Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Is it in tune?’

  Tessa grimaced. ‘It’ll do,’ playing a few notes of Green Grow the Rushes O to prove her point. Kitty pulled a face too, not quite convinced.

  By six, even Tessa had drifted away to unpack, change and grab a bite to eat. She’d promised to return with a sandwich for Kitty who steadfastly remained, still sitting on her bag and chewing on her nails, anxiously worrying over what she would do if they didn’t turn up at all, when she heard the cough of an engine. The Jowett had at last arrived.

  Tightening her resolve not to make a fuss, she ran out to greet them. All that really mattered, she told herself, was that they were here at last, and, if everyone buckled to they might just get the fitup done in time. ‘Did you have a terrible journey?’ she began and then skidded to a halt.

  Apart from Esme who was in floods of tears, the other three were all screaming with laughter and singing at the tops of their voices. ‘Dear Lord,’ Kitty said, shocked to the core. ‘You’re drunk.’

  The curtains opened on that first night to a packed house with everyone struggling to remember their lines, be in the right place at the right time and become accustomed to unfamiliar surroundings.

  The set was somewhat hastily hooked together, the curtains slightly wonky and the cardboard fireplace with no sign of the artificial glow it should contain. The door which Reg had so carefully constructed stuck fast and refused to open, forcing Esme to make her exit by walking around it which brought gales of laughter from the audience. Suzy had to be prompted twice, Rod and Sam were each late for an entrance and Archie missed one altogether. But he was by this time suffering from a thumping headache which Kitty considered he rightly deserved.

  Reg had been at great pains to express his regret over the fated journey, not once but over and over again, relating the tale at least a dozen times. Apparently they’d suffered not one puncture, but two. On the second occasion while he’d got down to mending the tyre, since they’d already used the spare wheel, the other three had been entertained with parsnip wine provided by a friendly householder. Poor Esme had assumed it to be innocuous enough, since it was home made, but it had made her rather ill. By the time Reg was done, he too had been persuaded to partake of a glass or two, to “wet his whistle after all that work”, and between them they were soon far gone and completely forgot the time.

  ‘It’s a wonder,’ he said, ‘that we didn’t end up in a ditch.’

  Any further post-mortem into the whys and wherefores over the state of the hapless quartet had been postponed, for it had taken several cups of stewed tea, and a good deal of ducking in cold water before any of them were fit to go on stage. Now, as they stumbled through a diabolical performance, there were stifled giggles from other members of the cast, but from Kitty only a stiff-lipped and ominous silence as she held to her resolve to be patient and forgiving. Though no one was in any doubt that this dammed-up reserve of fury would ultimately explode.

  Charlotte, at least, appeared as composed and beautiful as ever and enchanted the audience with her recitations, not to mention a superb and lively performance as Miranda. Even Esme managed to pull herself together and deliver her lines with creditable aplomb, if with exceptional concentration. Despite everything, the show was a huge success. The residents declared they could never remember a more enjoyable evening in the entire history of the village, and the parish clerk instantly booked them for a second occasion later in the year.

  Afterwards, several bottles of beer were downed to celebrate their success since everyone was in too high spirits to go to bed, though Archie and the rest of the party from the Jowett, declined, opting to stick with lemonade. Rod went out and bought them each a hot meat pie from the cook shop and they all sat in a happy row on the edge of the platform eating and drinking, laughing and talking all at once.

  Despite what had very nearly proved to be a catastrophic start to their tour, to Kitty it seemed like the most perfect night of her life.

  ‘Wasn’t it wonderful?’ she kept saying, high on euphoria. All her dreams seemed to have come to fruition. Simply the glory of hearing the audience roar with laughter in all the right places, be silent and sorrowful when the mood of the play dictated it, and then the heady joy of the tumultuous applause at the end was even more gratifying than she could ever have bargained for. They’d even enjoyed her own play, loudly applauding The Pedlar Woman. ‘This is the life. What glorious fun we’re going to have.’

