The Diddakoi (14 page)

‘But I thought you said you wouldn’t have anything to do with it,’ said Kizzy.

‘It’s your birthday cake, ain’t it?’ asked Peters. ‘You ain’t ever had a cake before. Who else do you think I’d let make it? Come to that, you
ain’t ever had a birthday, let alone a party.’

‘Then you don’t mind about the party?’

‘Mind or not mind, makes no difference.’ Peters skilfully turned the cake. ‘Let one woman in, you may as well let fifty.’

Lady Cunningham Twiss. Mrs Cuthbert could not make her tongue say it, could not ‘swaller it’, as Nat would have said. ‘I think it’s wonderful,’
said Mrs Blount. ‘To think it was Kizzy, that little traveller girl, who brought them together. They are adopting her. She will be Kezia Cunningham Twiss.’

Mrs Cuthbert could not swallow that either. ‘And to think she came to my back door selling flowers! In a way I started it,’ which was bitter.

‘I suppose you have seen Olivia?’ Mildred Blount went on.

‘Indeed no. You’ll find she’ll have no use for us now. Lady Cunningham Twiss!’

The telephone rang. ‘Edna?’

‘It’s Olivia!’ Mrs Cuthbert whispered and said into the telephone, ‘Yes, Olivia?’ Her voice was guarded.

‘We are giving a party,’ said the voice on the telephone, ‘to say “thank you” to the village, especially to Prue, and also for Kizzy’s birthday.’

‘I didn’t know you knew it.’

‘We have given her another Kezia’s – that’s her name now. We’re hoping all the children will come and perhaps, Edna, you and Mildred would come and help
me.’

‘At the
House
?’ Mrs Cuthbert could not believe it. ‘The House?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I never!’ said Mrs Cuthbert when she put the telephone down. ‘I wonder how she will square
that
with Mr Peters.’

Kizzy was worried. ‘Olivia, what happens on a birthday? I know there’ll be a wreath . . . I . . . don’t want to wear a wreath with everybody
watching.’

‘Well, this time of the year there isn’t much to make a wreath of.’

‘Prob’ly be holly – it pricks,’ said Kizzy in gloom. Almost the old closed look was back. ‘And they will bump me and pull my hair. Wish I was four, not
eight.’

‘Well, they won’t bump you or pull your hair nor make a wreath because the 9th is a Saturday, so there won’t be any school.’

‘Nor there will.’ Kizzy was relieved yet still knitted her brows. ‘But what happens?’

Olivia drew Kizzy to her. ‘For birthdays you usually wait and see, but first, as soon as you wake, you look under your pillow.’

Before it was light that Saturday, Kizzy looked, and there, mysteriously under her pillow, lay a small riding whip with a silver top and a scarlet tassel. ‘What a funny thing to give
me,’ thought Kizzy, but she liked to hold it in her hand; she could pretend she was Kezia Cunningham – ‘And that was only the beginning,’ marvelled Kizzy.

She had breakfast with Olivia and the Admiral, and all round her place were parcels – again of ‘funny things’: a yellow jersey from Olivia: a pair of little string gloves from
Peters and a small-size horse brush and curry-comb from Nat. ‘So as I can help with the horses.’ There was nothing from the Admiral but there were many many cards. ‘The whole
village must have sent them,’ said Olivia. She and Kizzy spent half an hour setting them up on the hall chimney-shelf and in Kizzy’s bedroom. Then came ‘the solemn moment,’
said Kizzy.

Admiral Twiss took her into the library and opened the big Bible. ‘This is your birthday now and I shall write in your name.’ Kizzy watched, scarcely breathing, while in his fine
pointed writing he wrote ‘Kezia Lovell Cunningham Twiss, December 9th, eight years old.’

‘Lovell?’ asked Kizzy.

‘You are what you are,’ said the Admiral.

‘That’s what Gran said.’

‘She was right – and never stoop to pretend to be anything else. You should be proud to be a Lovell, and proud of your Gran.’

‘I will be,’ said Kizzy her head up. ‘I am.’

Nat’s whistle was heard on the drive and, ‘I believe Nat wants you,’ said the Admiral. He took Kizzy’s hand and opened the front door.

It was a cold clear morning and sunlight streamed in through the door – it seemed to Kizzy, from that moment, that the sun streamed in for ever. There was frost in the air – what Nat
called ‘finger-cold weather’ – and on it Kizzy caught a whiff of something loved, familiar, the scent of horse and leather; for there, on the drive, Nat, trying to keep his smile
in, was holding the prettiest pony Kizzy had ever seen, seen or imagined – a small bay pony, ‘Twelve hands,’ said the Admiral, ‘or, rather, twelve two.’ The
pony’s ears were cocked as he looked towards them, his dark mane and flowing tail well brushed out; his coat shone as did his new saddle and bridle, his silver bit, and he fidgeted his small
hooves on the gravel. ‘Now then. Now then,’ said Nat.

