The Diddakoi (3 page)

When Peters led her out of school, a woman was waiting at the gate. Kizzy knew her, she was Mrs Doe. ‘Wouldn’t come in,’ said Peters. She took Kizzy’s hand and Peters
drove them away in the Admiral’s ancient Rolls-Royce.

‘A Rolls-Royce!’ said Clem.

‘A very old Rolls,’ said Prue.

‘What shall we do with Kizzy?’

It was two days later, the evening of Gran’s funeral, and they had just had supper in the orchard: Lumas and Mrs Doe, their fourteen-year-old twins and their son Boyo, the two Smiths, the
Smiths’ grown-up son, his wife and baby, old, old Uncle Jess and Kizzy were gathered round the fire, drinking mugs of tea. The fire was large and sent sparks up into the sky. Joe made a dark
shape at the end of the orchard; he seemed to want to keep away from the motor caravan, the trailer and lorry, and occasionally blew through his nostrils as if he did not like the smell of them, or
having all these people in his orchard, and shook his head.

Kizzy sat on the ground, her chin on her knees so that the brown cardigan could cover them, her arms round them. ‘Give Boyo your box,’ Mrs Doe had commanded. ‘He’s got a
cold coming on and mustn’t sit on the ground.’ ‘You’re making a fool of that boy,’ said Uncle Jess, but Mrs Doe took no notice and without a word Kizzy had got up and
let the big heavy boy in his thick corduroy breeches have her warm place. Mrs Smith – she had told Kizzy to call her Aunt Em – made room for her on the plank bench, but Kizzy sat on the
ground; she seemed smaller like that and perhaps if she were out of sight they would forget her. If they did she could live perfectly well in the orchard with Joe and the wagon; if they would all
just go away but they went on talking over her head.

‘Wish we could take her,’ said Mrs Smith.

‘We could
but . . .
’ said Mrs Doe, and the ‘but’ seemed to fill the whole orchard.

‘Should be no argument,’ said Uncle Jess. ‘Even if they’re not our family, our children stay with us.’

‘All very well for you to talk,’ Mrs Smith and Mrs Doe said together. ‘’Tisn’t you as does it.’

The lights from the trailers threw bright circles on the grass, brighter than any lights had been in the orchard for a long time; Gran had had an oil lamp with an old pink shade, but now the
wagon stood apart and unlit. ‘We’ll see to that at midnight,’ said Mrs Doe. ‘Don’t want no snoopers.’

‘They won’t be out tonight,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Far too cold,’ and indeed more snow was falling. The fire was hot on Kizzy’s face, the twigs and branches
crackled cheerfully, but her back was cold; she was cold inside too, with a fear that was growing. If only they would go away.

The wagon was almost empty; Mrs Doe had taken Kizzy’s bedding and put it in one of their tents with Boyo. ‘You can sleep here.’ Kizzy had protested. ‘I want to sleep in
our own wagon.’

‘Hush,’ said Aunt Em Smith. ‘No one can sleep there.’

‘Why
not
?’

‘For one thing your Gran left her orders.’ For another, though Mrs Smith did not say it, many true travellers will not use anything belonging to the dead; besides, there were
Gran’s wishes. ‘Doesn’t do to go against the dead,’ yet there was Mrs Doe arguing about Gran’s china.

‘It’s mine too,’ said Kizzy, but no one listened.

‘Old Crown Derby, that’s what it is,’ declared Mrs Doe. ‘Might be worth a mint.’

‘Us must smash it.’

‘Nonsense, Em. Prob’ly ten pounds a cup and saucer.’

‘Us must.’

‘That’s old thinking.’ Mrs Doe was scornful. ‘Look, you take half and I’ll take half.’

‘Why if I took any of that into the trailer, I should be feart!’ said Mrs Smith. ‘To begin with, Uncle Jess would have a fit.’

Uncle! He’s old. ’Course he thinks like that, but why bother about him?’ Mrs Doe’s voice was shrill. ‘Come on, Em. You can have first pick,’ but Mrs Smith
shook her head and backed away. ‘Well, please yourself,’ and Mrs Doe took the china, the mirror, even the vase of plastic flowers into her caravan. ‘The fry pan’s
good,’ she took that too. So I can’t make pan cake, thought Kizzy, but the old bucket and saucepans were left. I can manage with those. Gran, in the letter, had not mentioned Kizzy.
‘’Course not,’ said Uncle Jess. ‘Her took it for granted.’

Uncle Jess was a Smith, an old old man, almost as old as Gran; he lived and travelled with his Smith grandson’s family and had no wagon or trailer of his own. ‘If I had, things would
be different,’ said Uncle Jess.

‘Now Uncle,’ said Mrs Smith. The Smiths had Uncle Jess, their son, his wife and baby and just one trailer and a small tent, while the Does were moving into a council house.
‘Settling,’ said Uncle Jess in disdain, ‘going in brick!’

