth.’

‘I promise,’ said Clem.

‘Say “May I die if I lie”.’ Kizzy was fierce.

‘May I die if I lie,’ said Clem meekly.

‘But mean it. Mean it. Mean it,’ stormed Kizzy.

No one, absolutely no one was to know. ‘But there are some queer goings-on,’ said Mrs Cuthbert.

As soon as Kizzy came back from school, she and Miss Brooke would light her fire and boil the kettle. She taught Miss Brooke some of the gypsy ways with fires: ‘Set them going,’ said
Kizzy, ‘with bits of torn paper, or twigs, dried leaves; put a match to them – Gran used her flint – then build a sort of little chimney with twigs, thin, thin twigs. That pulls
the fire up and then you put on branches; apple and willow burns quick; Gran said oak is good and slow, but we never had any oak; chestnut is bad, it snaps. Sir Admiral sometimes gave Gran elm
logs. Elm is best.’ Sometimes Kizzy fried her own bacon and sausages, roasted potatoes and apples but, even if Miss Brooke cooked it, always had her tea out there. Afterwards she would sit on
her box or, if it rained, go into the wagon and light the little lamp. Miss Brooke would hear her singing and crooning to herself as she fed the fire or just sat dreaming, Chuff beside her. Chuff
too had adopted the fire. Sometimes Kizzy brushed him, sometimes read the big print of her reading books; often she strung beads.

She had all the travellers’ love of ornaments and colours. Miss Brooke had given her a box of old beads and Kizzy spent hours stringing them into necklaces and bracelets. ‘She would
go to school wearing six necklaces if I would let her,’ said Miss Brooke. Kizzy longed to have a ring – like the Admiral’s signet ring or, better, like one that Miss Brooke
sometimes wore, with a moonstone and rubies.

From the upstairs windows Miss Brooke watched and listened.

As the weather grew colder, ‘Kizzy it’s time to come in,’ she would call from the window or garden door.

‘Just a little longer. The stars are coming out. There’s one enormous star; prob’ly it’s Gran,’ – Kizzy had a fixed idea that people turned into stars when
they died – ‘Might be Joe,’ said Kizzy. It comforted her to think the star was Joe. ‘I do need a pony,’ she told his star. ‘You would be too big for the wagon
but you could come along.’

Sometimes Miss Brooke found her asleep on the box or in the wagon’s bunk. Though Miss Brooke was slight, she was strong; she gathered Kizzy up, carried her indoors and upstairs and put her
straight under the blankets into bed. Mrs Cuthbert caught her once. ‘Olivia! You’re too small to carry that great child up to bed.’

‘She’s not very heavy,’ and, ‘Don’t wake her,’ said Miss Brooke.

‘But bed without washing!’

‘She can have a bath in the morning.’

‘Bed in her clothes!’

‘She’ll have clean ones tomorrow.’

The clothes smelled of wood smoke but that was Kizzy’s familiar smell. ‘What
has
she been doing?’

‘Amusing herself.’

‘At this hour! And you let her.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Brooke.

‘As I said before, you have queer ways of bringing up a child.’

‘
Is
it too queer?’ Miss Brooke asked Admiral Twiss. ‘We are encouraging her in make-believe.’

‘Yes,’ said Admiral Twiss, ‘but make-believe is a good splint for a break, and a good many things have been broken for Kizzy.’

It was bonfire night. A huge bonfire had been built on the common. ‘’S’almost as tall as a house,’ said Clem. For weeks the older boys and girls had
been trundling their guys in old perambulators and wooden handcarts round the village and even into Rye, wheedling money for fireworks. ‘Penny for the guy. Two pennies. Five pence,’ and
now all the children were seething with excitement, except Kizzy.

‘You’re coming, Kiz?’ said Clem.

‘No.’

‘There’ll be fireworks,’ said Clem. ‘Not just our own but big fireworks: rockets and Catherine wheels – they go round and round with flashes – and golden rain
– you put bombs on the ground and they make fountains. There’ll be crackers – back-a-rappers we call them. They chase you – and I got a whole packet of sparklers specially
for you; you hold one in your hand and they go fizz in sparks. They don’t hurt you. And there’ll be stalls for hot dogs and toffee apples and candyfloss and we roast
potatoes.’

‘No.’

‘Why Kiz?’

‘They burn the guy. I don’t like that.’

‘Don’t be silly. He’s not real. It’s only fun.’

‘Fun! All of you against one.’ Kizzy said it bitterly.

‘Aw! Come
on
!’ said Clem. ‘Besides, it’s tit for tat. Guy Fawkes, he tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament.’

‘Tit for tat.’ Kizzy liked the sound of that. ‘One day I’ll blow up the whole school.’

‘Then you’ll be a skunk,’ said Clem. ‘Lots of them have been kind to you, the boys, Mr Fraser, especially Mrs Blount – hasn’t she?’

Kizzy would not answer and, for the first time, Clem lost patience. He seized her by the arm and gave her a barley sugar twist, and not a gentle one. ‘Hasn’t she?’