The Diddakoi Read online

  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.

  The road was black, high hedges made it darker and cut off the stars, but travellers need no torch, their eyes seem to see in the dark and Kizzy could guide herself and Joe. When they came to a gate, she stopped him beside it, climbed the bars and scrambled on to his back. Then, still holding the rope and kicking him gently to send him along, without a sound they rode away into the night.

  Admiral Twiss was having breakfast. It was said in the village that he ate off a newspaper spread on the table and that he and Peters and Nat lived off whisky, hard-boiled eggs, food out of tins, ‘and everything fried.’ ‘Very bad for them,’ said Mrs Cuthbert. ‘But do you wonder – no woman to do anything. They say the house is dreadfully neglected.’ The village could only ‘say’ because it did not know; Mrs Cuthbert, or any other of the village women, were never invited in, not even into the hall. The Vicar could have told them, or Mr Fraser, the school’s headmaster, or Doctor Harwell; they often dined at the House and played chess or bridge with Admiral Twiss, but they were quiet men and did not talk. The villagers were sorry for the Admiral. ‘I don’t know how they manage,’ Mrs Cuthbert told Miss Brooke.

  ‘They all look well-groomed and well-fed,’ Miss Brooke pointed out and indeed that morning the Admiral had an old-fashioned breakfast: coffee, porridge – he liked it with salt – kidneys on toast served in a silver dish, more toast and marmalade. It was true that Admiral Twiss looked a little lonely – the cloth was laid at one end of the long mahogany table that could seat twenty people – but the tablecloth was fresh, ‘every morning,’ said Peters; the delicate patterned china shone with cleanliness as did the silver, the whole room. ‘Women chase dirt,’ said Peters. ‘I deal with it.’ Indeed he always seemed to have a vacuum cleaner in his hand. Twice a year, when the Admiral went away – in spring for the racing at Aintree, the Topham Trophy and Grand National, in August to the Dublin Horse Show – a London firm, ‘of men,’ said Peters, came down and gave the House a thorough cleaning from attics to cellars; the rest of the time most of the rooms were closed. The groundsman who looked after the cricket pitches cut the lawns and clipped the hedges; there were no flowerbeds, only a tangled jungle where flowers had been, but Peters kept the vegetable garden with an old man who came from the village every day. The ‘old ’un’, as they called him, looked after the greenhouses too. ‘It’s not impeccable but it’s all in order,’ said Admiral Twiss, ‘and peaceful,’ he might have added.

  Peters usually served the Admiral in the companionable silence they kept together, but this morning he seemed excited – excited for Peters, which meant his eyes were even bluer than their usual speedwell blue, his forehead was flushed and he limped more quickly. Something had happened, but Peters did not speak of it until the Admiral had finished, nor did the Admiral ask him, but when he wiped his moustaches and put the napkin down, ‘Admiral Sir,’ said Peters, ‘the little girl is here.’

  ‘What little girl?’

  ‘From the orchard. You know they burned the wagon last night.’

  ‘Yes, the old woman wanted it,’ said Admiral Twiss.

  ‘Well, that’s their business,’ said Peters. ‘Nat just went out to quiet the horses – smelled it in the stables they did – but this morning when I come down, there was Mrs Lovell’s old horse on the drive.’

/>   ‘Frightened off?’

  ‘No, sir – it was on a rope and when I opened the front door, the child was asleep on the step – like a frozen bird,’ said Peters.

  ‘Good Lord!’ said the Admiral.

  ‘Yes, sir. The step and her clothes were covered with snow but the rope was still in her hand, the horse standing there patient, dejected like.’

  ‘How long had they been there?’

  ‘Hours I guess,’ said Peters. ‘Most like she didn’t dare to knock or ring.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘Hadn’t had your breakfast, sir.’ In Peters’ opinion no small gypsy or, indeed, anyone should interfere with the Admiral’s breakfast and, ‘I attended to her, sir,’ said Peters with dignity.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Called Nat, made over the horse to him. He rubbed it down and gave it gruel with beer. Not used to being in, so he thought best to put it in the yard with some hay. Nice old hoss,’ said Peters. ‘Nat says it must have been a good ’un once . . . not bony like a gypsy’s horse, well-fed.’

  ‘And the child?’ asked the Admiral.

