Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  Charlotte retired to her room, quite sure she had Esme right where she wanted her. Taking an envelope, already stamped and addressed, from out of a secret pocket in her suitcase, she smiled to herself. Then with a jaunty lilt to her step, she walked along to the village post office and dropped it into the post box. And that should settle Madam Kitty.

  On this, the last night of the tour, the show did not go well. Esme’s performance was dire. Her depression was now so complete that her level of concentration had fallen to an all time low. She came on stage without an essential piece of property and had to go off again to fetch it. Then she started to say lines from the wrong play, ever a fear since they performed scenes from two or three at a time. In consequence she lost the drift, panicked, and failing to hear Suzy madly prompting in the corner, suddenly dried. She stood frozen on stage, shaking with terror while Kitty was obliged to précis all of her speeches in order to clarify the scene for the bemused audience.

  Once off-stage, before Kitty had chance to offer a consoling word, Esme fled to the dressing room in floods of tears where she locked herself away for hours.

  Kitty knocked on the door, Charlotte gave her a brisk talking to and Reg pleaded with her through the keyhole, all to no avail. All they could hear were great gulping sobs. Even Archie failed to shift her.

  ‘Come on, old thing,’ he calmly called through the closed door. ‘Everyone else has gone home. If you don’t come out soon, we’ll have to call out the dratted fire brigade, don’t you know. What if they squirt us all with water, thinking we’re on fire, eh? We’d be the soggiest actors in the history of the theatre.’ But the door remained firmly closed, his wit failing to have any effect.

  It was Suzy who finally persuaded Esme out, with her irresistible motherly warmth. Gathered the distressed girl close in a swathe of silk wraps, cheap scent and sticky grease paint, she bore her off for a nip of something warming. ‘Sure to do the trick, darling girl. Then it’s a good rest for you, and all of us.’

  Christmas was upon them and, satisfied at a job well done, the company was looking forward to a couple of week’s rest with their families before the start of rehearsals for the second tour. There would be new plays and new parts to learn, each member of the cast hoping for a good one for themselves. For now they went off happy and content, with a lively buzz about them born from a tired sort of excitement.

  Charlotte too went home to her “ailing mother” feeling quite certain that it was safe to leave Archie, Esme and Kitty alone since their close-knit relationship was now fractured beyond repair.

  The one-time triumvirate of friends ate Mrs Pips’s delicious turkey dinner with all the trimmings, but there remained a distance between them, a stilted quality to their conversation and most evenings found them all in their respective beds by nine. The housekeeper became increasingly disturbed by the odd behaviour of her dear charges. Something was amiss but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. But she’d get to the bottom of it, oh dear me yes, if the happiness of her boy was concerned. She attempted to jolly them into playing cards or backgammon, fondly describing it as a peaceful rather than a merry Yuletide. ‘A time for resting and recuperating, and going for long walks. That’s what you all need. You’ve all worked far too hard.’

  The weather was certainly perfect for walking. The air had become dry and utterly still, the days short while the nights were hard with frost. Even the sounds of the lake seemed muted as ice formed around the edges, cracking and creaking like snapped twigs. A few powdery flakes of snow fell, crusting the tops of the fells like frosted icing on a cake, and they all realised that if temperatures dropped still further, there could well be a blizzard. Great swathes of snow would then blanket the land and lanes alike, which could well put paid to their next tour, due to begin in three weeks time. The possibility of not being able to travel and meet their commitments was a constant worry.

  Kitty spent most evenings in her room, writing, or blocking out moves on bits of paper, ready for when rehearsals started next week, which all proved to be good therapy. Even so, more personal concerns kept intruding upon her thoughts.

  What should she do about Esme, whose depression now seemed deeply alarming? She wondered if the problem lay with the pact, made for the best of reasons but which was perhaps creating a block in their friendship.

  Esme came to the same conclusion, for the next day she approached Kitty and announced that her depression had been caused by her foolish obsession with Archie. She’d come to realise that it was all a mistake. ‘If it were truly me he loved, he would have said so by now. He’s had ample opportunity. Perhaps it was all a silly schoolgirl crush, an illusion. Anyway, I want you to know that I release you from our pact. Let’s put an end to it. I always did think that you should be his choice, Kitty, so you’re free to have him. Go and tell Archie what you feel.

  Kitty could hardly believe her ears. ‘Oh, Esme. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything, not to me. Say it to Archie. That was our pact, remember, to give each other a chance. I’ve had mine, now it’s every woman for herself.’

