The Diddakoi (7 page)

‘Like you,’ said Kizzy.

‘Like me. They had sons, the eldest was my father. My father had me – my mother died soon after I was born – so you see there were only boys.’ Kizzy studied the painting.
Though she did not like girls, she liked this one; the brown eyes were steady and friendly.

‘Kezia Cunningham Twiss – did she sleep in my room?’ Kizzy asked.

‘It was hers when she was a child. Come to think of it, Kiz, you might have been called after her. Kizzy might be from Kezia. She knew your Gran; they were friends. She liked
gypsies.’

Kizzy looked at her again. ‘Kezia.’ It gave her a curiously happy feeling to think they shared a name. ‘When was her birthday?’ Kizzy asked it earnestly.

‘I must look it up,’ and back in the library Admiral Twiss opened a big Bible that had a stand all to itself. ‘Here we are: Kezia Cunningham, born December 9th,
1858.’

‘I’ll take it for mine,’ and, just as she had studied the painting, Kizzy pored over the writing, the list of names.

‘All our family are in this book,’ said the Admiral.

‘Wish I could be in it,’ said Kizzy and sighed. ‘She would have wanted me to stay, especially if I’m Kezia.’

The Admiral did not answer.

‘No one comes to the house,’ argued Kizzy, ‘’cept Clem and he wouldn’t let on. Suppose you told everyone that I had gone away, Mrs Doe had taken me, and I stayed
here in your grandmother’s room until I was eighteen?’

The Admiral ran his hand through Kizzy’s curls. ‘They wouldn’t let us, Kiz.’

‘They wouldn’t know, only you and Peters and Nat, and they wouldn’t tell either. I could stay here with you and them – and Joe – and I wouldn’t have to go to
school.’

‘It’s a nice idea,’ said Admiral Twiss, ‘but it wouldn’t do.’

Kizzy set her lips.

‘The case of Kizzy Lovell’.

The Children’s Department had decided to bring it before the Court, ‘Because we’re flummoxed,’ said Mr Blount.

The main room of a Town Hall, even of such a small town as Rye, seemed an oddly impressive place in which to discuss the fate of a small diddakoi.

The stairs up to it were wide with a heavy red cord on brass links as a banister rail. In the vestibule was a wooden model of a ship under a great glass dome that caught the light. The room
itself was high, wide and long, with high windows. There was a dais at one end, a big table below; it took anyone walking from the door a good many steps to reach that table, especially if they
were child steps.

Above the dais were the royal arms of England, the lion and the unicorn in gold and blue; below them a shield with the arms of Rye, three lions rampant on three ships’ sterns in gold. All
round the walls were panels lettered in gold with the names of the reigning king and queen, all the kings and queens of England from the time of Edward the First, 1272, and of all the mayors of Rye
who had served in their reigns. From the ceiling hung heavy gilded chandeliers.

Now the table was covered with papers, a group of people sat along three sides with the Chairman’s higher-backed chair in the centre; he had a woman magistrate on either side, the one on
the left was Miss Brooke. Mr Blount as the Children’s Officer was there, and Doctor Harwell; so, also, to their annoyance, was Mrs Cuthbert. ‘Of course I should be there,’ Mrs
Cuthbert had said. ‘Wasn’t I the one who discovered Kizzy? And I am on the School Board.’ She had been determined and indignant.

Mr Blount had written Kizzy’s story as briefly as possible; he also had a letter about her from the Admiral. ‘Please read them to the Court,’ said the Chairman and, when they
were finished, ‘Go on, Mr Blount.’

‘Well, sir, Admiral Sir Archibald Cunningham Twiss kept Kizzy while she was ill—’

Mr Blount was interrupted by Mrs Cuthbert: ‘She ought to have gone to hospital. I said so at the time.’

‘. . . while she was ill,’ repeated Mr Blount, ‘but she is well now and, for all the Admiral’s kindness, we doubt if it’s fit, sir, for her to stay on at Amberhurst
House.’

‘Not with three old men,’ said Mrs Cuthbert and Doctor Harwell was nettled to reply, after he had looked at the Chairman for permission, ‘I believe Admiral Twiss is sixty,
Peters, the houseman, in his fifties, while Nat might be forty-five,’ said Doctor Harwell. ‘That is not old.’

‘Too old to look after a child.’

‘Please don’t speak out of order, Mrs Cuthbert,’ and the Chairman resumed, ‘It seems they looked after her very well. We have Doctor Harwell’s report, but even if
it were desirable, it would not be fair to ask Admiral Twiss to—’

‘Keep her.’ Mrs Cuthbert could not resist finishing for him. ‘Of course not. She must go into a Home.’

