The Diddakoi

by Rumer Godden

  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?’

  ‘I thought they were good tears,’ said Miss Brooke, ‘so I let things be.’

  ‘Come to think of it,’ said Peters, when the Admiral told him, ‘there are very few women who will let things be.’

  Surprisingly, Peters had begun to know Miss Brooke, ‘a little,’ he would have said. When he and Nat had taken the furniture down he had asked her, ‘Who will put up the bed?’

  ‘I will, by and by,’ said Miss Brooke.

  Peters had looked at her small hands and slight body and said, ‘We’ll do it for you. Don’t suppose you’re much good with a spanner.’

  ‘You would be surprised,’ said Miss Brooke, ‘but I should be grateful.’ She smiled with her eyes, as the Admiral had noted.

  ‘We’ll put the carpet down, if you like,’ said Peters gruffly.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The carpet did not quite cover the boards and, ‘I will stain them,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘I painted the walls.’

  ‘Didn’t make a bad job of it, but floors are men’s work. We’ll nip into Rye and get a pot of quick dry and do it now. Then it will be done,’ said Peters.

  He and Nat stained the floor – ‘In a woman’s house!’ said Admiral Twiss – and the woman brought them a tray with mugs of hot coffee and a plate of fresh baked scones. ‘Didn’t say a word, just put it down,’ said Peters; he sounded almost approving. He did not add that as they were going, Miss Brooke smiled at them again; though he did not mention it, Peters remembered that smile.

  If gypsies are clever at finding their way round things so was Miss Brooke.

  At breakfast next morning, when Kizzy was eating her second crust – Miss Brooke had coffee and scrambled eggs – ‘I have asked Clem Oliver to tea,’ said Miss Brooke. Kizzy stared at her plate; she knew what Miss Brooke meant; if Clem came, Kizzy could not let him eat alone, she would have to eat her tea. She darted Miss Brooke a look, half hate, half admiration.

  Miss Brooke made girdle scones, dropped them hot on the children’s plates and poured on golden syrup. ‘Supersonic!’ said Clem; there was gingerbread and potted ham sandwiches, and Kizzy had to admit to herself it was better even than Peters’ teas – admit, too, she was grateful to Clem – because she was really hungry, but, of course, she did not admit it aloud. Clem could not come to tea every day, though, and on the next, the crusts were back.

  They had to be back. Kizzy could not put it into words but she knew it would complicate everything if she grew to like Miss Brooke. Then I couldn’t be bad to her, thought Kizzy
. If only Miss Brooke would command her to eat . . . Admiral Twiss suggested that. ‘She promised she would do what you told her. She will keep her promise. You have only to tell her.’

  ‘I know,’ Miss Brooke had said. ‘But I should rather she did it of her own will. I don’t want an obedient child seething like a little cauldron underneath.’

  It was Mrs Cuthbert who unwittingly settled it. Saturday and Sunday Kizzy had spent at the House – ‘Thank goodness she will eat there,’ said Miss Brooke. They were blissful days; to begin with, Miss Brooke produced, not school clothes and the hated coat, but jeans, a jersey, a scarlet anorak and, not shoes, but gumboots. ‘If you are to be in the meadow with Joe, you will need them, but remember, take them off when you go into the house.’ Kizzy gave a sigh; no one took off boots to go into a wagon.

  But the weekend was soon over and it was Monday again – Kizzy produced the crusts. Miss Brooke said nothing but at teatime her face was so sad that Kizzy could not bear to look at her. Miss Brooke helped herself to a hot parsley potato cake and had just begun her tea when there was a knock at the door, Mrs Cuthbert walked in – and instantly saw the crusts.

  ‘Well, really, Olivia! Is that what you give the poor child?’

  ‘It’s what she prefers.’ Miss Brooke’s voice was level. ‘Would you like some tea, Edna?’ But Mrs Cuthbert was indignant. ‘You let her eat those and sit here gorging yourself?’ She was looking at the potato cakes, crisp and brown and parsleyed. ‘I shouldn’t have thought it of you, Olivia, really I shouldn’t,’ said Mrs Cuthbert. ‘After all, you take good money for her. It’s cheating. Kizzy you come along to my house and have tea with Prudence and me.’