‘But . . . whose is he?’ Kizzy was dazed.

‘Well, he isn’t mine,’ said Nat. ‘Nor the Admiral’s, nor her ladyship’s. I don’t think Peters would ride him. I believe he is meant for you.’

Kizzy had her first ride that morning, in the railed school where Nat lunged the young horses; she walked the pony round as Admiral Twiss told her, trying to hold the reins
properly use her legs, do the exercises he taught her while Nat watched critically. ‘Half an hour is enough,’ said Admiral Twiss, ‘but you must learn to put your pony away. Take
off his saddle and bridle, then put on his halter. Give him some water and put him in his stall to cool off while you clean your tack.’

Kizzy had one moment of doubt – and did not voice it to the Admiral. ‘Nat,’ she said as she polished and polished the small saddle. ‘Do you . . . do you think Joe would
mind?’

‘Mind what?’

‘My having another?’

‘’Course not,’ said Nat. ‘He would like to think he had made you love all horses; besides, this ain’t another Joe. He’s Joey.’

‘Joey’

‘And old Joe knows he’s too big for your wagon. This pony fits.’

But, ‘I haven’t got a wagon now,’ said Kizzy.

It was almost three o’clock, time for the party.

The party had brought another worry, a crease in Kizzy’s happiness, but she kept it to herself until Olivia had said, ‘What is the matter, Kizzy?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Something – tell me.’

‘Olivia,’ said Kizzy, ‘when . . . when the girls at school go to parties, they all wear dresses. I have lovely jerseys and skirts but – I haven’t a
dress.’

‘Haven’t you?’

‘Of course, they’re quite clean . . .’

‘Haven’t you?’ Olivia said it again. Then, ‘I should go upstairs and look.’

On the new white bed a dress was spread. The last dress Kizzy had owned had been the draggled strawberry pink cotton; this was of soft maroon cloth, its sleeves puffed white muslin with a white
ruffle at the neck. The bodice was laced with blue and round the skirt ran a band of blue velvet. ‘It’s – it’s – Kezia’s dress!’ breathed Kizzy.

‘This Kezia’s,’ said Olivia.

The great drawing room had been opened for the grown-up guests; the children’s tea was set in the dining room on the Admiral’s long table, with another equally long
beside it. Peters’ cake was on a separate table with a wreath of holly round it. ‘You see, you don’t have to wear the wreath because it’s round the cake,’ said Olivia.
There were sprays of holly down the tables and red crackers. After tea there would be games and a conjuror; then the Admiral was to set his tug, the
Elsie May
, going on the lake with its
port and starboard lights shining, ‘and its searchlight lit,’ said Clem, who was to help. It would come to shore – ‘I hope,’ said the Admiral – with a cargo of
sweets, a bag for every child.

‘There’s never been a party like this in the village,’ said Clem.

‘Nor at the House.’ Peters had to admit it.

‘At least not for a hundred years,’ said Admiral Twiss.

Yet it made Kizzy uneasy, more and more uneasy. This was the sort of party given for Kezia Cunningham Twiss. Kizzy Lovell might have asked a few boys – and girls, thought Kizzy grudgingly
– to come to her fire in the orchard – if she had had a fire and an orchard. In the old days when other travellers had drawn off the road to see Gran and camp in the orchard for the
night, food had been shared round, mugs of tea made; then Gran had lit her pipe with the men and someone brought out a mouth organ or an old violin, or just tambourines, thought Kizzy, and everyone
would sing. Often they danced against the darkness of trees and sky, with the fire stirred up as if the sparks were music. That was the kind of party she understood and, in the beauty of her new
dress, she went and looked out of the window, away to where the Admiral’s orchard lay over the line of trees. Wish I had my little orchard and my wagon, thought Kizzy. She was Kezia with a
pony and a gracious spacious home, ‘More like a little princess than the saucepot that you are,’ as Peters said – yet the old gypsy yearning was there.

She turned back to the dining room, where Olivia, with Mrs Cuthbert, Mrs Blount and Mrs Oliver, was putting food on the tables – sandwiches, crisps, jellies, meringues – and folding
little red napkins at the long line of places for the children. ‘Wish they wasn’t coming,’ muttered Kizzy. Her hard shell was back. ‘They’re not coming for me,’
muttered Kizzy, ‘they’re coming, like Prue did, for the House. None of them like me ’cept Clem.’

Three o’clock struck from the stable cupola clock. ‘It’s time,’ cried Mrs Blount, and Kizzy fled to Peters in the kitchen.