‘It’s for school,’ said Mrs Doe. ‘Boyo must go to school – and the girls, of course. The Council don’t like overcrowding – and it isn’t
children,’ she added under Uncle Jess’s scornful eye, ‘’tisn’t children as are the bother. When they could just be let run, one child more or less didn’t matter.
These days, it’s the things they have to have.’

Kizzy raised her head. ‘I don’t want any things.’

‘’Tisn’t what you want, dearie,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘It’s what they say you have to have – uniforms.’ Uncle Jess snorted. ‘They do, Uncle
– blazers at least and shoes and satchels.’

‘Bathing things, a towel, and I don’t know what,’ said Mrs Doe. ‘Then it’s ten pence for this, ten pence for that. I tell you it’s hard enough to afford it
for the three we have,’ said Mrs Doe. ‘Wish we could manage to take Kizzy, but we can’t. She goes to school here – they’ll find her a foster home.’

Always ‘they’, ‘they’, thought Kizzy. ‘They’ were against gypsies.

‘No child of ours,’ said Uncle Jess, ‘was ever took into care.’

‘She isn’t ours. She’s half gorgio,’ and, ‘Things are different now,’ said Mrs Doe again.

‘Queer,’ said Uncle Jess. ‘When you had one wagon there was plenty of room; in a fine house with three bedrooms there’s no room at all.’

‘P’raps when she’s older . . .’ said Mrs Doe.

‘She’ll take up more room,’ said Uncle Jess.

‘Give over, Uncle, do,’ said Mrs Smith.

‘I tells you, we must take the child,’ said Uncle Jess, speaking directly to Lumas Doe. ‘When I says we, I means you.’

‘You shut your mouth,’ said Mrs Doe.

‘Are you goin’ to let your ’ooman talk to me like that?’ Uncle Jess asked quietly of Lumas Doe, but Lumas only shrugged. ‘And you a man,’ said Uncle Jess and
spat. ‘Things a’nt what they used to be,’ said Uncle.

Kizzy was too tired to follow more; in any case she was not going with any of them, or anywhere. She would stay in the orchard in her own wagon no matter what Aunt Em said, in her own wagon with
Joe and soon, in spite of the coldness of the frozen ground, she fell asleep. In her dream she thought she heard Joe trampling and a great roaring noise and she woke with a start. The fire seemed
enormous and bright; it was the men trampling, not Joe. Kizzy stumbled to her feet and Mrs Smith caught her by the shoulders. ‘It’s all right, darlin’. You stay here with
me,’ but Kizzy was standing transfixed.

Flames were rushing up in the orchard, so bright they seemed to be dancing in the apple trees and so hot they seemed to scorch Kizzy’s face. A trail of sparks streamed over the paddocks;
it was as well that the young horses were in the stables at night. ‘Fire’s too high,’ said Lumas. ‘It’ll wake the Admiral up and summun’ll come down on us. Ring
the police or fire brigade or Lord knows what.’ The Admiral had woken but, ‘They know what they’re doing,’ the Admiral said to himself, turned over and went to sleep.

Joe, like Kizzy, seemed transfixed. There was a smell of burning paint and wood and hot metal; the men walked round the great fire, poking it with poles. They were burning the wagon; as Kizzy
watched, the body sank, came away from the wheels and the roof fell in. ‘But why?’ asked Kizzy. ‘Why?’

The words seemed to be wrung out of her, but they were quiet. Mrs Smith knelt down beside her and Kizzy smelled her comforting traveller smell, wood smoke and old clothes, but all the same she
did not lean against Aunt Em. ‘See, love, your Gran was an old-fashioned Romany and they, when they die, lays down that their wagon is to be burnt and all they things – yes, rightly, the
china smashed up and ornaments and that – they clothes and photographs burned. We don’t do it now, leastways most of us don’t, but your Gran wanted it and we promised.’ She
looked at Kizzy’s face. ‘Your Gran wanted it, sweetheart, so we had to do it.’

Gran’s things: the bunks under the window, the lace curtains, the saucepans and bucket, the rag rug on the floor, Gran’s chair, the table and shelves. Then – I can’t live
in the wagon, thought Kizzy.

‘And ’tisn’t as if the wagon was any good; it’s fallin’ to pieces – no use to anyone, darlin’.’

‘It was to me.’ There was no use now in saying that.

‘Never you mind,’ Mrs Smith’s voice cut across her. ‘You’ll go to a nice house; nice clothes you’ll have and good schooling. You’ll end up like a
lady,’ and Mrs Smith put on her coaxing gypsy voice. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Mrs Smith, ‘if you won a prize,’ but Kizzy was not listening. Panic had set
in. ‘What will happen to Joe?’ asked Kizzy.

She asked that again, made herself ask it, when the flames had died down to smouldering red and they were once again having tea, sitting round their own fire. ‘But it’s wunnerful
warm everywhere,’ said Mrs Smith. Only Kizzy was cold; even close to the fire she was shivering. Somewhere a clock struck two, it might have been the House stable clock or the village church
clock or one in the next village, everything was so quiet. ‘Told you nobody’d be out,’ said Mr Smith.

