The Diddakoi (8 page)

‘Yes, but her wagon was open – she lived outside – and Amberhurst House, where she has been since, is so spacious. However, my cottage is the last in the village, on the edge
of the common; Kizzy might not feel shut in.’

And I am not far away,’ Mrs Cuthbert chimed in. ‘I can help.’

‘I will only do it on condition that I am not helped.’ Miss Brooke’s flush had deepened but her words were firm. ‘Except by Mr Blount, of course. Yes, it will be
difficult. I think we all realize now that for a time Kizzy will be unhappy, perhaps hostile . . .’

‘Hostile! How dare . . .’ Mrs Cuthbert was breaking in again, but the Chairman raised a peremptory hand. ‘
Madam!
I will not have you interrupting; if you persist, I will
order you to leave the Court.’ Then, ‘Miss Brooke,’ he said, ‘you really are prepared to take this – hostile – child?’

‘What would we be in her place?’ Miss Brooke said it simply. ‘Yes, I would be prepared to do it – prepared to try.’

‘Mr Blount?’ The Chairman turned to the Officer, but Mrs Cuthbert broke in again, though a subdued Mrs Cuthbert. ‘May I say something, sir?’

‘At least she asked,’ the Chairman said to Miss Brooke afterwards, ‘although she didn’t wait for the permission!’

‘Forgive me for being personal, Olivia,’ said Mrs Cuthbert, ‘but it’s my duty to ask – especially,’ she said to the Chairman, ‘as Miss Brooke refuses
help. Though she may have had experience on committees, should a single woman take a child into her home?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Cuthbert, but Miss Brooke isn’t, if I may say so, the usual single woman; nor is this a usual child – in fact, so unusual that we should be grateful for any
solution, let alone such a promising one – but
may
we hear,’ he said with another stern look at Mrs Cuthbert, ‘what Mr Blount thinks?’

‘That it’s an excellent idea,’ said Mr Blount, and the Court ruled that Kizzy would go to live with Miss Brooke, ‘and be supervised, from time to time,’ said the
Chairman, ‘by Mr Blount.’ It was settled – began to be settled, Kizzy would have said.

Term had begun and, ‘This is the morning,’ said Admiral Twiss. He had sent for Kizzy after breakfast. ‘Peters is taking you to school. Then he will pack up
your things and take them to Miss Brooke. She will fetch you.’

Miss Brooke had not spoken while Kizzy was in the courtroom so that Kizzy had hardly noticed her, but she had since come to Amberhurst House, ‘to meet Kizzy properly.’ ‘Told
you so,’ said Peters. ‘Once one of’em comes, others will follow. Told you so.’

If Peters was frozen, he was nothing to Kizzy. Admiral Twiss had introduced her in the library and Kizzy had not spoken – ‘Not once,’ he told Peters – Miss Brooke had not
tried to make her; after she had said, ‘Good afternoon, Kizzy,’ she had talked to the Admiral.

At first it was stilted – Admiral Twiss was almost furiously shy – then she asked him about his silver cups and he showed them to her. ‘These were Rainbird’s.’
‘These were Royal’s,’ and soon he was talking of horse shows and racing as easily as if she had been Nat, ‘until she brought me up short,’ the Admiral told Nat
afterwards. ‘Yes, that was a good day,’ he had said of a certain race meeting. ‘I remember China Court won the Great Metropolitan Stakes—’

‘Not China Court – Mirzador,’ said Miss Brooke and, as the Admiral stared at her, ‘I know because my father trained him.’

‘Your
father
? Then . . . your father . . .’

‘Was Gerald Brooke.’

‘Good Gad!’ and the Admiral turned to Kizzy. ‘Miss Brooke’s father was a famous racehorse trainer, so you see she must like horses too.’

Kizzy only scowled.

As Miss Brooke sat in the big chair opposite him where, since his grandmother, the Admiral could not remember any woman sitting, he wondered how it was that she had come to live at Amberhurst.
He vaguely remembered hearing that when Gerald Brooke died he had left scarcely any money, but Miss Brooke told no more about herself; she talked of the horses, of Amberhurst, of Kizzy, but he
found himself looking rather than listening and, when she got up to go, had an effort to stop himself from saying, ‘You know, you smile with your eyes.’ There could be no pretence in a
smile like that and he had felt heartened for Kizzy.

Now he got up from the breakfast table and blew his nose on his handkerchief; his eyebrows were working as he took Kizzy to the library and sat down by the fire and, as he had always done, drew
her to him, but she stood, stiff and as unwilling as a block of wood. ‘It’s no good, Kiz,’ said the Admiral. ‘We have to go through with this, but I want you to know that
you will always be my girl, and Peters’ and Nat’s, and I want to make a bargain with you.’

