by Rumer Godden
‘This is a child. They grow,’ and Miss Brooke said, ‘One on, one off and one in the wash. That’s enough.’
‘But you will get her – er – everything?’ asked the Admiral.
‘Of course. Pyjamas, vests, pants, tights. That’s what they wear these days. I had better get them in London if you don’t want talk. I’ll go up tomorrow, won’t bring them but have them sent express. I will make out a list and keep an account.’
‘Handkerchiefs,’ said the Admiral suddenly. ‘She ought to have those – I like mine of lawn, hand-rolled.’
‘I will find her some pretty ones.’
‘A hat? Shouldn’t she have a hat? And an umbrella?’
‘I can guess Kizzy wouldn’t know what to do with them.’ Then, ‘My dear Admiral,’ said Miss Brooke, as he handed her ten ten-pound notes, ‘I shan’t need all that. Thirty pounds should do it but I will take forty in case; it’s no use buying too cheaply.’ She peeled off four notes and gave him back the rest. ‘Thank you, Admiral.’
‘Thank you.’ It was heartfelt and, as he turned from the cottage, ‘That’s done,’ said Admiral Twiss, relieved. Somehow it never crossed his mind not to trust Miss Brooke.
The clothes arrived in boxes from London and were so pretty Kizzy forgot they brought school nearer. There were three sets of underclothes, pink, blue, white, scattered with flowers: two skirts, one plaid, one cherry red, as if Miss Brooke knew she liked bright colours; there were jerseys, a warm cardigan, a pair of walking shoes and a red pair to wear in the house – Kizzy had never had shoes before, only boots. She was puzzled by the handkerchiefs. ‘Thought they were for wearing round her neck,’ Peters told the Admiral. ‘Only they’re too small,’ said Kizzy. ‘What are they for?’ and, when Peters told her, ‘Blow your nose on a handkerchief!’ Kizzy was shocked. ‘I have a finger and thumb, haven’t I?’ she wanted to say. ‘Or else my skirt.’
She went in to the Admiral: ‘Thank you for choosing my clothes.’
‘I didn’t choose them.’
Kizzy’s head jerked up. ‘Who did?’
‘Miss Brooke. A nice lady.’
Kizzy scowled. ‘I don’t like nice ladies.’
When she was dressed and looked at herself in a long mirror, she only recognized herself by her curls and the gold rings in her ears. She had grown taller and thinner – and paler, thought Kizzy, or was that because she was washed? Gran had washed her each night before she went to bed, carrying the water in a bucket, but here it was not only every day, ‘Three times a day,’ said Kizzy – and at night in a bathtub. She sniffed her hands; they smelled freshly of soap and a longing swept over her for the old smell of wood smoke, of open air and Joe. ‘When can we go back?’ Kizzy could have cried. It was then she had her second visitor.
The Easter holidays had started and, ‘I’m going to the House,’ Clem Oliver told his mother.
‘Do you think you should?’ Mrs Oliver was doubtful.
‘I’m a boy . . . Admiral Twiss won’t mind and that little girl’s my friend,’ and, sure enough, Kizzy broke into one of her rare smiles when Peters brought Clem up. ‘Clem! You’ve come to see me!’ She was dazzled.
‘Sure,’ said Clem, and, ‘What a house!’ he said. ‘What a house!’
‘Is it?’ asked Kizzy. She did not know enough about houses to judge. ‘It’s nice and old.’
She meant that Amberhurst House, in spite of its grandeur, was comfortably shabby. ‘Well, generations of us have lived here,’ Admiral Twiss would have said but, ‘I wouldn’t like to,’ said Clem. Coming from his bustling crowded farmhouse home, Amberhurst seemed huge and empty to Clem. Admiral Twiss, he thought, must be lonely. The kitchens where Clem had come in and this nursery wing above it were smaller, warmer, more homely but, ‘Think of coming down that great stone staircase for breakfast,’ said Clem, ‘and having it at that long table with the big silver candlesticks – one little place at the end.’ Clem had seen it when Peters took him in to the Admiral. ‘And libraries and drawing rooms, a billiard room, a gunroom. His bedroom must have empty rooms all round it – and all them portraits staring down at you. No, thank you,’ said Clem, yet Amberhurst was friendly to him.
He had tea in the kitchen with Kizzy Nat and Peters. ‘Mr Peters made us sausages and chips and he made scones. He can cook as well as you, Mum,’ Clem told his mother. Admiral Twiss was not there; he dined alone at eight, but after tea he showed Clem his racing cups, his fishing-rods – he promised to let Clem fish the lake and trout stream – and the workshop where he made his models. ‘Cor! it was fascinating,’ Clem told at home. ‘He’s making a tug, it’ll work with real steam. You should see it.’