  ‘But we’ll stay friends?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Then Kitty was laughing and hugging her and crying, all at the same time.

  It was the next evening after supper and Kitty was helping Archie bring in more logs. Esme had gone to bed early and for once the two of them were alone. It was bitterly cold, with a sharp frost glistening upon dry-stone walls lit by the light of a full moon. The panoply of surrounding hills loomed eerily ghostlike around them, the silence so complete that Kitty felt it might snap like glass, or her frayed nerves.

  Not that he was making it easy for her. He seemed ever more withdrawn of late, as if he were entirely preoccupied with his thoughts, living in a world of his own. How would he react to the prospect of becoming a father? If only she could win from him a declaration of undying love before she told him. Then she would know that he wanted her for herself and not simply from a sense of duty.

  He’d hurt her by his stubborn neglect these last weeks, hurt Esme too, and Kitty couldn’t quite let that go unchallenged. Her back was aching and she’d much rather be snuggled down in her own warm bed but then if she didn’t say something now, she might never find the courage. ‘This miserable Christmas has all been your fault.’ She tossed the words at him, rather as she did the logs into the basket, stamping her booted feet in an effort to keep warm as she waited for his response.

  ‘Is this another lecture?’ he mildly enquired, his tone almost as cold as the weather. ‘I rather thought I’d escaped one, since you’ve been avoiding me for weeks.’

  ‘Me avoiding you! Rather the other way around.’

  He leaned on the door jamb and watched her struggle, as if at a loss to know what to believe or how to deal with the matter. He thought she looked pale, not at all her normal self but nor, for that matter, was Esme, which, in her case Archie put down to the stress of the tour. But then feminine matters were a mystery to him. Far too tedious and complicated. Quite beyond the understanding of a mere male.

  Charlotte was far easier to understand. A woman influenced by her sensual and physical needs, rather than emotion. Nor did she have Kitty’s obstinate determination to be a “modern woman.” Charlotte wasn’t feisty and difficult, but vulnerable and fragile, as well as passionate and exciting. He almost salivated with pleasure at the memory of their nights together. But she could be surprisingly sensitive too. She’d been desperately upset to shatter his illusions over Kitty, his dearest friend.

  Women were utterly incomprehensible. Delicious. Adorable. To be enjoyed of course, but never taken too seriously as they could so rarely be understood. He must take care though, how he dealt with Kitty. Even now, she was glaring at him with murderous intent and, as always when over-tired, becoming ever more quarrelsome. ‘I’m still waiting for that apology.’

  ‘Apology for what?’

  ‘For your odd behaviour these last weeks.’
When he didn’t reply, she tried to pick up the basket of logs but found it too heavy. Annoyed with herself, Kitty began to unload some into her already aching arms, acutely aware of Archie standing by, saying nothing, merely watching her with a half smile on his handsome face. It made her irritation flare all the more, despite her good intentions to remain calm. ‘And getting drunk that first night. You could all have ended up in a ditch. Not to mention almost ruining the show.’

  ‘No one noticed anything wrong at all.’

  ‘The audience certainly noticed you tottering on with that silly grin on your face, apologising for missing your cue and nearly falling over the footlights.’

  Archie laughed out loud at the memory. ‘That was rather a hoot. I felt certain I would end up in the lap of that very large lady in the front row.’

  At one time she might have laughed with him. Tonight his phlegmatic approach to life, his careless flippancy, in addition to her delicate condition and the inner war she was fighting over grasping happiness for herself at cost to Esme, had turned Kitty stubborn. ‘Don’t you dare laugh. This isn’t a game. There’s too much money involved.’

  ‘I realise that, dear heart.’ Archie judiciously changed his tone to coolly matter-of-fact, that of a business partner discussing the state of trade. ‘Much of it mine, I seem to recall.’ For some reason this infuriated Kitty all the more, but he found that he really didn’t care. He certainly had no intention of being emotionally bullied.

  ‘It wasn’t our money I was thinking of, neither yours nor mine. I was thinking of the ticket money the audience pay to be entertained by a load of half-cut amateurs. And I’m not your dear heart!’ Oh but how she wished that she was. Tears started, and Kitty snatched up an extra log, desperately struggling to balance it on top of the armful she already carried. She’d almost managed this impossible feat when her foot slid on the frozen ground and the whole pile toppled from her arms. Shock jarred through her, swiftly followed by a jolt of fear as she landed abruptly on her bottom. Lord had she hurt the baby?

  Archie was beside her in a second, asking if she was all right. ‘You’ve been doing far too much lately and you really shouldn’t. Not in your state of health.’