  ‘Took her in the kitchen by the fire,’ said Peters. ‘Got off her boots and clothes, shabby and old but clean – except the boots. Wrapped her up in that old camel hair dressing gown of yours, sir, thought it would be soft and warm; blankets over that with a hot bottle to her feet and stomach. She whimpered from the pain as she warmed. Didn’t cry, but her eyes . . .’ Peters swallowed. ‘Big as teacups they looked in her dirty little face, dirt and tears, sir. I gave her hot milk with an egg beaten up and plenty of sugar, sugar for the shock. There’s been a shock, sir.’

  ‘She’s seen her home go up in flames.’

  ‘Seems more than that,’ said Peters. ‘She kept calling, “Joe, where’s Joe?” Told her he was safe with Nat and told Nat to keep a sharp eye on him. As she comes round, she keeps begging, “Please can I see Sir Admiral?” That’s what she calls you. “Please, please, Sir Admiral”.’

  ‘Bring her to the library,’ said Admiral Twiss.

  ‘Sir Admiral?’

  His dressing gown trailed on the floor behind Kizzy though she tried to hold it up; her bare toes curled away from the feeling of the carpet – she had never been in a room that had a pile carpet before, or long curtains, velvet curtains, and walls made of books, or so it seemed to Kizzy; she could not see them properly because the books seemed to swim round the room, the fire to blaze up and sink down again in an odd way. Kizzy could feel sweat under her curls, her cheeks were hot yet she was shivering. The Admiral was sitting in a chair quite close to her but she found it difficult to say what she had to say; at last she managed to get it out: ‘Pl-please, Sir Admiral, d-don’t let them take Joe.’

  ‘Let who take him?’ The Admiral’s voice was quiet.

  ‘The D-Does and S-Smiths.’ Kizzy was shaking now. ‘They came because of Gran . . .’

  The Admiral nodded. ‘I fetched them,’ and, looking at her, he asked, ‘Was that wrong?’

  It was a queer question for a gentleman to ask a little gypsy girl, but the Admiral was serious. Kizzy shook her head. ‘Someone had to come – for Gran – but Joe . . . Sir Admiral, c-could you k-keep him here with yours? You like horses, Gran said you did. Joe’s old, not like yours but sir, he’s Joe. Gran said she had had him more’n twenty-five years and now . . .’ Kizzy gave a sob, ‘they’ll send him to the knackers . . . Boyo says he’ll be torn up . . . hounds will eat him up . . . Boyo told me and Mrs Doe . . .’ Kizzy clenched her fists.

  ‘And what did you do then?’ The Admiral was watching her.

  ‘Hit ’em and bit ’em,’ said Kizzy. There was a sudden twinkle in the Admiral’s eyes but when he spoke he was still serious.

  ‘You didn’t tell them you were coming to me?’

  Kizzy did not think that worth answering. ‘They don’t know you,’ she said disdainfully.

  ‘But you do.’

  ‘I know your Christmas church,’ said Kizzy, ‘and the little people singing inside.’ The Admiral did not ask, ‘What little people?’ ‘And I seen you looking at the hosses.’ She lifted her eyes to the Admiral’s face and did not even see the bristling eyebrows and moustaches, only his brown eyes that did not look fierce now but kind which, oddly enough, made her want to cry. ‘G-Gran knew you,’ she said. ‘When – when you talked to her, it was d-different.’ A tear slid down. ‘You l-lifted your hat,’ whispered Kizzy.

  ‘Of course,’ said the Admiral.

  ‘So I thought you wouldn’t let them send Joe to the knackers,’ Kizzy said it in a rush as she felt more tears coming.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Admiral Twiss. ‘That’s no way to treat a fine old horse,’ and he took Kizzy’s hot small hand into his own cool one. Looking down at it she could see his heavy ring with a bird carved into it on a shield, and the way his veins stood out like cords. She felt too how firm it was. A tear fell on it and the clasp tightened. ‘They won’t get Joe,’ said the Admiral. ‘I’ll go down and see Lumas Doe,’ but there was no need. At that moment they heard a voice arguing. Lumas was standing on the drive, shouting at Peters. The Admiral felt how Kizzy trembled when she heard his voice and, ‘Wait here,’ he said and, ‘Call the man into the hall,’ he told Peters.

  ‘Should talk to him on the drive, Admiral Sir. He’s a dirty one,’ said Peters, but the Admiral shook his head.

  ‘Well, Lumas,’ he said. ‘Still taking what isn’t yours?’ The Admiral’s voice was pleasant but, He knows Mr Doe, thought Kizzy listening.

  ‘Us guessed she was here.’ Lumas was belligerent. ‘Little varmint! Sneakin’ off.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t she? It’s her horse.’

  ‘Hers?’ shouted Lumas.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kids don’t own hosses.’

