The Diddakoi Read Online Free PDF Page A

howl and Mrs Doe darted from her caravan. ‘She hit me, Mam, she hit me,’ sobbed Boyo while Kizzy stood silent and sullen. Mrs Doe was already upset from the argument
with Uncle Jess, the burning of the wagon, and an uneasy feeling about Kizzy herself; she took it out in temper. ‘That’s enough of you,’ she said to Kizzy, boxed her ears and gave
her a hard slap in the face.
    For Kizzy too it was enough. Gran had lammed her back and bottom but no one had ever slapped her face; the smart of it, the tingling in her ears seemed to make a glare in front of her eyes, the
pain ran down into her throat and choked her. She gave a hard dry sob, turned on Mrs Doe and bit her through the hand.
    Mrs Doe shook her off as if she were a small dog and hurled her back on her mattress. ‘Us, take in that diddakoi,’ Kizzy heard her shouting to Mrs Smith. ‘Savage, that’s
what she is.’
    ‘Give her a taste of the cosh,’ Mrs Smith shouted back but Mrs Doe had slammed the caravan door.
    Kizzy lay in a little heap in the corner of the tent; her ears were still singing, her cheek smarted, but that was nothing to the pain in her heart. Joe. Give Joe to the knackers, to the hounds
. . . She felt sick, yet, at the same time, black with hate against Boyo who taunted, Mrs Doe who hit, Lumas Doe who lied. She thought of going to Uncle Jess but he was fast asleep in the
Smiths’ trailer. There was no one but herself, she, Kizzy, and as the night drew out, she knew what it was she had to do.
    Boyo was asleep, snuffling on his camp bed. Cautiously Kizzy got up, pulled on her boots and stole out of the tent. Both the trailer and caravan were shut up because of the bitter cold and there
was no sound as she stole between them. All that was left of the wagon was a big heap of smouldering ashes with a red-hot centre and she crouched there a little while, warming herself; as the
hardness went out of her body, Kizzy found she was making whimpering noises like a little animal. They were small noises but Joe heard them, though he was across the orchard, and quietly he came up
and stood behind her, snorting softly as he smelled the fire. Alarmed that someone might hear him, Kizzy got to her feet. ‘We mustn’t stay here,’ she whispered. For a moment she
hugged Joe, then went to the apple tree where his halter was hung. ‘C’mon,’ she whispered and obediently he bent down his head. She slipped the halter on and, taking the rope, she
led him, keeping well away from the trailer, caravan and tents, round the edge of the orchard to the gap in the hedge; it was barred by a plank which she cautiously slid out. She led Joe through on
to the road, keeping him on the verge so that his heavy hooves made no sound.
    The road was black, high hedges made it darker and cut off the stars, but travellers need no torch, their eyes seem to see in the dark and Kizzy could guide herself and Joe. When they came to a
gate, she stopped him beside it, climbed the bars and scrambled on to his back. Then, still holding the rope and kicking him gently to send him along, without a sound they rode away into the
night.
    Admiral Twiss was having breakfast. It was said in the village that he ate off a newspaper spread on the table and that he and Peters and Nat lived off whisky, hard-boiled
eggs, food out of tins, ‘and everything fried.’ ‘Very bad for them,’ said Mrs Cuthbert. ‘But do you wonder – no woman to do anything. They say the house is
dreadfully neglected.’ The village could only ‘say’ because it did not know; Mrs Cuthbert, or any other of the village women, were never invited in, not even into the hall. The
Vicar could have told them, or Mr Fraser, the school’s headmaster, or Doctor Harwell; they often dined at the House and played chess or bridge with Admiral Twiss, but they were quiet men and
did not talk. The villagers were sorry for the Admiral. ‘I don’t know how they manage,’ Mrs Cuthbert told Miss Brooke.
    ‘They all