Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  Archie glowered at her, then coolly remarked, ‘As any man would be when he goes fishing for a woman.’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar.’

  ‘He isn’t right for you, dear heart.’

  Kitty pouted, largely because she suspected he may be right. She finished tucking in the blankets, smoothed out the cotton cover and turned it down in a neat fold. ‘I really don’t see that it’s any of your business. ’

  As she tucked a blanket over his knees against the chill from the window, the sight of the thin sticks of his wrists poking out from the sleeves of his old dressing gown filled her with a sudden rush of emotion that threatened to reduce her to tears. He looked so desperately ill, his once beautiful lean cheeks now sunken and hollowed that she felt a rush of fear. Leaning forward she kissed him, very gently upon his brow. The thought flew into her head that she might like to kiss him on the mouth, but instantly quashed it. This was Archie after all. He smelt of camphor and the dreadful cigarettes he insisted on rolling for himself, and was the nearest thing she now had to a brother. ‘Frank’s very kind to me,’ she said, firmly reasserting her point as she moved away.

  ‘Of course. Darling Frank.’ Long after the door had slammed behind her, Archie’s eyes remained riveted upon it.

  Archie surprised everyone the next afternoon by declaring he’d written another letter and wished to post it himself.

  ‘Goodness, two in a month? You’re becoming quite a scribe. I’ll go with you,’ Kitty offered.

  ‘I’m not totally decrepit.’

  ‘So you won’t need an invalid chair then?’

  The sky was slate grey as, slipping her arm into his, she fell into step beside him. ‘Where shall we walk to? Down to the Common? Or to the library and change your book? Oh no, we haven’t got it with us. I know, we could take a bus into town, go to Waterloo, Victoria or Paddington and get on the first train that comes in.’

  ‘What if it’s going to the north of Scotland? That would be even wetter and colder.’

  ‘But there’d be no London smog and grit, only clean, fresh air and the scent of heather. No nagging mother telling me what to do, what to think and even what to wear. Best of all, no miserable guests eating kippers for breakfast.’

  And no Frank, a small voice at the back of her mind quietly added.

  ‘I thought they were rather fond of kippers in Scotland.’

  ‘Herrings, isn’t it?’

  ‘Or mackerel?’

  ‘Oh shut up. We wouldn’t know a soul. We could be anyone we wished. People of Mystery,’ she said, warming to her theme. ‘I shall become a famous actress who everyone flocks to see night after night.’

  ‘You’ll keep half a dozen Pekinese dogs, wear Turkish trousers and never go to bed before dawn.’

  ‘And you must write plays by the score for me to act in. Then you can travel the world with me as my manager.’ An edge of passion had crept into her voice.

  ‘You’d best find some other companion to share that fantasy, dearest. You know how I dislike any sort of exertion. My chassis isn’t what it was, and my crank shaft is on the blink.’

  ‘Ever the defeatist.’ Kitty laughed, hugging his arm closer as her mind enlarged upon the fantasy. ‘You could take up painting then. We’d be thoroughly Bohemian and do exactly as we pleased. How would that be?’

  ‘Can’t paint for toffee darling. Besides, aren’t you engaged to be married to darling Frank?’

  ‘Being engaged is one thing, getting married is quite another.’ The buoyancy in her tone suddenly vanished. ‘The truth is, I don’t know anything about marriage, do you? Clara never set me any example of it.’ She shuddered at the memory of sounds in the night from the room next to hers. Her mother had good reason for favouring gentlemen guests. ‘Is it difficult, do you think, living with someone for an entire life time?’

  Archie considered the matter for barely a second. ‘Sounds fearfully risky to me.’

  ‘Perhaps I won’t marry at all.’

  ‘Steady the buffs. You must marry someone gloriously rich who’ll devote his entire life to you, and give you a brood of children to make you happy.’

  Kitty giggled. Archie, with his wild mood swings could one moment infuriate, the next totally captivate her. ‘I’m not sure the two don’t cancel each other out. Do children make one happy? I can’t honestly see myself as a broody hen, can you?’

  ‘Now who’s being defeatist? Your dear mama expects you to marry, and marry well. It would signify her own escape from this godforsaken hellhole. All I’m saying is for pity’s sake don’t let it be to that pubescent half-wit.’

