The Diddakoi (13 page)

‘Y-es,’ it was wrung from Kizzy.

‘Hasn’t Mr Fraser?’

‘Y-es.’

‘Haven’t I, and the boys?’

‘Y-es.’

‘Well then. Why?’

‘Them,’ said Kizzy briefly.

‘Look, Kiz,’ said Clem. ‘You have to make it up.’

‘No.’

‘You can’t go on and on.’

‘I can.’

‘You can’t,’ said Clem. You’ll see.’

Miss Brooke had meant to cajole Kizzy into coming to the bonfire with her, but when Kizzy came home it was to find her sick and giving involuntary little moans; the skin round
her eyes was discoloured, ‘and you’re all yellow,’ said Kizzy alarmed.

‘It’s just one of my bad sick headaches,’ Miss Brooke managed to say. ‘It will be better if I lie down.’

Kizzy helped her upstairs to her quiet bedroom over the L, pulled back the counterpane and covered her with blankets. She made a cup of tea and carried it carefully up and brought Miss Brooke
the pills she ought to have taken before. ‘Only I wanted you to see the bonfire.’

‘I like my own bonfire,’ said Kizzy and pulled the curtains. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘Your tea . . .’

‘I’ll get my own tea – and feed Chuff.’

‘You ought to see the fireworks . . .’

‘Never mind them – unless they hurt your poor head. They’re only bangs,’ said Kizzy and soon Miss Brooke, who had been awake and sick most of the night, was in a deep
sleep.

‘Only bangs,’ but, sitting on her box, Kizzy felt strangely forlorn and lonely; perhaps it was because Miss Brooke was not there, perhaps because of the excited voices coming from
the common on the other side of the cottage, laughter and shouting and the sound of running footsteps. ‘Sparklers, crackers, back-a-rappers, golden rain,’ she whispered the
magic-sounding words to Chuff and thought she caught a tang of gunpowder mingled with the smell of hot dogs on the air. She had half a mind to go to the front gate and watch.

When it was beginning to be dark a rocket whizzed into the sky and fell in a shower of stars that shone red as Miss Brooke’s rubies in the dusk; they were more beautiful than anything
Kizzy had ever seen – the orchard had been too far away from the village for her to have watched fireworks. Another rocket went up, blue and green: ‘Sapphires ’n’
emeralls,’ whispered Kizzy to Chuff but Chuff, who disliked firework bangs, had run into the cottage. Kizzy went through the sitting room and out to the front gate.

‘Lizbeth,’ Clem coaxed his sister. ‘Go to Miss Brooke’s cottage and make Kizzy come and join us.’

‘You go.’

‘She won’t come for me – because of you girls.’

‘She won’t come for us.’

‘I believe she would if you asked her. Anyway, try. Go on, Lizbeth. You and Mary Jo.’

Elizabeth considered. ‘It would have to be Prudence.’

‘Prue’s the one she hates.’

‘That’s why,’ said Elizabeth, but was still doubtful.

‘Tell you what,’ said Clem. ‘If you make them go and Kizzy comes, I’ll give you my new pencil box . . . ’sides, you want to make it up. You know you do,’ and
that was how three little girls met Kizzy at the garden gate.

Kizzy held the gate tight shut. ‘We haven’t come to fight,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Why have you then?’ Kizzy was breathing through her nose, again like a little dragon.

‘Fains, Kizzy.’ Prudence offered the truce and, ‘We came to ask you along to the bonfire with us,’ said Mary Jo, and, ‘Please come,’ Elizabeth pleaded.

For a moment Kizzy’s heart leapt, then the shell came down. ‘I got a bonfire of my own,’ she said loftily.

‘You couldn’t have, not like ours.’

‘Better than yours.’

‘Show.’

‘Private,’ said Kizzy.

‘Then we don’t believe you,’ said Prue.

Kizzy looked at them; her eyes flashed – ‘Black,’ Elizabeth told Clem afterwards – and she threw open the garden gate. ‘Come . . .’

‘Oh!’ ‘O-oh!’ ‘O-ooh!’ Elizabeth, Mary Jo and Prudence stood in the little orchard gazing at the apple trees with their rosy apples, the
fire where the kettle was steaming, the lit wagon showing a glimpse of windows and curtains and china. ‘O-ooo-ooooh!’

‘It’s a wendy-house caravan,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Never seen anythin’ like it.’

‘And it’s yours?’

Kizzy nodded. She was swelling with pride. ‘You can go into the wagon if you like.’

Reverently they went up the steps and the bonfire on the common was forgotten.

‘Look at the little pillows!’

‘Real patchwork quilts.’

‘Why two bunks?’

‘So’s I can ask a friend to spend the night.’

‘Do you sleep here then?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Kizzy.

‘She lets you?’

‘When I like.’

‘Wish I could,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Maybe one day I’ll ask you.’