  She looked about for Archie, ready to share her happy mood and to apologise for being so grumpy earlier; though by rights the apologies should be coming from him.

  He was standing some way off and although she was perfectly certain that he’d heard her call out his name, he slipped out through the door to vanish into the darkness. Seeing him go, Esme burst into a fresh paroxysm of tears and fled out of the back door in the opposite direction. Whatever was the matter? Had Archie hurt her in some way to cause her to react so badly? Kitty almost felt like doing the same, except that witnessing her friend’s distress seemed to rekindle her anger. He was clearly behaving like a small child dodging a well-deserved scolding. His complete disregard for punctuality on this, their first night, coupled with no sign of the due apology, served to demolish the last of her patience and the dam of her anger finally burst.

  ‘Where the hell is he off to now? Drat the man,’ and jumping down from the platform, Kitty snatched up her coat and marched after him. None of the rest of the company dared move a muscle. She’d reached the door, even had her hand on the door knob, when the world shifted and she fainted clean away.

  It was Charlotte who insisted on calling in the local doctor and Esme who put her to bed, scolding her gently for allowing her anger to get the better of her. He examined her and coldly gave his opinion that in view of her condition, she should be in a home for wayward girls; that if she were his daughter she most certainly would be. When he had gone the three girls stared at each other in shocked dismay.

  Charlotte said, ‘Oh dear. How very cross he sounded.’

  ‘A wayward girl?’ Kitty repeated. ‘My reputation is in ribbons. Scarlet ones no doubt.’

  ‘What would father’s parishioners have said?’ Esme murmured on a rare note of dry humour and, despite their differences, they collapsed into a fit of nervous giggles, rolling about in hoots of laughter as if having a baby out of wedlock were a huge joke and not a moral calamity.

  ‘I’d still prefer this to be our secret. If you don’t mind,’ Kitty managed, when the paroxysms of hysterical mirth had finally subsided.

  ‘Of course darling,’ Charlotte sweetly agreed.

  Kitty was up at seven the next day as usual, ignoring Esme’s exhortations to take heed of the doctor’s advice and rest. ‘You can’t go on working this hard.’

  ‘But I can and I must. Doesn’t the show always have to go on? Besides, I shall have another mouth to feed soon.’

  If Kitty ever doubted the wisdom of her decision to keep her secret from Archie, or if she became filled with an overwhelming desire to share the miracle of this new life with him, watching Esme sink into gradual despair curbed that need. The girl hardly seemed to touch her food, drifting about half the day in a soulful reverie, never hearing when anyone spoke to her, and constantly jumping at shadows. As for her performances, she’d had more prompts over these last few nights than throughout the four week tour.

  She wasn’t the only one to be concerned. Reg confided his worries to Kitty one day, as if he expected her to have a solution at her finger tips.

  Everyone saw her as a strong person, and that’s what she strived to be. But sometimes Kitty could take no more and would snatch an hour or two between rehearsals to walk on the Lakeland hills, hoping the lone cry of the curlew or the soft hues of the heather would bring her some peace. And in the solitude of the countryside the tears could fall unchecked. When there were none left to shed, she would walk back to their digs and lie awake, dry-eyed and sleepless in countless strange beds, only to find the ne
xt day that her vibrant energy was entirely lacking and her brain too tired and bemused to give a good performance.

  With an increasing sense of helplessness, Kitty berated herself for not making it clear to Archie that if he truly loved Esme, she wouldn’t stand in his way. Yet day after day she kept making excuses over why she failed to do so. Perhaps because she was too afraid of making a fool of herself, for why should she assume that he even needed her permission? More likely she didn’t speak to him because in her heart of hearts she prayed that Charlotte might be wrong. Deep within her burned a stubborn hope that it was she who Archie truly loved, and that one day he would say as much.

  In the meantime, until that glorious moment dawned, or she’d summoned up the courage to tackle him on the subject of Esme, Kitty became utterly obsessed with concealing her condition. She took to wearing flowing skirts and loose tops, acquiring a bohemian style of dress which attracted either a teasing jocularity or rare compliments, but thankfully little curiosity.

