if it did not matter, yet she must mind, thought Miss Brooke. It must be an ordeal. She looked across at Kizzy’s face which seemed
– contented, thought Miss Brooke. How could she be contented, this unfathomable child? But Kizzy was far away, far over the Downs on Joe’s back. They would walk along at night –
when everyone’s in bed and no one will see us – and camp in woods and orchards, build a fire; she would collect sticks and pick up old dung for fuel. Why, Joe himself could supply a
fire. An old saucepan, thought Kizzy – there was an old one Miss Brooke used for the chickens; she had two so could spare one. I must take matches, planned Kizzy – she had not a flint
like Gran’s. A blanket, some sacks, a net of hay for Joe – Nat would not miss one – her bag of scraps. I can pick onions and potatoes from people’s gardens – she was
small enough to get through hedges – p’raps find an egg. Then, when they were far enough away, she would build a house of branches, or find a hollow tree – ’s good I am so small – only first she must be well enough at the weekend to go to Amberhurst House.
She would spend Saturday there, get full of food, stuff myself, thought Kizzy so it will last, collect and hide all her things. Go again on Sunday and, after lunch, when the Admiral and Peters
dozed and Nat went to the Lodge to read the Sunday papers, say goodbye to Kezia Cunningham then put the things on Joe, an’ we’ll just go, thought Kizzy. She suddenly gave Miss Brooke a
beaming smile.
‘Kizzy,’ said Miss Brooke at breakfast. ‘Admiral Twiss telephoned last night.’
Kizzy stopped, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. ‘He didn’t say I couldn’t come? But I must,’ she said. ‘I have to see Joe.’
Miss Brooke made a queer sound like a hiccough and put down her cup. It seemed as if she were going to say something but changed her mind. ‘As soon as you’re ready, we’ll
go.’ Kizzy was too busy with her own plans, hiding the blanket, filling her pockets with matches, bringing out the loaded carrier bag, ‘scraps for Joe,’ she said, which was partly
true – there were one or two apples. Miss Brooke made another of her queer noises and, queerly too, did not put Kizzy down at the gates but drove her up to the House, which did not suit
Kizzy’s plans. ‘Tell Admiral Twiss I will come if he wants me,’ said Miss Brooke as she let Kizzy out.
Why should the Admiral want her? He, Peters, Nat, Kizzy did not want anybody on Saturdays and Sundays; and why did Miss Brooke look grave – and as if she were sorry? Why should she be
sorry? For a moment a cold little puzzlement touched Kizzy, then she shook it off; if Miss Brooke were in trouble she was sorry but this was Saturday – and tomorrow . . . With the blanket on
her shoulder, the carrier bag bumping against her legs, Kizzy set off for the stables, and stopped.
Usually she went straight to the stables and meadow. Later on she and Nat would go to the House and have cocoa in the kitchen with Peters. Usually Kizzy did not see the Admiral till lunchtime
and not always then – often he stayed in his workshop – but this morning he was in the stable yard, waiting. Waiting for me . . . and Kizzy’s heart seemed to skip a beat. He did
not call out to her, but waited and, as she came up to him, she saw that the look on his face was the same as Miss Brooke’s, grave and sorry – sorry to sadness.
Then Kizzy was frightened, more frightened than when Mr Blount had come and taken her to school, or when Peters fetched her and Gran was dead, when the wagon was burned and the Does talked about
her and Joe, when she dared take Joe to the Admiral, or when she was sent to Miss Brooke and when the girls caught her on her way from school. As she looked up at the Admiral, her eyes were
stretched wide with fear. ‘Kiz,’ said the Admiral. ‘It’s Joe.’
‘Joe?’ It came out as a gasp.
Admiral Twiss never dodged, but said things
– contented, thought Miss Brooke. How could she be contented, this unfathomable child? But Kizzy was far away, far over the Downs on Joe’s back. They would walk along at night –
when everyone’s in bed and no one will see us – and camp in woods and orchards, build a fire; she would collect sticks and pick up old dung for fuel. Why, Joe himself could supply a
fire. An old saucepan, thought Kizzy – there was an old one Miss Brooke used for the chickens; she had two so could spare one. I must take matches, planned Kizzy – she had not a flint
like Gran’s. A blanket, some sacks, a net of hay for Joe – Nat would not miss one – her bag of scraps. I can pick onions and potatoes from people’s gardens – she was
small enough to get through hedges – p’raps find an egg. Then, when they were far enough away, she would build a house of branches, or find a hollow tree – ’s good I am so small – only first she must be well enough at the weekend to go to Amberhurst House.
She would spend Saturday there, get full of food, stuff myself, thought Kizzy so it will last, collect and hide all her things. Go again on Sunday and, after lunch, when the Admiral and Peters
dozed and Nat went to the Lodge to read the Sunday papers, say goodbye to Kezia Cunningham then put the things on Joe, an’ we’ll just go, thought Kizzy. She suddenly gave Miss Brooke a
beaming smile.
‘Kizzy,’ said Miss Brooke at breakfast. ‘Admiral Twiss telephoned last night.’
Kizzy stopped, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. ‘He didn’t say I couldn’t come? But I must,’ she said. ‘I have to see Joe.’
Miss Brooke made a queer sound like a hiccough and put down her cup. It seemed as if she were going to say something but changed her mind. ‘As soon as you’re ready, we’ll
go.’ Kizzy was too busy with her own plans, hiding the blanket, filling her pockets with matches, bringing out the loaded carrier bag, ‘scraps for Joe,’ she said, which was partly
true – there were one or two apples. Miss Brooke made another of her queer noises and, queerly too, did not put Kizzy down at the gates but drove her up to the House, which did not suit
Kizzy’s plans. ‘Tell Admiral Twiss I will come if he wants me,’ said Miss Brooke as she let Kizzy out.
Why should the Admiral want her? He, Peters, Nat, Kizzy did not want anybody on Saturdays and Sundays; and why did Miss Brooke look grave – and as if she were sorry? Why should she be
sorry? For a moment a cold little puzzlement touched Kizzy, then she shook it off; if Miss Brooke were in trouble she was sorry but this was Saturday – and tomorrow . . . With the blanket on
her shoulder, the carrier bag bumping against her legs, Kizzy set off for the stables, and stopped.
Usually she went straight to the stables and meadow. Later on she and Nat would go to the House and have cocoa in the kitchen with Peters. Usually Kizzy did not see the Admiral till lunchtime
and not always then – often he stayed in his workshop – but this morning he was in the stable yard, waiting. Waiting for me . . . and Kizzy’s heart seemed to skip a beat. He did
not call out to her, but waited and, as she came up to him, she saw that the look on his face was the same as Miss Brooke’s, grave and sorry – sorry to sadness.
Then Kizzy was frightened, more frightened than when Mr Blount had come and taken her to school, or when Peters fetched her and Gran was dead, when the wagon was burned and the Does talked about
her and Joe, when she dared take Joe to the Admiral, or when she was sent to Miss Brooke and when the girls caught her on her way from school. As she looked up at the Admiral, her eyes were
stretched wide with fear. ‘Kiz,’ said the Admiral. ‘It’s Joe.’
‘Joe?’ It came out as a gasp.
Admiral Twiss never dodged, but said things
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