  ‘This one does. Old Mrs Lovell’s possessions will go to her next of kin. That’s the child, Lumas, not you.’

  ‘What about my expenses?’ said Lumas in the ingratiating whine every traveller can adopt. ‘Payin’ for the funeral an’ all.’

  ‘Mrs Lovell paid for her own funeral,’ the Admiral said crisply. ‘I happen to know because she left the money with me and I paid it to Uncle Jess Smith.’

  ‘But we come over at once,’ pleaded Lumas. ‘Us and the Smiths. Up sticks and come. That costs something with petrol and all.’

  ‘Not the thirty pounds you would have got from the knackers. You were doing the child out of that. Well, let’s say you had a certain amount of trouble and you did the job well, so I shall give you twenty pounds. Take it and keep clear of the horse.’

  ‘Twenty!’ Lumas was outraged.

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Make it twenty-five.’ Lumas tried to make his whine more ingratiating.

  ‘Twenty and you’re lucky.’ Her eye to the door, Kizzy saw Admiral Twiss take out his wallet. At the sight of the notes and the sound of their paper crackle, Lumas’s whole face changed, as Kizzy had known it would.

  He put out his hand, then stopped. A gleam had come into his eye. Unlike Mr Smith, Lumas Doe liked horses – young ones he would have said. ‘You wouldn’ trade with that roan colt, sir?’

  ‘I would not,’ and the Admiral said to Peters, ‘Get his receipt, then give him the money.’

  Admiral Twiss came back to Kizzy. ‘That is settled,’ he said. ‘We’ll put Joe in the small meadow. It has buttercups in summer and he’ll be under Nat’s eye. No one can get him there.’

  ‘Sir Admir . . .’ but Kizzy did not finish saying it. The book-lined walls that had seemed to swim, the fire that blazed up and down, blurred together in front of her eyes; she tottered in the camel hair dressing gown. ‘I . . . don’t feel . . . very w-well,’ gasped Kizzy.

  ‘Pneumonia,’ said Doctor Harwell. ‘Strange. I have never known a gypsy child get it before.’

  ‘She’s been through bad distress,’ said Admiral Twiss.

  ‘And up all night,’ said Peters.

  ‘I’ll call the
ambulance.’ Doctor Harwell shut his case. ‘Though I don’t like moving her in this weather.’

  ‘It’s not only that.’ The Admiral said it slowly. ‘For a traveller child to go into hospital is harder than for most. They’re not used to central heating, bright lights, modern clatter. She . . .’ and Admiral Twiss took the plunge, ‘she had better stay here.’

  ‘You would have to get a nurse.’

  The Admiral and Peters exchanged glances of consternation. ‘But she would be a woman,’ said Peters.

  ‘Naturally.’ Doctor Harwell could not help smiling at their faces.

  ‘We needn’t have a nurse,’ said the Admiral. ‘If you will give us your instructions, I can get Mrs Doe or Mrs Smith up to see to her,’ but when Doctor Harwell had left and Admiral Twiss walked down to the orchard, it was empty; the Does and Smiths had gone. ‘Taken your twenty pounds and moved out,’ said Peters. All that was left were droppings of Joe’s, the small ash of the fire and a bigger pile, still smoking, of the wagon with, lying in it, the bent and blackened iron hoops of the wheels. ‘In any case, they wouldn’t stay on a site where there had been a death,’ said the Admiral, but the Does and Smiths had not kept the orchard rules: tins and rubbish lay about and, ‘I can guess we shan’t see them again,’ said Admiral Twiss.

  Chapter Three

  In Mrs Blount’s classroom Kizzy’s place stayed empty. ‘I suppose those other travellers have taken her away,’ said Mrs Blount.

  ‘That is what I’m afraid has happened.’ Mr Blount was discouraged. ‘It’s not much use trying with those children. They’re here today and gone tomorrow,’ but it seemed Kizzy was not gone. Soon the wildest rumours were in the school and village: the wicked travellers had set the Lovell caravan on fire, stolen everything in it: Admiral Twiss had chased the travellers out of the orchard and burned the wagon himself. Then, Kizzy Lovell was at the House with Admiral Twiss. The boys and girls looked at one another. With Admiral Twiss! ‘Impossible,’ said the village, but it was not impossible. Mrs Cuthbert had it from the butcher’s boy – he had delivered beef for making beef tea. Kizzy was ill. She had been burnt in the fire. Nat had been seen in Rye buying things at the chemist: a child’s hot-water bottle: cough syrup: prescriptions. Kizzy had not been burnt. She had pneumonia.