The Diddakoi

by Rumer Godden

  ‘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.’r />
  ‘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.

  ‘Yes, but her wagon was open – she lived outside – and Amberhurst House, where she has been since, is so spacious. However, my cottage is the last in the village, on the edge of the common; Kizzy might not feel shut in.’

  And I am not far away,’ Mrs Cuthbert chimed in. ‘I can help.’

  ‘I will only do it on condition that I am not helped.’ Miss Brooke’s flush had deepened but her words were firm. ‘Except by Mr Blount, of course. Yes, it will be difficult. I think we all realize now that for a time Kizzy will be unhappy, perhaps hostile . . .’

  ‘Hostile! How dare . . .’ Mrs Cuthbert was breaking in again, but the Chairman raised a peremptory hand. ‘Madam! I will not have you interrupting; if you persist, I will order you to leave the Court.’ Then, ‘Miss Brooke,’ he said, ‘you really are prepared to take this – hostile – child?’

  ‘What would we be in her place?’ Miss Brooke said it simply. ‘Yes, I would be prepared to do it – prepared to try.’

  ‘Mr Blount?’ The Chairman turned to the Officer, but Mrs Cuthbert broke in again, though a subdued Mrs Cuthbert. ‘May I say something, sir?’

  ‘At least she asked,’ the Chairman said to Miss Brooke afterwards, ‘although she didn’t wait for the permission!’

  ‘Forgive me for being personal, Olivia,’ said Mrs Cuthbert, ‘but it’s my duty to ask – especially,’ she said to the Chairman, ‘as Miss Brooke refuses help. Though she may have had experience on committees, should a single woman take a child into her home?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Cuthbert, but Miss Brooke isn’t, if I may say so, the usual single woman; nor is this a usual child – in fact, so unusual that we should be grateful for any solution, let alone such a promising one – but may we hear,’ he said with another stern look at Mrs Cuthbert, ‘what Mr Blount thinks?’

  ‘That it’s an excellent idea,’ said Mr Blount, and the Court ruled that Kizzy would go to live with Miss Brooke, ‘and be supervised, from time to time,’ said the Chairman, ‘by Mr Blount.’ It was settled – began to be settled, Kizzy would have said.

  Term had begun and, ‘This is the morning,’ said Admiral Twiss. He had sent for Kizzy after breakfast. ‘Peters is taking you to school. Then he will pack up your things and take them to Miss Brooke. She will fetch you.’

  Miss Brooke had not spoken while Kizzy was in the courtroom so that Kizzy had hardly noticed her, but she had since come to Amberhurst House, ‘to meet Kizzy properly.’ ‘Told you so,’ said Peters. ‘Once one of’em comes, others will follow. Told you so.’

  If Peters was frozen, he was nothing to Kizzy. Admiral Twiss had introduced her in the library and Kizzy had not spoken – ‘Not once,’ he told Peters – Miss Brooke had not tried to make her; after she had said, ‘Good afternoon, Kizzy,’ she had talked to the Admiral.

  At first it was stilted – Admiral Twiss was almost furiously shy – then she asked him about his silver cups and he showed them to her. ‘These were Rainbird’s.’ ‘These were Royal’s,’ and soon he was talking of horse shows and racing as easily as if she had been Nat, ‘until she brought me up short,’ the Admiral told Nat afterwards. ‘Yes, that was a good day,’ he had said of a certain race meeting. ‘I remember China Court won the Great Metropolitan Stakes—’

  ‘Not China Court – Mirzador,’ said Miss Brooke and, as the Admiral stared at her, ‘I know because my father trained him.’

  ‘Your father? Then . . . your father . . .’

  ‘Was Gerald Brooke.’

  ‘Good Gad!’ and the Admiral turned to Kizzy. ‘Miss Brooke’s father was a famous racehorse trainer, so you see she must like horses too.’

  Kizzy only scowled.

  As Miss Brooke sat in the big chair opposite him where, since his grandmother, the Admiral could not remember any woman sitting, he wondered how it was that she had come to live at Amberhurst. He vaguely remembered hearing that when Gerald Brooke died he had left scarcely any money, but Miss Brooke told no more about herself; she talked of the horses, of Amberhurst, of Kizzy, but he found himself looking rather than listening and, when she got up to go, had an effort to stop himself from saying, ‘You know, you smile with your eyes.’ There could be no pretence in a smile like that and he had felt heartened for Kizzy.