Ignoring Mrs Cuthbert, the Chairman asked Mr Blount, ‘You have tried all your register of foster-parents?’

‘Yes sir, but it isn’t easy to place a traveller child.’ Mr Blount looked worried. ‘They seem . . . afraid of her, sir.’

‘Well, do you wonder,’ Mrs Cuthbert broke in again. ‘She’s a little wildcat. There was trouble at school and you should see the scratching she gave my Prue. She’s
dirty—’

‘Not now,’ said Mr Blount.

‘Not even house-trained.’

‘She is now.’

‘And they say she hasn’t a vestige of table manners.’

‘Mr Blount! Mrs Cuthbert! May I remind you we are in Court where we do
not
speak out of order.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Mr Blount was ruffled but Mrs Cuthbert closed her bag with an angry snap as, ‘Miss Brooke,’ the Chairman turned to her. ‘I think you have
something to say?’

‘Only that you can’t expect to have table manners when you haven’t a table. Some gypsy children eat with their fingers and wipe them on their hair afterwards.’

‘Ugh!’ said Mrs Cuthbert.

‘It isn’t “ugh” to them. They believe it makes hair soft and silky – and you know, in some ways they think us dirty.’

‘Us?
Dirty?
’ Mrs Cuthbert was incredulous.

‘More than dirty,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘A gypsy might refuse to have a cup of tea with you because he can’t be sure of how you wash your china.’

‘
Well!
’ Mrs Cuthbert almost spluttered.

‘You might use the same bowl for washing out clothes,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘They use separate ones. You might put your tea towels in the spin dryer with your bed-linen or
underclothes. I think we must remember –’ Miss Brooke said to the Board and flushed as if she did not like laying down the law, ‘ – try to remember – we are dealing
with different standards and different doesn’t mean bad.’

‘A wise reminder,’ said the Chairman. ‘I think, Mr Blount, you should bring in the child.’

Mr Blount fetched Kizzy, who was waiting in the vestibule with Peters; she came in, her shoes shined as carefully as the Admiral’s, her coat brushed, her hair brushed too, glossy with
cleanliness, ‘and a look on her face like the devil himself,’ said Peters, who, when he had handed her over, went and stared out of the window, rubbing his eyes with the back of his
hand. ‘Fool that I am,’ said Peters.

Mr Blount led Kizzy over that long floor to the table. ‘Gracious!’ said Mrs Cuthbert. ‘I hadn’t realized how small she is, almost undersized.’

‘Not,’ said Kizzy through her teeth.

‘Mrs Cuthbert, once again, will you kindly keep quiet?’ and the Chairman leaned forward to Kizzy. ‘Kizzy you know some of us, Doctor Harwell, Mr Blount – and Mrs
Cuthbert.’ At that name, the black look grew blacker. ‘But we are all here to try and help you.’

No response, only a glower from under the curls.

‘Now will you tell us, Kizzy, if there is anyone anywhere with whom you would like to live?’

The reply was blunt. ‘What’s the use my tellin’ when you won’t let me?’

‘How do you know? Let’s try.’ The Chairman was encouraging. ‘Isn’t there anyone?’

‘Meself.’ An involuntary smile went round. Kizzy saw it and scowled.

‘Yourself? But, Kizzy, little girls of seven – I believe you are seven – can’t live quite by themselves.’

‘See?’ said Kizzy with scorn. ‘I knew that’s what you’d say.’ She became aware that Mr Blount was holding her hand and, ‘Let
go
of me,’ she
screamed violently to Mr Blount, wrenching her hand away. ‘Lemme
go.
’ The child shriek rose to the windows as Kizzy tried for the door, but the Usher was blocking the way and Mr
Blount caught her. Kizzy was brought back to the table, her breath coming in gasps. Leaning on the sill in the corridor, Peters put his hands over his ears and shut his eyes.

‘All right, Mr Blount.’ The Chairman waved Mr Blount away. ‘Now Kizzy, stand still and look at me.’

‘Look at the gentleman when he tells you!’

‘
Mrs Cuthbert!
’ The Chairman’s voice was sharp, and he ordered, ‘No one is to speak to the child except us, the magistrates.’ Then he turned to Kizzy and
said gently, ‘Mr Blount will not hold you, no one will touch you if you talk to us properly, so let’s be sensible,’ and Kizzy stood quietly though she held the edge of the table
and her breath still came in gasps. ‘Now listen to me, Kizzy,’ said the Chairman. ‘I’m afraid we can’t allow you to live by yourself and, though I’m sure Admiral
Twiss will always be your friend, we can’t let you stay at Amberhurst House – for several reasons. This means we must find another home for you, doesn’t it?’

No answer but the glowering, the small gasps.

‘Doesn’t it?’