  ‘Never. Never. Never,’ said Kizzy’s eyes. Mrs Cuthbert was not to know that in her fierce little heart Kizzy blamed her for everything that had happened:‘If I hadn’t gone to school, Gran wouldn’t have died.’ Kizzy was positive about that. ‘Our wagon wouldn’t have been burnt. Mr Doe couldn’t have tried to send Joe to the knacker. I wouldn’t have had pneumonia.’ If she had not had pneumonia she would not have made such friends as the Admiral, Peters and Nat, but she was too angry to think of that and, ‘I can eat crusts if I like, can’t I, Miss Brooke?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Miss Brooke.

  ‘She lets me eat anything I like,’ boasted Kizzy and, with her eyes glaring at Mrs Cuthbert, she stretched out her hand and took a bun – Miss Brooke had just baked them – and a large helping of jam. ‘Jam and buns and crusts,’ said Kizzy.

  ‘And potato cakes,’ said Miss Brooke, slipping two on to Kizzy’s plate. ‘You see, things are not so bad, Edna,’ Miss Brooke said to Mrs Cuthbert, ‘though it’s kind of you to ask Kizzy. Say “thank you”, Kizzy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kizzy, eating.

  ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full,’ said Mrs Cuthbert.

  ‘Miss Brooke told me to say thank you.’

  Mrs Cuthbert snorted and, ‘The whole village will know that I have starved Kizzy,’ Miss Brooke said to the Admiral on the telephone that night. ‘Never mind, she is eating now,’ but the triumph was shortlived. That was Monday; on Tuesday Kizzy ran away.

  She ran straight from school to Amberhurst House – and Admiral Twiss sent her straight back to Miss Brooke with Peters. ‘But she didn’t tell me not to run away,’ protested Kizzy.

  ‘You knew that you shouldn’t,’ said the Admiral.

  Kizzy knew it and ran away next day – to the House.

  ‘What’s got into you?’ asked Peters. ‘You used to have some sense. This isn’t any good.’

  Kizzy was mute and on the next day, Thursday: ‘She’s here again,’ Peters told the Admiral.

  Admiral Twiss had to take steps, but took them carefully. ‘If you go on like this, Kiz, they will make us forfeit our Saturdays.’

  ‘Forfeit?’

  ‘Not have them,’ said the Admiral. ‘Nor Sundays,’ and was struck by the look of desperation on Kizzy’s face.

  The village had, of course, seen Peters bringing Kizzy back. At least a hundred pairs of eyes,’ said Peters.

  ‘So shaming for you,’ Mrs Cuthbert condoled with Miss Brooke. ‘Have you punished her?’

  Miss Brooke shook her head. ‘She must have a reason.’

  ‘Reason my foot,’ said Mrs Cuthbert. ‘You’re too soft, Olivia. She simply wants to get her own way. Well, I said it wouldn’t do. That child needs a foster-father to discipline her.’

  ‘Are fathers much good at disciplining little girls?’

  ‘Besides, she needs other children.’

  ‘Other children?’ Miss Brooke was thoughtful; then, ‘I wonder,’ said Miss Brooke.

  On Friday at five o’clock Miss Brooke telephoned the House. ‘Kizzy hasn’t come home and it’s getting late. Is she with you?’

  ‘She hasn’t come,’ said Admiral Twiss.

  ‘Where can she be?’ Miss Brooke was worried.

  ‘Wait,’ said the Admiral suddenly. At least, I will ring you back. I have an idea where we might find her.’

  He went out and crossed the lawns where the evening light shone on the chestnut trees, and walked through the paddocks till he came to the meadow. There was Joe, swishing his tail in the long grass and, lying curled on his back, what Admiral Twiss expected to see: a small shape in a brown duffel coat.

  Kizzy was so cold they were afraid she might get pneumonia again, ‘so Peters is warming her and giving her some tea,’ the Admiral telephoned. It was he who brought her back to Miss Brooke, ‘and stayed two hours,’ said Mrs Cuthbert.