  ‘Perhaps I should marry you, no one would dare class you as such.’

  ‘That’s because few people possess half my wit.’

  ‘Or I appreciate it more than most. We’d make a good team, you and I, without all that romantic stuff and nonsense to get in the way.’

  ‘Would it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get in the way?’ His gaze held hers for so long that for the first time, Kitty felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment.

  ‘You know what I mean. We’re good chums, you and I.’

  Archie stuffed his hands in his pockets and increased his pace so she had to run a little to catch up. ‘I doubt marriage would suit my selfish nature, old thing, for all women fall at my feet in adoration. All that emotional angst and responsibility for another person’s happiness. Where does it get you in the end?’

  ‘That’s a somewhat philistine, egotistical outlook.’

  ‘Mayhap it is dearie but even so-called happy marriages frequently end in disaster.’ His tone had grown oddly solemn and Kitty fell silent. The next instant he was grinning at her, as irreverent as ever. ‘But if this is a serious proposal I feel I should wear my new cravat, and perhaps my best smoking jacket while you make it.’

  Kitty burst out laughing. ‘I shall certain give it serious consideration, if I should change my mind about Frank.’

  ‘However, I would make a poor bet as a husband. Wouldn’t wish myself on any woman.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m not any woman.’

  ‘I never suggested otherwise.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘You should write the script of our conversations before we start, then I would know just what to say.’

  ‘How could I hope to better your wit?’

  ‘True darling. I am rather remarkable,’ making them both double up with laughter until Archie’s dissolved into a troubling cough that took some time to ease. It was a device, he’d found, which often served to end awkward conversations.

  A steady rain had started so they quickly posted the letter, then tucked beneath the big black umbrella and made a dash for home.

  As they shook out their coats in the hall, dripping pools of water all over the cracked linoleum, Kitty thought that despite his prickly nature and debilitating illness dear Archie was still beautiful. The perfect shape of his head, bearing the arrogance of a Roman god, the raven curls that fell joyously on to a wide brow, and the deep blue eyes dancing with mischief made him seem, outwardly at least, quite his old self. Perhaps it wasn’t such a crazy idea to marry him. Wasn’t friendship an excellent basis for marriage?

  ‘Better hang on to your best smoking jacket, just in case I really do propose one day.’

  ‘You’re mad, Kitty-Cat. Absolutely stark raving crackers.’

  She grinned. ‘I know. Isn’t it wonderful.’

  Clara continued to berate them as if they were recalcitrant school children while she rubbed Archie’s head with a piece of old kitchen towel. Kitty watched with a kind of fascinated horror, thinking it probably still harboured fish scales left there by Myrtle’s hands.

  While they drank hot cocoa and nibbled ginger biscuits, dipping them into the frothing liquid, they carefully avoided each other’s eyes so they could bear the brunt of Clara’s stern lecture without collapsing into fresh giggles.

  ‘It’ll be a wonder if you don’t go down with pneum
onia again. Then how will you feel, girl, if he up and flipping snuffs it?’ Clara poked a long red finger nail into Kitty’s shoulder and suddenly it didn’t seem fun any more. Archie wasn’t fit enough for an afternoon walk in the rain, let alone madcap adventures in Scotland.

  ‘I’m sorry, I should never have bullied you into going out. It really was a stupid thing to do.’ Was his face slightly flushed? Did he have a temperature? she worried.

  ‘Nonsense old thing. Never felt better. Did me a power of good.’

  Clara folded her arms and glowered down at the pair of them, all scarlet lips and quivering bosom. Kitty thought she’d never looked more vivid, more alive, more beautiful. While she herself felt, and probably looked, like a drowned rat. Did other girls envy their own mother’s beauty, even when it was slightly tarnished, as Clara’s was?

  ‘I hope you don’t imagine you’ll be able to boss Frank about in this way, madam, once you’re married next month.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Kitty stared at her mother, transfixed.

  Archie scraped his chair back from the table. ‘Think I’ll go to my room, if you don’t mind. I feel a sudden need for a lie down.’

