by Rumer Godden
Mrs Cuthbert was a busy lady busy doing good to people, ‘whether they likes it or not,’ said the Admiral’s Peters. He knew Mrs Cuthbert well: ‘Always coming to the front door to ask for this or that: flowers for the altar, vegetables for the Women’s Institute stall. Would Sir Archibald open the gardens for the Horticultural Society Week?’‘Nothing to see,’ said Peters. ‘Will he lend the park for the Fête?’ ‘An’ upset the horses,’ said Nat, ‘and ruin the cricket pitch,’ said Peters. ‘The village would thank you for that.’ ‘Will you do this, do that, lend this, give that?’ mocked Peters. Mrs Cuthbert was a churchwarden and on the PCC (the Parochial Church Council). She was on the School Board, in the WI and the WVS. ‘Wouldn’t it be better, my dear,’ Mr Cuthbert, Prudence’s father, had once asked, ‘to – er – work for one thing at a time?’ Mrs Cuthbert managed to work for them all, and the NSPCC, and the RSPCA. ‘RIP. That’s what I wish,’ said Peters, which is usually said when people are dead. ‘Hush. She means well,’ said Admiral Twiss.
Mrs Cuthbert had opened the door to Kizzy and when Kizzy saw her white overall, her neatly-banded fair hair and the sparklingly clean kitchen beyond, she had nearly turned tail. She had half expected Mrs Cuthbert to say, as many people did, ‘No gypsies,’ but Mrs Cuthbert would never have said that; instead her blue eyes looked Kizzy over and, ‘You ought to be in school,’ she said.
Kizzy mutely held up her bunches but Mrs Cuthbert was not to be deflected. ‘Why are you not in school?’
‘Because I don’t go to school,’ but Kizzy did not say it. She said nothing, only offered her bunches.
Mrs Cuthbert had not bought one. She gave Kizzy a piece of delicious hot gingerbread – she was an excellent cook – but she had still asked questions.
‘How old are you? You must be six or seven.’
Kizzy did not know Gran always said such things were not important. ‘You’re as old as you are,’ said Gran, and that was the answer Kizzy innocently gave, ‘I’m as old as I am.’
To her surprise Mrs Cuthbert seemed to swell like a puff adder – Kizzy had seen adders. ‘You’re an impertinent little girl!’ she said with venom and shut the door.
She must have told about Kizzy; two days later Mr Blount had come to the orchard with a Schools Inspector and asked the same question – gorgios, Kizzy was to find, continuously asked questions. ‘But surely you know how old she is,’ the Inspector had said.
‘She must have been registered when she was born,’ said Mr Blount.
‘Don’t hold with such things,’ said Gran.
‘When’s your birthday, then?’ they asked Kizzy at school. Mrs Blount wrote the class birthdays down on the calendar; a boy had a buttonhole, a girl a wreath of flowers, and the others marched round them singing ‘Happy birthday to you,’ but there was another side to birthdays Mrs Blount did not know; the girls got you by your arms and legs and bumped you on the asphalt playground, once for every year, and they pulled your hair for the number of them with extra tugs ‘to make your hair grow,’ and ‘for luck’. Kizzy could not say when her birthday was because she did not know – it had never occurred to her and Gran that people had them. ‘Well, we’d better bump you every day in case we miss it,’ said Prue, but they did not like to touch her dirty boots so they tugged her hair instead, handfuls of her mop of dark curls. Kizzy had red patches on her scalp every day now and they ached at night: ‘Why didn’t you just say a day?’ said Clem Oliver.
‘I don’t know a day.’
‘Any day would do,’ suggested Clem. ‘You could pretend,’ but Kizzy did not know how to pretend. Since she had come to school, she sometimes thought she did not know anything. For instance, she was not used to sitting on a chair – there was a chair in the wagon but that was Gran’s – and the hours in the classroom seemed long and stuffy to her. Then there was the loo: ‘I’m not going to sit on that!’ Kizzy had cried when Mrs Blount showed it to her.
‘But Admiral Twiss built you a privy in the orchard,’ said Mrs Blount.
‘It hadn’t water.’ Kizzy had gasped when Mrs Blount pulled the plug with its terrifying gush, ‘And I didn’t like that either.’
‘So?’
‘I walked off,’ said Kizzy, which was a traveller’s way of saying she went apart and did it behind a bush.