‘What?’ whispered Kizzy. She was looking at his ring with the bird on the shield, remembering the first time she had seen it; now too, her eyes were hot with tears.

‘I will promise to look after Joe for you and you’ll come up every Saturday and spend the day with us; Miss Brooke says you can – Sunday as well if you like – but
you
must promise to do everything Miss Brooke tells you.’

‘And if I don’t?’ The words seemed to drop from Kizzy’s lips.

‘They may say we have taught you bad ways and won’t let you see us, which would be sad for us both. I should give your promise, Kiz. Promise you’ll do what Miss Brooke
says.’

‘I promise.’

‘Gypsy’s promise,’ said the Admiral. ‘Gypsies keep their word.’

Kizzy nodded – but gypsies have a way of wriggling round it, as the Admiral ought to have known.

Miss Brooke drove to the school to fetch Kizzy, but when Mrs Blount went to look for her, ‘Kizzy’s gone,’ she said, astonished. ‘I told her to wait for
you.’

‘Which is probably why she has gone.’

‘Do you think she has run back to the House? Poor you, having to chase after her,’ but Miss Brooke did not have to chase. She drove slowly along the lanes and there at the gates was
Kizzy, standing in the road, an uncertain lost little figure. When Miss Brooke stopped the car, Kizzy turned a small mutinous back, but there was something she learned at once about Miss Brooke;
like the Admiral, she did not ask questions. ‘Where do you think you are going? Why didn’t you wait for me as you were told?’ Instead, ‘Kizzy it’s time for tea,’
said Miss Brooke. ‘I can drive behind you, if you like, but if I were you I should get in.’

‘I won’t eat your food or drink your drink and I won’t talk to you,’ said Kizzy at the table.

‘That won’t be very interesting for either of us, will it?’ Miss Brooke answered in a calm voice.

The table was drawn up to the window where there were hyacinths in pots. Miss Brooke had made cheese toasts, they were in a hot dish; the home-made currant buns had a spicy fragrant smell; there
was home-made raspberry jam and the tea was hot in the brown teapot, but Kizzy took from her pocket one of the two crusts she had saved from school dinner and put it on her plate. It was so dry she
could hardly bite it, but she did not touch the butter or jam. Miss Brooke did not seem upset but went on eating and drinking and, when Kizzy had finished, calmly cleared away. Kizzy heard her
humming as she washed up. She doesn’t care, thought Kizzy, and her heart sank. There did not seem anything for her to do so she sat down on the hearthrug and stroked Miss Brooke’s tabby
cat. She liked the cat.

‘His name is Chuff,’ Miss Brooke called from the kitchen. Kizzy withdrew her hand.

Presently Miss Brooke came in; she did not, as most of her neighbours did, turn on the television and take out her knitting or sewing, but sat down, picked up a book and, careful not to glance
at Kizzy, began to read aloud.

‘
Once upon a time
,’ read Miss Brooke, ‘
there was a prince who hadn’t much money, but he had a kingdom, and though this was quite small, it was large enough to
marry on, and marry he would
. . .’

Out of the corner of her eye, Miss Brooke could see Kizzy’s attention was caught, perhaps because she was surprised – no one had ever read to her, just by herself, before.
‘
Still it was rather bold of him to say straight out to the Emperor’s daughter, “Will you have me?” but sure enough she did. .
.’ Miss Brooke’s voice was
enchanting and, as she read, the cottage room seemed to be filled with the story of the swineherd, the prince disguised, the proud princess, the tittuping ladies-in-waiting, the emperor in his old
slippers. Kizzy on the hearthrug was still and Miss Brooke put more expression into her voice; it was some time before she saw that Kizzy had her hands over her ears.

In the wagon Kizzy had gone to bed when Gran went, but in people’s houses children, it seemed, had bedtimes; at the House, Peters had bundled Kizzy off at seven
o’clock; she would have liked to know if it was the same here but, as she had announced she would not talk to Miss Brooke, she could not ask. Then, as the clock in the tiny hall struck seven,
‘Time for bed,’ said Miss Brooke.

When she had shown Kizzy her room it had been meant as a surprise; the room was little, high up in the roof so that the ceiling sloped; when the window was open at night, it seemed to be up in
the stars, and in it was Kezia Cunningham’s furniture from Amberhurst House: the white bed, small dressing table and rocker, the blue carpet. ‘Admiral Twiss thought they would make you
feel more at home.’ Miss Brooke did not mention the fact that she had painted the walls and bought the bedside lamp, papered the wardrobe inside and hung up Kizzy’s clothes, put her
linen away in a white chest of drawers. ‘And here’s a shelf for your things.’ What things? Kizzy might have asked, but she said nothing.