‘China’s right pretty,’ said Mary Jo.

‘It’s a hundred years old,’ said Kizzy. ‘Belonged to Kezia Cunningham at the House,’ and she boasted, ‘I’m called after her.’

‘Then Admiral Twiss made this for you?’

‘Yes, he’s a friend of mine.’ Kizzy felt she was getting bigger and bigger.

‘But you need a pony,’ said Prue.

‘The pony hasn’t come yet.’

‘You’re going to have a
pony
!’

‘Make you some tea if you like.’ Kizzy thought they had better stop talking about the pony. ‘Kettle’s boiling,’ which drew their attention to the fire and, for the
first time, Prudence criticized. ‘’S a very little fire.’

‘Has to be,’ said Elizabeth, ‘to match.’

‘She said it was big.’

‘It can be,’ said Kizzy. ‘I can make it as big as I like.’ Something inside her knew she was boasting even more, yet she went on, moving the kittle-iron and the kettle
and throwing on armful after armful of wood.

‘Now you have put it out,’ said Prue.

‘Haven’t,’ and Kizzy went to the garage and brought out Miss Brooke’s spare tin of petrol.

‘Kizzy you can’t put that on it. Petrol’s dangerous.’

‘Stand back,’ was all Kizzy said.

She meant to sprinkle a few drops but the tin was heavy. Petrol gushed out and, ‘Kizzy!’ screamed Mary Jo as there was a bang and a flash of flame. Kizzy dropped the tin and jumped
back as a sheet of fire came up. ‘How it didn’t catch her face I don’t know,’ said Elizabeth afterwards. In a moment there was what seemed a wall of fire with tongues
reaching out towards the cottage; the thatch on the low eaves of the L caught at once, while the wind swept the fire upwards. Flames ran along the thatch and in a minute smoke began to come out of
the upstairs windows. Chuff tore out of the house, his fur on end, and leaped, clawing, up the hedge.

The heat scorched the girls’ faces and, ‘The wagon! The little wagon,’ screamed Elizabeth over the noise of the flames but, ‘Never mind the wagon,’ Kizzy shouted
back. ‘Olivia . . . Miss Brooke, she’s asleep in there.’ Before they could catch her, Kizzy had dodged round the flames and dived into the smoking cottage. Elizabeth screamed;
Mary Jo began to sob, but Prudence was not Mrs Cuthbert’s daughter for nothing. ‘Run, Beth,’ she ordered. ‘Run. Get Clem. Get men.’

‘Better . . . ring . . . fire brigade,’ choked Elizabeth.

‘They would never believe children on bonfire night.’ Prue was cool, decisive. ‘Run!’ and Elizabeth ran, dodging through the sitting room, which was not yet alight, but
leaving the door open, which fanned the flames; the sitting room began to fill with smoke but Prudence was still cool. ‘Mary Jo, come with me.’

‘In
there
?’

‘We got to. Got to get ’em out.
Come on.
Don’t chicken.’

As they came into the cottage, they heard faint cries. ‘We’re coming,’ shouted Prue but she did not, like Kizzy dash straight up the stairs. She ran into the kitchen, found two
glass cloths and held them under the tap. ‘Tie this over your mouth and nose,’ she commanded, giving one to Mary Jo. ‘Tie it tight. Now come.’

‘Up there?’ Mary Jo quailed. ‘’S – moke.’

‘’Course. Come on.’

The stairs were a steep single cottage flight with a small landing at the top; smoke was billowing down them now, filling the sitting room. ‘Crawl,’ said Prue over
her shoulder. They could hear Kizzy coughing and spluttering above them, then saw her frantically trying to pull Miss Brooke’s body through an open door. Smoke belched out from behind her and
as Prue, on her hands and knees, got to them, Kizzy choked, doubled up and fell. In one swift movement, Prue grabbed her curls; Kizzy was light, easy to pull clear and Prue passed her to Mary Jo.
‘Throw her down the stairs.’

‘
Throw?’ Their
voices were muffled by the cloths.

‘Yes. Quick.’ Beyond Miss Brooke, Prue saw lumps of burning thatch fall through the ceiling, fire run along the ancient beams. ‘
Throw
her. Hurry!’

‘She’ll be hurt.’

‘Never mind. Quick. Come
on. Come on!
’

Mary Jo’s hurl sent limp light Kizzy head over heels down the stairs but Miss Brooke was another matter; though a slight woman, unconscious she was heavy for two small girls.
‘Pull,’ gasped Prue.

‘Can’t.’ Mary Jo was coughing; both their eyes were red, streaming and smarting, half blinded; heat scorched their cheeks. ‘Can’t.’

‘Must.’ Prue set her teeth and, with all the strength of their short arms, they pulled and tugged Miss Brooke to the landing. ‘Take – legs,’ spluttered Prue and
together they dragged her feet round. ‘Go – down,’ Mary Jo retreated down three steps. ‘Pull – legs – pull,’ gasped Prue.