  ‘Kizzy you make me very sad,’ he had said as they were driving in the car.

  Kizzy was sitting upright, staring with dark eyes at the headlights’ beam that, in the dusk, seemed to be sweeping her, a helpless atom, towards the village. ‘Not half as sad as I am,’ said Kizzy.

  ‘But what is it?’ asked Admiral Twiss. He was in a chair by Miss Brooke’s fire where she had asked him to wait while she gave Kizzy a hot shower and got her to bed. ‘But Peters said you would never bath her,’ the Admiral said.

  ‘We manage like this,’ said Miss Brooke. Admiral Twiss was beginning to think Miss Brooke could manage anything. He found himself at ease and comfortable by her fireside, sipping the whisky she brought him. ‘I need a sherry,’ she had said. He studied her face as she sat opposite in the firelight – it might be plain but he liked it – good cheekbones and a firm little chin, he thought; her hazel eyes were beautiful, thought the Admiral, and steady, which was lucky for Kizzy. ‘What can it be?’ he asked again. ‘Could you get anything out of her?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s partly,’ said Miss Brooke, ‘because, as I feared, the cottage is too narrow for her, the village too close, and partly . . . I wonder if I am right,’ said Miss Brooke.

  ‘Have I forfeited?’ It was Saturday, the weekend, but scarcely begun: at six o’clock Kizzy was standing by Miss Brooke’s bed.

  ‘Forfeited?’ Miss Brooke lifted her head and sleep-filled eyes.

  ‘Not having it,’ said Kizzy. ‘Not going to the House.’ Her anxious small face peered down at Miss Brooke in bed. ‘Can I go – or have I forfeited?’

  ‘Of course you can go.’

  She dropped Kizzy at the gates, a completely different child from the silent sullen little girl of the week. Miss Brooke watched her running up the drive until the scarlet anorak disappeared among the trees, then drove away, feeling more than ever certain.

  On Monday morning, ‘Kizzy I must tell you to come straight here from school,’ Miss Brooke avoided saying ‘home’. ‘Straight here.’

  Kizzy stopped eating.

  ‘Would it help,’ asked Miss Brooke, ‘if I came and fetched you?’

  For a moment Kizzy’s face lit as if a shutter had been opened, then it closed again. ‘I would be a baby,’ she said.

  ‘Olivia, that child of yours came streaking through the village as if the hounds were after her.’

  ‘Perhaps they were,’ but Miss Brooke did not say it,
nor had she commented when Kizzy had arrived, hot and out of breath, at barely ten minutes past three. ‘I can run fast,’ said Kizzy, when she got her breath.

  ‘Is anything the matter, child?’ Mrs Cuthbert was sharp. ‘You should tell us if it is.’ But the shutter was down.

  ‘Nuthin’ ’t all,’ said Kizzy.

  Next afternoon Miss Brooke waited so long she began to think Kizzy had run to the House again; then she saw her come in at the gate. There was something so weary and hopeless in the way she walked that Miss Brooke ran to the door. ‘Kizzy?’

  The buttons were off her coat, its hood half torn away; her hair was full of mud and she had a graze on her cheek. ‘I was caught,’ was all she would say.

  ‘But I warned them at school,’ said Admiral Twiss on the telephone when Kizzy was in bed. ‘She let it all out when she was ill. I told them and warned them. They said they would watch.’

  ‘In school,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘But not out of school. That’s why she ran to Amberhurst House. The children don’t go that way and she knew one of you would bring her safely home later. It’s the girls. Clem Oliver would fix the boys. I’m sure it’s the girls.’

  ‘But little girls . . .’

  ‘Are far the worst,’ said Miss Brooke.

  The short cut from the school to the village was along a narrow lane beside what the villagers called the big field but which belonged to Amberhurst Park: there were elm trees along it and a thick hedge of may. The children used the lane to go to and from school and next afternoon at a few minutes to three Miss Brooke stationed herself in the big field behind the hedge where, from a gap, she could look along the lane towards the school.