  Esme was the one who helped most by bringing her tea in bed each morning, insisting she rest whenever she could do so without exciting notice from the others.

  What was she thinking of, to allow herself to fall into such a state? They were at the start of a wonderful adventure, the realisation of a dream, and she was putting the entire project in jeopardy, simply because she couldn’t come to terms with losing a man she’d never had any hope of possessing.

  Chapter Twelve

  The tour was a resounding success. Costs were heavy, the actors alone being paid two guineas a week, but on a good night the show might take as much as fifteen pounds. On a bad one little more than one.

  They learned to perform in all manner of venues and to every size of audience. They played in a delightful little school room in Kirkby Lonsdale where they had to change their costumes in the shop next door. In Keighley the hall was vast if rather draughty but the audience had travelled from as far afield as Ilkley to watch them. Sometimes the venue wouldn’t have electricity and they’d have to use their acetylene lamps or resort to candles in tins, praying they didn’t set fire to the place. Once they performed in a freezing barn right in the middle of a farmer’s field with the sound of cows lowing noisily from adjoining stalls.

  Whatever the difficulties, once the show was under way, the atmosphere became thick with excitement. People love to be entertained. The audience always made all the effort worthwhile, yet each one was different. Some would relish every joke, roaring with laughter from start to finish. Others would be quieter, more thoughtful. In the port of Barrow-in-Furness, they’d consisted chiefly of miners who sat politely silent throughout, yet their applause at the end proved their enthusiastic response.

  Throughout the cold short days of November and early December as the LTP’s progressed through the towns and villages of Lakeland, Yorkshire and Lancashire, Charlotte observed with a pleased satisfaction how Archie barely exchanged a word with Kitty beyond what was essential for the smooth running of the show. He seemed to go out of his way to avoid her and the tension between the two old friends grew by the day.

  Even so Charlotte took care to add fuel to the disappointment he felt in Kitty. Should he ever cast lingering glances in the girl’s direction, Charlotte would point out how she was racketing through some task or other without ever consulting anyone else’s opinion, or even stopping to think for five minutes. More importantly, she would remind him of Kitty’s hypocrisy, so that his mouth would tighten with fresh disapproval.

  Archie’s doleful mood affected everyone. Esme too seemed to be on the brink of despair half the time, her eyes following his every move with a pitiful misery, rather like a pathetic puppy dog begging for a titbit from its master.

  Indeed, matters were proceeding entirely according to plan. All Charlotte need do now, was to ensure that the current state of affairs was permanent. Divining secrets people thought well hidden and manipulating them into behaving as she wished, was proving to be remarkably simple. And highly entertaining.

  It was the last week of the tour and, as usual, Kitty was scolding Charlotte for being late for rehearsal.

  ‘Esme has hardly touched her breakfast. I’ll grab a slice of toast and a cuppa while she finishes it. We’ll be over in ten minutes.’ Knowing that Kitty was most anxious for Esme to eat properly.

  ‘See that you are.’

  The others went off with Kitty to rehearse in the local school room where their final performance was to be held that very night. When the landlady disappeared back into the kitchen, Charlotte grabbed the opportunity to enquire, in a sympathetic, woman to woman sort of way, if Archie had yet declared himself. She tutted sorrowfully when Esme shook her head and confessed that he hadn’t, not in so many words. ‘He seems to be ignoring me these days.’

  ‘I did try,’ Charlotte assured her, smiling sadly through the lie. ‘I made it abundantly clear that you would not repulse his advances. Give him time. It’s never easy to bring men to the point and he’s probably suffering terrible guilt from having let Kitty down by getting drunk on the first night of the tour.’

  ‘I’m not at all concerned,’ Esme said, the pallor of her face showing otherwise. She longed for Archie to utter those magical words, for him to speak of his love for her, instead he seemed hardly to notice that she was around. ‘I’m being stupid. I dare say if it were you, you’d give him the glad eye, or whatever you call it. You’d know how to encourage him.’