Kizzy was pleased – and flattered – by Clem’s visit. ‘He’s one of the biggest boys in the school, but he came to see me,’ she boasted to Peters.
‘Nice lad,’ said Peters. Nat said the same and the Admiral said Clem could come when he liked, but Kizzy’s time of peace at Amberhurst House was over. The world outside was beginning to creep in.
‘Clem Oliver went up to Amberhurst.’
‘He had tea at the House.’
‘Went to see the little gypsy.’
‘Clem Oliver.’
‘If Clem went, why not me?’ said Prudence Cuthbert.
‘Kizzy can go out,’ Doctor Harwell put away his stethoscope. ‘She’s over it well. You made an excellent job of her,’ he said to Peters. ‘She can go out but wrap her up well.’
‘You can come with me this morning to see Joe,’ the Admiral told her.
‘In his meadow?’ Kizzy’s face was lit with joy.
‘Yes, but put on your coat.’
The joy departed. ‘Haven’t got a coat,’ muttered Kizzy.
‘Yes, you have,’ said Admiral Twiss. ‘The coat Mrs Blount gave you. It’s hanging in the cloakroom.’
‘That coat!’
‘That coat,’ said Admiral Twiss and added, ‘No coat and you don’t come and see Joe.’ He walked away down the drive. Slowly Kizzy went to the cloakroom to get the coat.
‘You see, Kiz,’ said the Admiral when they had seen Joe – he had put her up on his back, she had hugged the huge old neck and they had given Joe apples – ‘We can’t always do as we like.’
‘That’s only children,’ Kizzy burst out.
‘It isn’t only children, unfortunately,’ the Admiral sounded sad, ‘and it isn’t only the coat.’ He had buttoned Kizzy into it, put up the hood. ‘The coat isn’t all we shall have to accept, you and I.’
‘I want to see Kizzy Lovell.’
Though Peters did not like women he was not, normally, cross to little girls, but something in Prudence’s sharp little face, her primped-up hair, bright pink coat and smart white shoes, made him feel dislike; dislike, too, for the imperious way she spoke which was quite different from Clem’s ‘Please, sir, could I see Kizzy?’‘I want to see Kizzy Lovell,’ said Prue.
‘But does she want to see you?’ Peters’ barrel shape filled the back door.
‘But I have come to see her.’ Prudence was surprised.
‘We don’t have to see everyone who comes. You wait there, young lady, while I go and ask.’ But it was not easy to keep Prudence Cuthbert out, as Miss Brooke or Mrs Blount could have told him. Prue slipped into the kitchen after Peters and came face to face with Kizzy.
Kizzy had stood rooted by the kitchen table as soon as she heard Prue’s voice. Prue stopped too when she saw her and they looked at one another, ‘like two kittens with their fur on end,’ Peters told the Admiral afterwards. Then, ‘Go away,’ said Kizzy.
‘That’s nice,’ said Prue. ‘When I have come all this way to see you.’ Kizzy knew that was not true. Prudence had come to see Amberhurst House. ‘So she could tell about it at school,’ said Kizzy afterwards.
‘Clem went, so why can’t I?’ Prudence had told the girls.
‘You’d never dare.’
‘I would.’
‘They won’t let you in.’
‘We’ll see,�
� and Prudence had tossed her head. Now she was in, though only as far as the kitchen and, ‘Go away,’ said Kizzy.
Prue had sleeked her fur down. ‘You’ll be coming back to school soon, so I thought we could be friends,’ but Kizzy knew Prue did not really mean it; she was too busy looking over Kizzy’s shoulder down the corridor where a baize door led into the House. ‘Couldn’t we?’ coaxed Prudence, looking longingly at the door.
‘No,’ said Kizzy.
‘You have nice clothes,’ said Prudence admiringly. ‘You look really pretty.’
‘Go away.’
Prudence’s fur rose up again. ‘You needn’t be so high and mighty just because you’re up at the House. Soon as you’re well you’ll have to leave, my Mum said so. They’re having a meeting about you next week. Probably they’ll put you in a Home. How’ll you like that?’
‘I won’t live in a Home,’ said Kizzy.
‘Where’ll you live then?’ taunted Prue.
‘I shall live by myself.’
‘Don’t be soft. Anyway, your caravan’s burnt.’