Kizzy walked off at school, among the gooseberry bushes, and Prudence caught her.
Then Mrs Blount had to insist on Kizzy using the loo and Prudence, creeping up to spy – Kizzy had not realized she could lock the door – found her sitting face to the wall and called the other girls to look. ‘Think you’re sittin’ on a horse?’ they jeered.
When Kizzy could not bear it any more she ran home. There was a hole in the playground hedge; the hedge was holly and the prickles tore but Kizzy got through to save being seen going out of the gate; then, her dress more ragged than ever, her hot cheeks scratched, her curly hair full of holly leaves, she ran down the lane, her old boots splashing in the puddles, until she reached home, the wagon in the orchard and Gran: the wagon, Gran and Joe – Joe – Joe. Mrs Blount let her go but Kizzy always knew that in the morning she would have to go back.
‘Admiral Twiss sends his compliments and I have come for the little girl.’
It was a cold March afternoon with flurries of snow outside the window, but the classroom was warm and the children had been quietly, almost sleepily, painting in their places; every head jerked wide awake when Peters came stumping in.
Peters was so short and small he was like a barrel on short legs; neither he nor Nat, who had been a jockey and seemed to be made of wire covered with old parched leather, reached to the Admiral’s shoulder. ‘Twiss’s two gnomes,’ the Doctor and Vicar called them and, like gnomes, invisible for all the village saw of them, they tended him. No one would have guessed Peters had been in the Navy, except that he liked things ‘shipshape’ as he said; he was a dapper little man with a fresh rosy complexion and country blue eyes. He walked with a roll but that was because he had a bad leg. ‘Shot in a battle,’ the village boys liked to think but it had been crushed in a train accident; nor was he tattooed but not even Clem could say Peters was not a proper sailor.
The boys and girls gazed at Peters as he handed Mrs Blount a note. ‘Mr Fraser told me, Ma’am, to give you this.’ Mr Fraser was the headmaster. When she had read it Mrs Blount got up and came down through the tables to Kizzy Lovell, bent and put an arm round her. ‘Kizzy,’ she said gently, ‘you are to go with Mr Peters,’ and when Peters had taken Kizzy away, Mrs Blount told the children that Kizzy’s grandmother was dead.
Admiral Twiss had found her late that morning lying underneath the wagon and had guessed at once what had happened. Travellers are laid in the open air when they are dying; they do not like to die inside, not even in their wagons; and Gran was peaceful on the frozen grass with Joe quietly cropping tufts alongside. The Admiral had called Nat and they carried her into the wagon and laid her carefully on her bunk; then Nat had gone to find the Smiths and Does, travellers the Admiral knew were in a camp not far away – the Does were Gran’s cousins’ cousins. Admiral Twiss had stayed with Gran until the Does’ lorry and trailer came bumping in to the orchard; the Smiths were not far behind. They built a fire and made a strong brew of tea; he drank a cup with them, then walked up to the House with Lumas Doe to telephone the doctor and find a letter the Admiral had written long ago at Gran’s dictation and kept for her. ‘So they will know what to do,’ she had said. He gave the letter to Lumas. It was only then that they had thought of Kizzy.
When Peters led her out of school, a woman was waiting at the gate. Kizzy knew her, she was Mrs Doe. ‘Wouldn’t come in,’ said Peters. She took Kizzy’s hand and Peters drove them away in the Admiral’s ancient Rolls-Royce.
‘A Rolls-Royce!’ said Clem.
‘A very old Rolls,’ said Prue.
Chapter Two
‘What shall we do with Kizzy?’
It was two days later, the evening of Gran’s funeral, and th
ey had just had supper in the orchard: Lumas and Mrs Doe, their fourteen-year-old twins and their son Boyo, the two Smiths, the Smiths’ grown-up son, his wife and baby, old, old Uncle Jess and Kizzy were gathered round the fire, drinking mugs of tea. The fire was large and sent sparks up into the sky. Joe made a dark shape at the end of the orchard; he seemed to want to keep away from the motor caravan, the trailer and lorry, and occasionally blew through his nostrils as if he did not like the smell of them, or having all these people in his orchard, and shook his head.