If Miss Brooke were disappointed, she had not shown it and now she took Kizzy upstairs.

‘Needs a woman to look after her!’ Peters had chuckled. ‘Wait till she tries to give Kiz a bath.’

‘Does she object?’ asked the Admiral.

‘Like a mad cat,’ said Peters.

‘What did you do?’

‘Held her down with one hand and scrubbed her with the other,’ said Peters, ‘but they’ll try and coax and wheedle; they always do.’

Miss Brooke did not coax or wheedle. ‘Here is the bathroom,’ she said, ‘and your pyjamas and dressing gown. You may not like having a bath, but you can stand in the tub and
give yourself a wash with this,’ and she showed Kizzy a hand-shower. Miss Brooke had counted on Kizzy’s being fascinated by the shower and she was right. A gleam came in Kizzy’s
eyes and she was betrayed into speaking. ‘’S’like a little watering can,’ she said.

‘Well, you can water yourself – but be careful, it’s hot.’ Miss Brooke showed her how to regulate the taps. ‘Don’t water the walls.’

It was a pity she said that because it was exactly what Kizzy intended, but she had promised to do, or not do, everything Miss Brooke said. She watered the floor instead.

Water flooded the bathroom and began to flow on to the landing and down the stairs. Kizzy turned off the shower and waited until Miss Brooke came up. ‘You didn’t tell me not
to,’ said Kizzy. She was standing in her pyjamas on an island of bath mat and towels and ducked her head for Miss Brooke to lam her, but again Miss Brooke did not; for a moment her hazel eyes
flashed as if she were angry, then, ‘You have had pneumonia,’ she said, ‘so I can’t ask you to help me mop it up.’ She picked Kizzy off the towels and felt her.
‘Your feet are like ice. I’ll get you a hot bottle.’

She put Kizzy into bed and in a few minutes a bottle wrapped in a shawl was at her feet; Miss Brooke brushed her hair, being careful not to pull as Peters did, then said, ‘When you are
sleepy, put out the light. Would you like a book?’

Kizzy shook her head. Soon she was deliciously warm but through the open door she could see Miss Brooke’s head with its smooth silky hair bent down, her back bent too as she knelt mopping,
her hands red now from wringing water out of the cloths. Miss Brooke looked tired. Kizzy remembered Miss Brooke had fetched her from school or, rather, the House gates, and not said a word of
reproach; she thought of the cheese toasts and raspberry jam, the story by the fire. She looked round the pretty room made ready for her, her clothes hung up, the ones for tomorrow folded carefully
on her chair; she felt the hot bottle at her feet and the gentle way Miss Brooke had spoken – even after the water.

Peters would have chuckled but not the Admiral. ‘What would Sir Admiral think of you?’ an uneasy voice in Kizzy seemed to ask and she saw, not his eyes, but little Kezia
Cunningham’s from the portrait in Amberhurst drawing room. Perhaps because Kizzy had her furniture, Kezia’s eyes seemed to be looking at her and, ‘
She
wouldn’t have
done anything mean,’ said the voice. Kizzy almost got out of bed and went to help with the mopping; she would have with Gran though Gran surely would have lammed her. Kizzy almost got up
– almost, not quite.

Since Gran had died – no, since she, Kizzy, went to school – a feeling had grown in her that she had not felt before, a resentment that made her stiff and hard, angry against
everyone except the Admiral, Peters, Nat, and Clem. ‘Everyone! I hate ’em,’ Kizzy would have said. Most of all she had to hate Miss Brooke, but it was proving difficult. ‘It
mustn’t be difficult,’ Kizzy whispered to herself through clenched teeth and burrowed into the pillow to shut out the sight of her. Then she pricked up her ears.

Someone had opened the front door – without knocking – and Kizzy lay still as she heard Mrs Cuthbert’s voice. ‘I just popped in, Olivia, to see how you were getting
on.’

Kizzy held her breath. Would Miss Brooke tell? This is a private battle, Kizzy wanted to say, but Miss Brooke might . . . Then, ‘As well as can be expected, thank you,’ said Miss
Brooke.

A little later Kizzy heard her coming upstairs. She had put the pail and cloths away and came into Kizzy’s room, and again Kizzy held her breath but, ‘Goodnight, Kizzy. I hope you
are warm now. Sleep well,’ and Miss Brooke bent down and kissed her. When she had gone, Kizzy burst into tears.

Miss Brooke had not told Mrs Cuthbert but she did not mind telling the Admiral when he telephoned, even about the tears.

‘Did you go in to her?’