Kizzy’s chin came up. ‘Sir Admiral’s going to make me a little wagon, just for my own.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘He is.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘He is. He is!’ Admiral Twiss heard that child’s cry in his study. ‘He is!’ and he got up.
‘Then he’s barmy.’ The Admiral was in time to see Prudence and Kizzy fly at one another, kicking and spitting and biting in fury until Peters took each of them by the back of the neck and shook them apart.
Mrs Cuthbert came up to complain and met the Admiral on the drive. ‘An absolute little savage,’ she shrilled. ‘Prudence came home black and blue with a huge scratch on her cheek.’
‘You should see the scratch on Kizzy’s,’ said the Admiral.
Peters was more severe. ‘That’s no way to behave,’ he told Kizzy. ‘Even however horrid she is.’
‘I’ll always do it to anyone horrid,’ declared Kizzy.
‘None of your lip, saucepot; while you’re at Amberhurst you’ll behave. If you come from Amberhurst you’ll behave, or you’ll disgrace us at the meeting.’
Kizzy stared at him. So it was true: there was to be a meeting. She felt suddenly cold.
Admiral Twiss was in his workshop putting the last touches on the miniature tug, the Elsie May, when Kizzy appeared. She watched, her head almost level with the high workshop table, as his long clever fingers fitted a cage of brass over the little starboard light. ‘Just in case she collides with anything,’ he explained, and said, ‘When I tried her out on the lake one of the swans attacked her. Can’t protect the searchlight though; it must swivel as she changes direction.’ No one but the Admiral, thought Kizzy, could make a tiny searchlight that swivelled. She took a deep breath.
‘Will you make a wagon for me?’
The Admiral gave her a shrewd glance from under his eyebrows, then said, ‘I only make models.’
‘Will you – buy me a wagon?’
‘When you are eighteen.’ His fingers did not falter as he worked over the light and, without any unnecessary questions, he added, ‘They wouldn’t let you live in one until you are eighteen. Then they couldn’t stop you.’
‘Can’t I live with you?’
He shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t let us, Kiz.’
‘Why not?’
‘We haven’t a woman here.’
‘Why do you need a woman when you have me? I looked after Gran.’
‘I know you did.’
‘I could sell bunches of flowers, and pegs if you would make them for me; that could pay for me if you haven’t enough money.’
The Admiral stopped fitting the cage, took Kizzy’s hand and led her into the library; he sat down in his chair and drew her to stand against his knee. ‘At this meeting, Kiz, they will decide that Amberhurst House isn’t a fit place for a little girl and we cannot argue.’
Kizzy did argue.
‘A little girl lived here once, Clem says so.’
‘This is a girl’s room,’ Clem had said, looking round Kizzy’s bedroom.
‘Is it?’ Again Kizzy had not enough experience of rooms to know.
‘Yes, look at it.’ And certainly the white bed, the miniature dressing table, the small white rocking chair, blue carpet, muslin curtains and apple blossom paper looked like a girl’s. ‘I thought they only had boys,’ Clem had said, ‘but there must have been a girl.’
‘Long long ago,’ Admiral Twiss said now and added, ‘There’s a painting of her in the drawing room.’
They went together into the big disused drawing room with its pale green panelled walls and stiff brocade curtains; the chairs and sofas had dust sheets over them but Kizzy could see small gilded tables, faint colours of embroidered carpets, a mirror framed in gold. Over the fireplace was a life-size painting of a little girl, much the same age as Kizzy but with a thin, fine-boned face that was like the Admiral’s; she had his brown eyes too and they seemed to follow Kizzy across the room. The girl had brown ringlets and was wearing a dress of maroon cloth with full white muslin sleeves, and a wide band of blue velvet running round the skirt. ‘You can tell it’s velvet though it’s only painted,’ whispered Kizzy in awe. The small bodice was laced in blue up to a narrow white ruffle at the neck; the hands were holding a spray of roses. ‘I can guess she would rather they had been a pair of reins,’ said the Admiral. ‘She grew up to be a fine horsewoman.’
‘Who was she?’ asked Kizzy.
‘My grandmother.’
‘Your Gran . . . but she’s a little girl.’
‘Girls grow up,’ said the Admiral. ‘She married my grandfather – married very young. Her name was Kezia Cunningham; she was the last Cunningham. My grandfather was another Admiral Twiss, but because Amberhurst House and the land were hers, they called themselves Cunningham Twiss.’
‘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.
Chapter Four
‘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.’