Still no answer.

‘You try,’ the Chairman said to the woman magistrate on his right who, in her turn, leaned forward.

‘Kizzy.’

Kizzy had obediently looked at the Chairman – in any other circumstances she would have liked him – but she was wary of ladies and though she had realized there were two others in
the room besides Mrs Cuthbert, a large lady and a small one, had kept her eyes away from them. Now it was the large one who was speaking in a soft coaxing voice: ‘Kizzy wouldn’t you
like to go where there are other girls and boys?’

No answer but an increased glowering, deeper gasps.

‘You would have someone to play with,’ coaxed the magistrate, ‘as if you had brothers and sisters. Wouldn’t it be nice, Kizzy, to have a sister?’

It was unfortunate she said ‘sister’. A look of desperation came into Kizzy’s eyes – as if she were trapped, thought Miss Brooke. Then Kizzy spat. The spit landed plop on
the table and there was a silence as all of them stared at the little wet insult and Kizzy ran, this time succeeding in dodging the Usher. Peters caught her outside the door.

‘Well!’ The kind magistrate was nonplussed, as were they all – the Court was not used to defiance from a seven-year-old. ‘Oh dear, I’m afraid I precipitated
that.’

‘What did I tell you?’ said Mrs Cuthbert in triumph and, when the Usher had wiped up the blob of spittle, the Chairman said, half laughingly, half sadly, ‘Gypsies undoubtedly
should stay with gypsies.’

‘They usually do,’ said Mr Blount. ‘This is the first case concerning one of their children that has ever come my way.’ He paused. ‘As you see, it’s
difficult.’

‘I like her spirit,’ said the Chairman. ‘But . . .’

‘It’s pitiful,’ said the magistrate.

‘Precisely.’ The Chairman was brisk – magistrates must not be emotional. ‘Now, to get back to business: the question is, what can we do with her? We could make a Care
Order, Mr Blount, handing her over to your authority’s care, in which case you would have to find somewhere for her to live. Any other suggestions? Yes, Doctor Harwell?’

‘There’s always St Agatha’s,’ but Doctor Harwell said it hesitantly. ‘They would never refuse . . .’ There was a silence.

‘St Agatha’s is an excellent Home,’ said the Chairman, ‘but it is big. There have to be rules . . . What do you think, Mr Blount?’

‘I believe she would have a hard time there . . .’

‘So would the nuns,’ said Mrs Cuthbert.

‘If we could find something more individual, sir.’ Mr Blount cast what he hoped was a quelling look at Mrs Cuthbert. As you have seen, Kizzy doesn’t take to the suggestion of
other children. I expect she finds them strange – as they find her. She has made friends with a boy, Clem Oliver, but he’s the only one.’

‘Admiral Twiss says in his letter she has always been solitary,’ said the Chairman. ‘Perhaps if you could find a childless couple . . .’

Mr Blount shook his head. ‘No one seems willing, sir.’

There was another silence; then Miss Brooke turned to the Chairman, who said, ‘You have an idea, Miss Brooke?’

‘I know fostering should, properly, be done by a family,’ said Miss Brooke, ‘a man and wife so that the child can have, as it were, a father and mother, but Kizzy has never
known either, so perhaps she is different . . . and she isn’t a baby, but already seven, as far as we can tell. Now that the Blounts have moved into a house of their own,’ Miss Brooke
smiled at Mr Blount, ‘I have an empty room. I could take Kizzy.’

‘You?’ They all stared.

‘Yes.’

‘After
that
exhibition?’ Mrs Cuthbert was incredulous.

‘Particularly after that.’ There was a flush on Miss Brooke’s cheeks again. ‘I have always been interested in gypsies and have, oddly enough, several times been drawn
into having to do with them. I was a magistrate for a good many years in our home county of Berkshire . . .’

Mrs Cuthbert sat up.

‘We had two gypsy cases – children not going to school. When I was a barrister—’

‘You were a barrister, Miss Brooke?’

‘Yes,’ and Miss Brooke anticipated Mrs Cuthbert by saying, ‘I retired to look after my father. Once on circuit I defended a gypsy family. I think I understand what it means to
be homeless, and a little of how to deal with driven people; one of my father’s stable lads, too, was a gypsy.’

‘You kept stables then?’ As Miss Brooke went back into her past, Mrs Cuthbert grew more and more agog. ‘You must have had a big house.’

‘We befriended him,’ Miss Brooke went on as if Mrs Cuthbert had not spoken. ‘He taught me something about his people and gave me a little personal experience. With Kizzy it
might not be a success, but I could try, though I’m afraid my cottage will seem rather narrow to her.’

‘A cottage has far more space than a caravan,’ said the Chairman.