‘Hey you should be at the front door greeting your guests.’

‘I don’t want to greet them.’ Kizzy flung herself into Peters’ arms. ‘I won’t. I can’t. They don’t like me. They’re just coming for the
House. They don’t like me.’

‘Sorry for yourself, aren’t you?’ said Peters.

‘I tell you they don’t.’ Kizzy was frantic.

‘Give them a chance.’

Kizzy shook her head and buried her curls in his coat. ‘I’ll stay here in the kitchen with you.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the kind.’

‘Let me. Let me.’ It was rising to one of Kizzy’s shrieks and Peters took her by the shoulders, shook her and stood her away on her own feet.

‘Want a smack across your bottom?’ He was terse, his blue eyes fierce. ‘Think I’m going to let you spoil this for everyone?’

‘
I
– spoil it?’ Kizzy was so surprised she spoke quietly.

‘Yes, you. After all our trouble. You stand up and behave, Miss Kezia.’

‘I’m Kizzy.’

‘Kizzy and Kezia.’

‘Half and half,’ pleaded Kizzy.

‘You’re both. That’s why, though you’re small, you have to be big,’ said Peters, ‘and I never heard that either of them two were cowards. Put your chin
up,’ he commanded. ‘Now go and stand with Sir Admiral and her ladyship at the front door where you belong. Quick march,’ said Peters.

‘But they’re all coming at once,’ said Kizzy, amazed, and true, coming up the drive was a procession, boys first, girls after, all the boys and girls of
Amberhurst school – and what were they bringing? As Kizzy stood on the steps, her legs began to tremble so much that she had to hold Olivia’s hand.

In their midst was her wagon – the boys were pulling it by the shafts – her wagon, ‘not burnt,’ whispered Kizzy. Far from it; its blue paint was glossily new, as was its
gilding; its brass flashed and its windows were clean; the white curtains were new and the window boxes filled with earth. Prudence carried the kittle iron: Mary Jo the kettle; best of all, under
the wagon was slung a net of hay. ‘F-for Joey?’ stammered Kizzy.

‘You see,’ Admiral Twiss explained to Kizzy, ‘the wagon almost escaped the fire. It was smoked and blackened, everything scorched and grimed, that was
all.’ The boys took it out of the cottage garden and hid it in the Olivers’ barn, ‘And all of us worked to make it new,’ said Clem.

‘I bought the plastic flowers,’ said Elizabeth, ‘with my own pocket money.’

‘My mum made the pillows and pillowcases,’ broke in Carol, ‘and me and Dawn stuffed them.’

‘Lots of our mothers patchworked to make the quilts.’

‘Mum and I washed the china with sand and cold water,’ said Prue. ‘That’s best after a fire and not one saucer was broken.’

‘Mine found new little teaspoons.’

‘Clem and the boys rubbed the paint down, then painted it.’

‘But Admiral Twiss did the gilding.’

‘My dad put on bicycle tyres so the wagon could go easier on the road.’ That was Susan from the garage.

‘Mine got the bulbs, little daffodils for the window boxes,’ said Jennifer from the market garden.

‘The little mirror’s from me.’

‘We gave the carpet.’

The babel went on until Nat came, bringing Joey at a trot; Joey was wearing harness, and what harness! His forelock and his bridle were tied with coloured ribbons: his bridle and collar were red
with black facings, as was the saddle holding the rein guards. Bridle and reins were studded with tiny brass hearts and diamonds, ‘flashings’, Nat called them. ‘Real gypsy!’
and he had tied a ribbon on the whip. There was a tense silence while Nat and Admiral Twiss lowered the shafts, backed Joey between them, buckled the breechings and hooked the traces. Then,
‘He fits!’ the shout went up. ‘He fits.’

‘There’s a girl,’ the newest child at Amberhurst School said to her mother three months later, ‘a girl who’s a gypsy – at least, she’s
half a gypsy She has rings in her ears and she sometimes comes to school in a little wagon. It’s her own wagon, a real gypsy one, and she leads the pony herself. The pony is called Joey and
his harness is red and black and sparkling.’

‘Sparkling?’

‘It has little bits of polished brass. She unharnesses the pony and turns him into a field while we have lessons and sometimes Mrs Blount lets her ask two boys or girls to go in the wagon
and eat their lunch with her – not me, of course, big girls like Mary Jo, Elizabeth or Prue, but perhaps one day she might ask me. In the afternoon, she harnesses the pony and leads him home.
Sometimes she just rides him without the wagon. I wish I was a gypsy,’ and the new child began to sing, with love and longing, ‘
Gypsy
,
gypsy joker, get a red hot poker,’
and
, ‘
Tinker Tinkety-tink. Diddakoi.
’