  Kitty wanted to urge him not to leave her but he’d gone, gently closing the door like a reproof. Clara was collecting mugs and dropping them in the sink for Myrtle to attend to later. When she returned to her place at the table, wiping her long smooth hands on the very same kitchen towel, she bestowed upon her daughter a huge wink. It gave her face an almost clownish look. ‘He means to speak wiv you this evening, Duchess, to fix it all up. See you don’t go into one of yer moods. It’s important you gives him the right answer. And you know what that must be, don’t you?’

  A wave of sickness hit her. ‘It’s too soon. I’m only twenty-one Ma. There are months - years even before I need think about marriage and - and everything.’

  ‘If you mean sex there’s nothing to it. It’s like riding a bike. Once you’ve got yer balance as it were, its gets easier. And yer not operating the handlebars after all,’ Clara laughed, rather coarsely, as if she’d said something witty or meaningful.

  Confronting the unspeakable reality of married life with Frank was not something Kitty cared to consider too closely. So far they’d exchanged nothing more than a few clumsy kisses, always instigated by him, and usually resulting in bumped noses. Then he would apologise for rushing her while in her heart Kitty knew he was showing admirable patience. This reaction didn’t bode well for a happy marriage. Would she be any good at It? Was there something wrong with her that she hated to even think of sex? She took a breath. ‘Look, perhaps this is all a terrible mistake. I’m not sure I even love him.’

  ‘Leave it out. What’s love got to do with anyfink, for God’s sake?’

  Clara got up to reach into the top cupboard. Collecting a bottle of gin and rubbing a glass perfunctorily against her grubby skirt to clean it, she brought both to the table and proceeded to fill the latter to within an inch of the top. Kitty watched in silence, knowing that it said a good deal about where much of the money went in this house. Whatever rules she applied to her paying guests over the consumption of alcohol on the premises, did not apply to Clara Terry. She took a long draft, closing her eyes in ecstasy. ‘Wurf a fiver a glass that is. Nah, that sort of romantic rubbish don’t last, even if you has it at the start. Better to let fings grow slowly. Get used to each other natural like.

  ‘Anyway,’ Clara said, critically assessing her daughter, ‘beggars can’t be choosers. You’re no oil painting, great string bean that you are. And you’d be amazed how quickly the years roll by. Grasp the iron while its hot, ain’t that what they say? Frank Cussins is well placed financially for a young man still in his twenties, and not ‘alf bad looking. You have to give him that, Duchess. He don’t come home drunk every night, do he? And there ain’t so much as a sock out of place in his room. You might never get a better offer. Make no mistake about it. He’s a catch.’

  Kitty drew stubbornness about herself, like a shell. ‘If you insist on rushing me, I shall call the engagement off.’

  Clara’s affability fell away upon the instant. The lips visibly thinned, pressing inward to leave specks of scarlet lipstick on the teeth. ‘You’ll do no such fing, madam. It’s taken months of effort to bring him to this point. We need Frank Cussins, make no bones about it. He’s wurf a bob or two, buying that luvverly house in the suburbs, and once the babies start popping out, I could sell up, or more likely close down, and come and help you wiv them.’

  ‘You? You don’t even like babies. I’m not sure that I do.’

  ‘I could learn. Same as you. All mothers love their own. So long as it don’t start calling me Grandma, I can cope.’ Clara feigned a shudder. ‘I’d certainly be glad to be rid of this mill stone round me bleedin’ neck.’

  If, in the argument which followed, Kitty had hoped to make her point, let alone to win it, she had reckoned without Clara’s trump card. ‘Refuse him and we’ll both end up on Queer street.’

  Clara leaned forward, squashing her full bosom against the table top so that it nearly clashed with her plump chin. Her next words came in a sort of stage whisper, which hissed out so fiercely in the silent kitchen, Kitty felt sure it must echo all over the house as she imagined ears pressed to keyholes, drinking in every word.

  ‘Do you know how much money I owe on this place? More than I can pay off in one lifetime, that’s how bleedin’ much. We’re up to our ears in debt.’

  Kitty stared at her mother in dawning horror. ‘Debt, but why? I thought we were doing all right. We work hard enough, and the rooms are usually full.’