Kizzy sat on the ground, her chin on her knees so that the brown cardigan could cover them, her arms round them. ‘Give Boyo your box,’ Mrs Doe had commanded. ‘He’s got a cold coming on and mustn’t sit on the ground.’ ‘You’re making a fool of that boy,’ said Uncle Jess, but Mrs Doe took no notice and without a word Kizzy had got up and let the big heavy boy in his thick corduroy breeches have her warm place. Mrs Smith – she had told Kizzy to call her Aunt Em – made room for her on the plank bench, but Kizzy sat on the ground; she seemed smaller like that and perhaps if she were out of sight they would forget her. If they did she could live perfectly well in the orchard with Joe and the wagon; if they would all just go away but they went on talking over her head.
‘Wish we could take her,’ said Mrs Smith.
‘We could but . . .’ said Mrs Doe, and the ‘but’ seemed to fill the whole orchard.
‘Should be no argument,’ said Uncle Jess. ‘Even if they’re not our family, our children stay with us.’
‘All very well for you to talk,’ Mrs Smith and Mrs Doe said together. ‘’Tisn’t you as does it.’
The lights from the trailers threw bright circles on the grass, brighter than any lights had been in the orchard for a long time; Gran had had an oil lamp with an old pink shade, but now the wagon stood apart and unlit. ‘We’ll see to that at midnight,’ said Mrs Doe. ‘Don’t want no snoopers.’
‘They won’t be out tonight,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Far too cold,’ and indeed more snow was falling. The fire was hot on Kizzy’s face, the twigs and branches crackled cheerfully, but her back was cold; she was cold inside too, with a fear that was growing. If only they would go away.
The wagon was almost empty; Mrs Doe had taken Kizzy’s bedding and put it in one of their tents with Boyo. ‘You can sleep here.’ Kizzy had protested. ‘I want to sleep in our own wagon.’
‘Hush,’ said Aunt Em Smith. ‘No one can sleep there.’
‘Why not?’
‘For one thing your Gran left her orders.’ For another, though Mrs Smith did not say it, many true travellers will not use anything belonging to the dead; besides, there were Gran’s wishes. ‘Doesn’t do to go against the dead,’ yet there was Mrs Doe arguing about Gran’s china.
‘It’s mine too,’ said Kizzy, but no one listened.
‘Old Crown Derby, that’s what it is,’ declared Mrs Doe. ‘Might be worth a mint.’
‘Us must smash it.’
‘Nonsense, Em. Prob’ly ten pounds a cup and saucer.’
‘Us must.’
‘That’s old thinking.’ Mrs Doe was scornful. ‘Look, you take half and I’ll take half.’
‘Why if I took any of that into the trailer, I should be feart!’ said Mrs Smith. ‘To begin with, Uncle Jess would have a fit.’
Uncle! He’s old. ’Course he thinks like that, but why bother about him?’ Mrs Doe’s voice was shrill. ‘Come on, Em. You can have first pick,’ but Mrs Smith shook her head and backed away. ‘Well, please yourself,’ and Mrs Doe took the china, the mirror, even the vase of plastic flowers into her caravan. ‘The fry pan’s good,’ she took that too. So I can’t make pan cake, thought Kizzy, but the old bucket and saucepans were left. I can manage with those. Gran, in the letter, had not mentioned Kizzy. ‘’Course not,’ said Uncle Jess. ‘Her took it for granted.’
Uncle Jess was a Smith, an old old man, almost as old as Gran; he lived and travelled with his Smith grandson’s family and had no wagon or trailer of his own. ‘If I had, things would be different,’ said Uncle Jess.
‘Now Uncle,’ said Mrs Smith. The Smiths had Uncle Jess, their son, his wife and baby and just one trailer and a small tent, while the Does were moving into a council house. ‘Settling,’ said Uncle Jess in disdain, ‘going in brick!’
‘It’s for school,’ said Mrs Doe. ‘Boyo must go to school – and the girls, of course. The Council don’t like overcrowding – and it isn’t children,’ she added under Uncle Jess’s scornful eye, ‘’tisn’t children as are the bother. When they could just be let run, one child more or less didn’t matter. These days, it’s the things they have to have.’
Kizzy raised her head. ‘I don’t want any things.’
‘’Tisn’t what you want, dearie,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘It’s what they say you have to have – uniforms.’ Uncle Jess snorted. ‘They do, Uncle – blazers at least and shoes and satchels.’