  ‘And you can’t bring yourself to do that?’ Charlotte gently enquired and had to struggle to hide her elation when Esme pulled off her spectacles and began to rub them quite vigorously on a corner of her jumper. ‘Too shy eh? Even though you’ve known him all these years? Never mind, mebbe that’s why you can’t. Because you know him a bit too well.’

  Esme looked up at her and frowned. ‘Do you think so? Do you think that might be why Archie never quite tells me how he feels?’

  ‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ Yea Gods, Charlotte thought, this was all getting amazingly convoluted, and almost wished she’d never started down this road. But then she remembered that all she had to do was to follow her instincts.

  ‘There wouldn’t be any other reason he’d hang back, would there?’ she casually enquired. ‘I mean, that time we were on our way home from the flicks and we were sharing secrets, talking about parsons and - well - you know, IT, and you went all coy. I did wonder if there was something you weren’t telling.’ Seeing Esme’s cheeks flare up Charlotte dropped her piece of toast and put a hand to her mouth as if in shock, but actually to disguise the burst of satisfaction which shot through her. She’d hit the jackpot yet again. It must take her very special gifts to work these things out. ‘Oh, me and my big mouth,’ she said with mock concern. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You poor thing.’

  Esme stared at her wide eyed and appalled. ‘You mustn’t say anything. No one must know. He meant nothing by it.’

  ‘Course he didn’t. No man does. Don’t worry about me knowing. Had a few problems in that department myself over the years.’ Charlotte put out a consoling hand to pat Esme’s shoulder. ‘My stepfather was a shocker when he was drunk. I want you to know, love, that whatever that parson father of yours did, your secret’s safe with me. I’d never tell a living soul, particularly Archie.’ So there it was, handed to her on a plate, exactly what she needed to block Esme’s path for good and all. ‘Wouldn’t be safe in the circumstances, now would it?’

  Esme had replaced her spectacles and was staring at Charlotte, bewildered. ‘Safe? I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Nobody knows men better than me. And there’s one thing they hate above all else.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Esme was almost breathless with her need to understand even a half of what seemed so obvious to Charlotte. Archie and she had once been such good friends, more than friends you might say, yet despite everyone assuring her that he cared, he barely glanced her way these days. He seemed completely locked in himself. It didn’t occur to her
that he might be behaving in this way with Kitty too, that the problem may lie elsewhere, perhaps even within his own flawed nature. To Esme, with her low self-esteem, if something went wrong, then it must be she who was to blame for it and not those who were brighter and cleverer than she. This fact had been made clear to her from a very early age. Obedience and duty was all, self-worth was nothing. The vanities of man, of life itself, was a puzzle to her, filled as it was with strange emotions and conflicting signals, all seemingly at odds with each other.

  Charlotte was looking at her with the kind of pity in her eyes that filled Esme with the sudden, cold realisation that she may not care for what she was about to hear. Nevertheless, if her more experienced friend could shed some light upon these mysteries, then it would surely be to her benefit to learn. ‘Tell me, Charlotte. I need to understand.’

  ‘Men don’t like tarnished goods, d’you see love? They only like what’s untouched by human hand. Not that they’d be against taking advantage with any girl what gave them half a chance, you understand,’ winking broadly. ‘But they’d never take such a girl home to mother as it were, let alone down the aisle. Not one that had been - spoiled - in any way. D’you see?’

  And now Esme understood perfectly why Archie had not declared himself.

  She was one of those girls. Cheap and worthless. Her father had known it, and so had Archie. It was really all her own fault.

  Charlotte noted with satisfaction how Esme’s skin had turned a muddy grey. Twisting a smile of satisfaction into one of complicity, she tapped the side of her nose. ‘But your secret is safe with me. Not a word, eh? Let’s hope he hasn’t heard any rumours, because what a chap don’t know, won’t hurt him,’ privately congratulating herself for a task well done.