  ‘It costs a flippin’ fortune to run a house like this, and you don’t fink what I charge this lot covers our lifestyle, do you? When they pays up, that is. Everyone knows I’m too soft fer me own good. Let ‘em get away wi’ murder, I do. Not to mention all them fancy frocks and folderol’s and such like you need for your socialising.’

  ‘But I didn’t ask for any of those.’

  ‘They were an investment, Duchess, as I’ve told you before. You’re me best asset.’ Clara refilled her glass to the brim, adding barely a dash of vermouth.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, Ma.’

  Clara’s patience snapped. ‘Don’t Ma me, and don’t you look so po-faced. I’ve few enough pleasures, fer God’s sake. Nor can I ‘ang around waiting till it takes yer fancy to wed. Bills have to be settled, debts paid. Frank’s eager to bring the wedding forward and so will you be, like it or not. In return he’ll settle every bleedin’ one. So don’t you turn stubborn on me, girl. You’ll be wed within the month or we’re both on skid row.’

  Chapter Four

  It was a Sunday, and the evening before her birthday. Esme asked if they might postpone a further instalment of Swiss Family Robinson, as she’d a letter to write.

  Andrew Bield glanced up from his paper and frowned. ‘To whom, might I ask? Not a boy friend, I trust?’

  Esme felt a spurt of self-righteous anger for having laid herself open to interrogation. ‘How could it be since I never go anywhere to meet a boy?’

  Esme saw how his expression turned from disapproval to one of sad disappointment, as if she had let him down in some way. ‘I am only showing natural concern for you my dear, a young girl of such tender years. Time enough for all of that nonsense later.’ He waited, one brow raised in interested enquiry, thin lips curving into a conciliatory smile. ‘Well?’

  Guilt had dampened her moment of rebellion, as it always did. ‘It’s only to Archie. He’s written to Mrs Phillips, his housekeeper, from some boarding house he’s staying in, in Ealing. I thought I’d like to write to him.’

  Andrew Bield’s smile broadened. ‘Then for Archie’s sake I am happy to postpone our reading for tonight. ‘I’m sure he will be grateful to correspond with an old friend who remembers his dear parents.’

  For a second the defiance rekindled. ‘I’m writing as much for my sake, as his. I’d like him to write back.�
��

  ‘You’re a dear child with a charitable heart.’ He reached over to pat her cheek and Esme flinched instinctively away before she could prevent herself. Andrew gazed down upon his daughter with a puzzled, slightly hurt expression in his pale eyes. ‘I see you are tired. I shall take a late stroll by the lake into town. I may call upon poor Mrs Riley as she’s been most unwell lately.’

  ‘Netta Riley? At this time of night? But Father, she lives in Tapworth Street, one of the worst streets in the Cobbles.’

  ‘We live where we must. Judge not lest ye too be judged. She is entitled to succour in her sickness, the same as any other.’

  ‘Of course.’ Esme hung her head with shame. Her father was so utterly selfless, he’d risk catching some dread disease rather than fail to do his duty by one of his parishioners, while all she could think of was some selfish need for an independence she probably didn’t deserve.

  He patted her head, tenderly tidying a few loose strands that had escaped the tightly wound plait. Esme did not move a muscle. ‘You may leave my cocoa ready prepared but don’t wait up for me. I may be some time. And don’t spend too long on your letter, my dear. You need your rest.’

  ‘Very well, Father.’

  When he had gone, a peaceful silence folded in upon her and Esme closed her eyes in relief. Then on a burst of rebellion she unwound the neat plait and pulled it apart, shaking out the curling strands of fair hair and combing her fingers through in a moment of sheer ecstasy at being free to please herself, at last.

  Father was a kind, sweet man, she had to admit, even though the grief over the early death of his beloved Mary had increased his tendency to vagueness over the years. Was it any wonder that his parishioners loved him, particularly the ladies. But then he always put the needs of others before his own.

  True, it was beginning to worry her that his habit of confusing her name with her mother’s had become more frequent of late, but really the fault must be entirely her own. All she needed to do was to establish her own personality a little more, though how this was to be achieved Esme hadn’t quite worked out. Frowning, she reached for her writing pad. She wouldn’t think any more about her wretched problems, not tonight. Her father lived in a world of his own, one of rectitude and duty, as all parsons did. A fact she must simply accept.