‘Bathing things, a towel, and I don’t know what,’ said Mrs Doe. ‘Then it’s ten pence for this, ten pence for that. I tell you it’s hard enough to afford it for the three we have,’ said Mrs Doe. ‘Wish we could manage to take Kizzy, but we can’t. She goes to school here – they’ll find her a foster home.’
Always ‘they’, ‘they’, thought Kizzy. ‘They’ were against gypsies.
‘No child of ours,’ said Uncle Jess, ‘was ever took into care.’
‘She isn’t ours. She’s half gorgio,’ and, ‘Things are different now,’ said Mrs Doe again.
‘Queer,’ said Uncle Jess. ‘When you had one wagon there was plenty of room; in a fine house with three bedrooms there’s no room at all.’
‘P’raps when she’s older . . .’ said Mrs Doe.
‘She’ll take up more room,’ said Uncle Jess.
‘Give over, Uncle, do,’ said Mrs Smith.
‘I tells you, we must take the child,’ said Uncle Jess, speaking directly to Lumas Doe. ‘When I says we, I means you.’
‘You shut your mouth,’ said Mrs Doe.
‘Are you goin’ to let your ’ooman talk to me like that?’ Uncle Jess asked quietly of Lumas Doe, but Lumas only shrugged. ‘And you a man,’ said Uncle Jess and spat. ‘Things a’nt what they used to be,’ said Uncle.
Kizzy was too tired to follow more; in any case she was not going with any of them, or anywhere. She would stay in the orchard in her own wagon no matter what Aunt Em said, in her own wagon with Joe and soon, in spite of the coldness of the frozen ground, she fell asleep. In her dream she thought she heard Joe trampling and a great roaring noise and she woke with a start. The fire seemed enormous and bright; it was the men trampling, not Joe. Kizzy stumbled to her feet and Mrs Smith caught her by the shoulders. ‘It’s all right, darlin’. You stay here with me,’ but Kizzy was standing transfixed.
Flames were rushing up in the orchard, so bright they seemed to be dancing in the apple trees and so hot they seemed to scorch Kizzy’s face. A trail of sparks streamed over the paddocks; it was as well that the young horses were in the stables at night. ‘Fire’s too high,’ said Lumas. ‘It’ll wake the Admiral up and summun’ll come down on us. Ring the police or fire brigade or Lord knows what.’ The Admiral had woken but, ‘They know what they’re doing,’ the Admiral said to himself, turned over and went to sleep.
Joe, like Kizzy, seemed transfixed. There was a smell of burning paint and wood and hot metal; the men walked round the great fire, poking it with poles. They were burning the wagon; as Kizzy watched, the body sank, came away from the wheels and the roof fell in. ‘But why?’ asked Kizzy. ‘Why?’
The words seemed to be wrung out of her, but they were quiet. Mrs Smith knelt down beside her and Kizzy smelled her comforting traveller smell, wood smoke and old clothes, but all the same she did not lean against Aunt Em. ‘See, love, your Gran was an old-fashioned Romany and they, when they die, lays down that their wagon is to be burnt and all they things – yes, rightly, the china smashed up and ornaments and that – they clothes and photographs burned. We don’
t do it now, leastways most of us don’t, but your Gran wanted it and we promised.’ She looked at Kizzy’s face. ‘Your Gran wanted it, sweetheart, so we had to do it.’
Gran’s things: the bunks under the window, the lace curtains, the saucepans and bucket, the rag rug on the floor, Gran’s chair, the table and shelves. Then – I can’t live in the wagon, thought Kizzy.
‘And ’tisn’t as if the wagon was any good; it’s fallin’ to pieces – no use to anyone, darlin’.’
‘It was to me.’ There was no use now in saying that.
‘Never you mind,’ Mrs Smith’s voice cut across her. ‘You’ll go to a nice house; nice clothes you’ll have and good schooling. You’ll end up like a lady,’ and Mrs Smith put on her coaxing gypsy voice. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Mrs Smith, ‘if you won a prize,’ but Kizzy was not listening. Panic had set in. ‘What will happen to Joe?’ asked Kizzy.
She asked that again, made herself ask it, when the flames had died down to smouldering red and they were once again having tea, sitting round their own fire. ‘But it’s wunnerful warm everywhere,’ said Mrs Smith. Only Kizzy was cold; even close to the fire she was shivering. Somewhere a clock struck two, it might have been the House stable clock or the village church clock or one in the next village, everything was so quiet. ‘Told you nobody’d be out,’ said Mr Smith.