The bedroom was ablaze now but Prue knelt at the head of the stairs and got Miss Brooke’s head and shoulders up, heaving her own body beneath them. ‘
Pull.
’ It was torn
out of Prue, whose wet cloth had slipped. She took in a mouthful of smoke and choked. ‘Pull.’ Mary Jo caught the legs and Miss Brooke began to slither downwards.

Prue felt her own hair frizzle, a searing pain on her neck and saw her dress was alight; she gave a final frantic heave and Miss Brooke cascaded down, taking Mary Jo with her as running steps
burst into the cottage; a man caught up Kizzy a second Mary Jo as Prudence herself keeled over and tumbled down the flight right over Miss Brooke into a third man’s arms; he seized the
hearthrug and rolled Prue in it, smothering the flames on her dress. Two more men swung up Miss Brooke.

‘’Struth,’ they said afterwards. ‘We got them out just in time.’

‘
We
got them out. It was young Prudence Cuthbert.’

‘Where is she?’

The Admiral’s old Rolls had come tearing into the village and he, Peters and Nat were out of it in a moment when it drew up with a shrieking of tyres outside the cottage. Two fire engines
were there, firemen trampling over the garden, their hoses still jetting out water that sent a mushroom of smoke spreading over the sky with a terrible smell of charring. Some of the downstairs
furniture had been carried out and stood higgledy-piggledy in the garden, soaked with dirty water and grimed with smoke. The excitement of the cottage on fire had dimmed the excitement of the
bonfire and at least half the village was gathered there. Admiral Twiss went through them like a reap-hook through corn.

‘How did he get here so soon?’

‘Doctor was playing chess with him,’ Nat explained. ‘Hospital telephoned.’

‘Where is she?’ Looking at the Admiral’s blanched face, a murmur went round. ‘Lord, how he do love that child.’

‘Is she alive? Hurt? Where is she?’

‘Little girl’s all right, sir.’ The Chief Fireman came up. ‘All the little girls. Overcome by smoke, of course. The ambulance has taken them to hospital. One has some
burns but not severe.’

The Admiral still seemed dazed and a dozen voices reassured him. ‘Kizzy’s safe. She’s all right. Kizzy is all right, sir.’

‘No. No, not Kizzy,’ said the Admiral. ‘At least – Kizzy yes, but not Kizzy . . .’ and in front of them all he cried, ‘Where is
she
? Is
she
hurt? Olivia? Miss Brooke?’

‘I told you she was setting her cap at him,’ said Mrs Cuthbert. The village seldom remembered a more exciting time. Mary Jo and Kizzy were discharged from hospital
next day and Kizzy went to stay with the Olivers, ‘With Clem and Elizabeth,’ said Kizzy. Prudence came out next; with her bandaged neck and hands she was the heroine of the village.
‘Wouldn’t be surprised if she got a medal,’ and even Peters had to say, ‘Got a head on her shoulders, that one.’

The cottage was a blackened half-ruin, sheeted with tarpaulins, the furniture stacked up. ‘You can’t live there now,’ Admiral Twiss told Miss Brooke – he had gone
straight to the hospital and was there every day. ‘You and Kiz will have to come to Amberhurst.’

‘But . . .’

‘Talk. Yes, there will be talk.’ The Admiral said it irritably, but his eyebrows did not bristle. ‘But there’s one way to stop it – if you will say
“Yes”, Olivia.’

‘For Kizzy’s sake . . .’

‘Not Kizzy’s – yours and mine. Kizzy too, of course, but when I thought you were burnt . . .’ The Admiral’s eyebrows and moustache worked so violently he had to go
to the hospital window. ‘It’s no good. You will have to say “Yes”, Olivia.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Brooke. It was a little while later that she asked – and her eyes were laughing, ‘How will you tell Nat and Peters?’

‘My wagon was burned, just like Gran’s. Then am I dead?’ Kizzy had said when she came round in the hospital which was not at all like her idea of heaven.
‘I must be dead.’ But, though she was not to be a star just yet, in a way the old Kizzy was dead. ‘I wouldn’t go to the bonfire,’ she confessed to the Admiral,
‘and I was showing off She could hear herself boasting, see herself with the petrol can. ‘I nearly killed Olivia.’ She caught her breath. ‘If Mary Jo and Prue . . .’
He had told her what they had done. ‘Brave little girls,’ said Admiral Twiss, ‘particularly Prudence.’

Particularly Prue. ‘I’ll ask her to sit next me,’ said Kizzy with a gulp. ‘If . . . if Clem will sit on my other side.’

Peters was icing a birthday cake in the big House kitchen, a white cake, three-tiered, that would presently be decorated with silver balls and red cherries. It was to have
eight red candles and he had promised to write in chocolate icing:
Kezia Happy Birthday.