  Now he got up from the breakfast table and blew his nose on his handkerchief; his eyebrows were working as he took Kizzy to the library and sat down by the fire and, as he had always done, drew her to him, but she stood, stiff and as unwilling as a block of wood. ‘It’s no good, Kiz,’ said the Admiral. ‘We have to go through with this, but I want you to know that you will always be my girl, and Peters’ and Nat’s, and I want to make a bargain with you.’

  ‘What?’ whispered Kizzy. She was looking at his ring with the bird on the shield, remembering the first time she had seen it; now too, her eyes were hot with tears.

  ‘I will promise to look after Joe for you and you’ll come up every Saturday and spend the day with us; Miss Brooke says you can – Sunday as well if you like – but you must promise to do everything Miss Brooke tells you.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’ The words seemed to drop from Kizzy’s lips.

  ‘They may say we have taught you bad ways and won’t let you see us, which would be sad for us both. I should give your promise, Kiz. Promise you’ll do what Miss Brooke says.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Gypsy’s promise,’ said the Admiral. ‘Gypsies keep their word.’

  Kizzy nodded – but gypsies have a way of wriggling round it, as the Admiral ought to have known.

  Miss Brooke drove to the school to fetch Kizzy, but when Mrs Blount went to look for her, ‘Kizzy’s gone,’ she said, astonished. ‘I told her to wait for you.’

  ‘Which is probably why she has gone.’

  ‘Do you think she has run back to the House? Poor you, having to chase after her,’ but Miss Brooke did not have to
chase. She drove slowly along the lanes and there at the gates was Kizzy, standing in the road, an uncertain lost little figure. When Miss Brooke stopped the car, Kizzy turned a small mutinous back, but there was something she learned at once about Miss Brooke; like the Admiral, she did not ask questions. ‘Where do you think you are going? Why didn’t you wait for me as you were told?’ Instead, ‘Kizzy it’s time for tea,’ said Miss Brooke. ‘I can drive behind you, if you like, but if I were you I should get in.’

  ‘I won’t eat your food or drink your drink and I won’t talk to you,’ said Kizzy at the table.

  ‘That won’t be very interesting for either of us, will it?’ Miss Brooke answered in a calm voice.

  The table was drawn up to the window where there were hyacinths in pots. Miss Brooke had made cheese toasts, they were in a hot dish; the home-made currant buns had a spicy fragrant smell; there was home-made raspberry jam and the tea was hot in the brown teapot, but Kizzy took from her pocket one of the two crusts she had saved from school dinner and put it on her plate. It was so dry she could hardly bite it, but she did not touch the butter or jam. Miss Brooke did not seem upset but went on eating and drinking and, when Kizzy had finished, calmly cleared away. Kizzy heard her humming as she washed up. She doesn’t care, thought Kizzy, and her heart sank. There did not seem anything for her to do so she sat down on the hearthrug and stroked Miss Brooke’s tabby cat. She liked the cat.

  ‘His name is Chuff,’ Miss Brooke called from the kitchen. Kizzy withdrew her hand.

  Presently Miss Brooke came in; she did not, as most of her neighbours did, turn on the television and take out her knitting or sewing, but sat down, picked up a book and, careful not to glance at Kizzy, began to read aloud.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ read Miss Brooke, ‘there was a prince who hadn’t much money, but he had a kingdom, and though this was quite small, it was large enough to marry on, and marry he would . . .’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Miss Brooke could see Kizzy’s attention was caught, perhaps because she was surprised – no one had ever read to her, just by herself, before. ‘Still it was rather bold of him to say straight out to the Emperor’s daughter, “Will you have me?” but sure enough she did. . .’ Miss Brooke’s voice was enchanting and, as she read, the cottage room seemed to be filled with the story of the swineherd, the prince disguised, the proud princess, the tittuping ladies-in-waiting, the emperor in his old slippers. Kizzy on the hearthrug was still and Miss Brooke put more expression into her voice; it was some time before she saw that Kizzy had her hands over her ears.