Now that the funeral was over, the wagon burnt, there was a feeling of merriment with the warm fire, tea, and a bottle of rum Lumas Doe had brought out. Kizzy had gone down the orchard, past the
wagon’s smouldering heap with its smell of burning. She found Joe, who was not grazing, but standing, hanging his head; when she put her arms round him his neck was wet with sweat, as she was
wet under her clothes, and now, round the fire, with the laughing and talking, she had to ask her question. ‘What’ll happen to Joe?’

‘Who’s Joe?’

That was Mr Smith. ‘He wouldn’t know,’ Uncle Jess said it with fresh scorn. ‘Me own grandson and doesn’t know a hoss from a chair leg. Joe’s the
Lovells’ old hoss.’

‘What’ll happen to him?’ Kizzy had risen and stood shaking by the fire.

‘We’ll find him a home,’ said Lumas Doe.

‘
A good
one?’ asked Kizzy. Her lips would not keep still.

Lumas Doe was feeling jovial. ‘Oh
dordy
, a very, very good one. The best for old hosses.’

‘He . . . won’t be worked too hard?’

‘He’ll have plenty of rest,’ and Lumas and Mr Smith started laughing, but when at last the fire grew low and they went to the trailer, caravan and tents, and Kizzy was in the
tent with Boyo, Boyo said, ‘I know what they’ll do with your Joe.’

Boyo had a camp bed and was muffled in a quilt; Kizzy was in a corner on the ground; she had not known how thin the straw of her mattress was nor how threadbare her blankets – in the wagon
they had seemed perfectly warm; now she lay freezing though she was in all her clothes, her knees drawn up under the cardigan. ‘Do you know what they’ll do with your Joe?’

‘No,’ said Kizzy.

Boyo’s big face peered at her from the bed. ‘Sell him to the knackers.’

‘What’s the knackers?’

‘Horse meat. They’ll sell him for the hounds.’

‘F-for what?’ quavered Kizzy. She had risen in her bed.

‘To eat, silly. He’ll be torn up,’ said Boyo. ‘Those dogs will tear him up and eat him.’ Then Kizzy did to Boyo Doe’s face what she had done to Prue
Cuthbert’s stomach, drove her fist right into it.

Boyo let out a howl and Mrs Doe darted from her caravan. ‘She hit me, Mam, she hit me,’ sobbed Boyo while Kizzy stood silent and sullen. Mrs Doe was already upset from the argument
with Uncle Jess, the burning of the wagon, and an uneasy feeling about Kizzy herself; she took it out in temper. ‘That’s enough of you,’ she said to Kizzy, boxed her ears and gave
her a hard slap in the face.

For Kizzy too it was enough. Gran had lammed her back and bottom but no one had ever slapped her face; the smart of it, the tingling in her ears seemed to make a glare in front of her eyes, the
pain ran down into her throat and choked her. She gave a hard dry sob, turned on Mrs Doe and bit her through the hand.

Mrs Doe shook her off as if she were a small dog and hurled her back on her mattress. ‘Us, take in that diddakoi,’ Kizzy heard her shouting to Mrs Smith. ‘Savage, that’s
what she is.’

‘Give her a taste of the cosh,’ Mrs Smith shouted back but Mrs Doe had slammed the caravan door.

Kizzy lay in a little heap in the corner of the tent; her ears were still singing, her cheek smarted, but that was nothing to the pain in her heart. Joe. Give Joe to the knackers, to the hounds
. . . She felt sick, yet, at the same time, black with hate against Boyo who taunted, Mrs Doe who hit, Lumas Doe who lied. She thought of going to Uncle Jess but he was fast asleep in the
Smiths’ trailer. There was no one but herself, she, Kizzy, and as the night drew out, she knew what it was she had to do.

Boyo was asleep, snuffling on his camp bed. Cautiously Kizzy got up, pulled on her boots and stole out of the tent. Both the trailer and caravan were shut up because of the bitter cold and there
was no sound as she stole between them. All that was left of the wagon was a big heap of smouldering ashes with a red-hot centre and she crouched there a little while, warming herself; as the
hardness went out of her body, Kizzy found she was making whimpering noises like a little animal. They were small noises but Joe heard them, though he was across the orchard, and quietly he came up
and stood behind her, snorting softly as he smelled the fire. Alarmed that someone might hear him, Kizzy got to her feet. ‘We mustn’t stay here,’ she whispered. For a moment she
hugged Joe, then went to the apple tree where his halter was hung. ‘C’mon,’ she whispered and obediently he bent down his head. She slipped the halter on and, taking the rope, she
led him, keeping well away from the trailer, caravan and tents, round the edge of the orchard to the gap in the hedge; it was barred by a plank which she cautiously slid out. She led Joe through on
to the road, keeping him on the verge so that his heavy hooves made no sound.