  Kitty had been about to angrily shake herself free of his hold. Instead she stared up at him, mouth open in shock. ‘My state of...’

  He was smiling at her, shaking his head as if at a naughty child. ‘You should have told me yourself but it’s all right, Kitty. I know about the baby.’ The tone was soft and conciliatory. ‘I’ll admit it knocked me for six at first when Charlotte told me, a nice girl like you - getting in such a fix. But I can understand how it might happen.’

  ‘Charlotte told you?’

  He chose his next words with care. ‘Don’t be cross with her for splitting on you, she’s concerned, that’s all. We both are. Esme too I warrant, though we haven’t discussed it and I swear no one else knows yet. These things happen in the best of circles. I’m sure everything will work out for you. Just requires a few adjustments, eh?’

  Kitty couldn’t quite take in what he was saying, and started to brush his hands away as if anxious to stave off his pity. Then it dawned on her that perhaps he’d known for weeks and yet had said nothing. Why hadn’t he? Red hot fury rushed through her as Kitty struggled clumsily to her feet, absolutely refused to be carried and marched furiously into the house. Finding herself still holding a log, she tossed it onto the fire in a final declaration of independence, causing a shower of sparks to fly up the chimney. Wasn’t it just like Archie to leave her to stew? Probably thought it all a grand joke. He really was far too heedless for words. ‘Why do you always have to make such an ass of yourself. Mooning over Charlotte half the time, and you’ve hurt Esme.’

  Kitty was aware that he’d kicked shut the door but her heart was beating so fast she didn’t dare turn around to check. He dropped the basket by the hearth. ‘Esme? Was she sitting on the front row too?’

  This was too much and Kitty turned upon him in a fury. ‘Can’t you ever take anything seriously?’

  ‘Why should I? Life’s too dashed short, don’t you know.’ He began to unbutton her coat, smoothing a hand over the curve of her stomach as he drew her close. How she excited him when she was in a tantrum. She became utterly irresistible. Even the glorious Charlotte paled into insignificance beside Kitty when she was in a rage. ‘Don’t be cross old sport. I’d much rather we were friends again, like we used to be. What d’you say? Come to the fire. Let me warm you. There are far better things we could be doing, while we still have the chance before real life closes in eh?’

  His fingers were sliding beneath her blouse now, seeking her breasts as always, his touch set her on fire. She gazed up at him, utterly enraptured, repeating again those magical words. He knew, and he didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Drat you, Archie Emerson! You’re utterly impossible.’

  ‘Amoral is perhaps a better word, darling.’

  ‘And selfish and stubborn and...’ But her protest was weak, the tone softly caressing for oh, didn’t she want him? Didn’t she need him to love her?

  He made love to her on the faded Persian rug before the blazing fire, stripping off her clothes with an eagerness that captivated her, allowing her no time to think as he took her with a swift and dominating insistence. It was over before Kitty barely had time to cry out her delight and he gently scolded her, silencing her with more kisses, reminding her that Mrs Pips may be in the housekeeper’s room above, and Esme not too far away.

  Afterwards he whispered that this should remain their secret, and again thinking of the baby and dazed with love for him, Kitty readily agreed. Besides, how could she bear the guilt of witnessing Esme’s jealousy if she ever learned they were again lovers. She still had to break it to Esme that the child she carried was Archie’s. The pact may now be at an end, but some instinct warned Kitty to tread softly on her friend’s sensibilities.

  The following morning Kitty was returning from one of her long walks over Claife Heights when she saw two figures coming from the direction of the house. One of them was Archie and she waved to him. She’d been humming happily to herself as her boots crunched upon iced puddles and crisp bracken, dreaming and making delicious plans about weddings. Now she gave a little skip of pleasure as she hurried to meet him, then realised who the other man was. Kitty skidded to a halt, hardly able to believe her eyes.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  Frank looked just the same, thinning hair slicked flat to his head, black shiny suit, tie too tightly knotted. ‘You didn’t imagine I’d ever forget you Duchess, did you?’

  She’d rather hoped so. Kitty gritted her teeth even as she smilingly offered her hand. Frank grasped her by the shoulders and gave her a resounding kiss instead. ‘I think I’m worth more than that, don’t you?’

  Kitty surreptitiously wiped the kiss away, bemused about why he was there and how he’d found her. Archie’s voice boomed out in its jovial, bonhomie sort of way. ‘Was going to leave it to you, old thing, to break the good tidings but dropped one too many hints, I’m afraid. No harm done though. Frank’s jolly pleased. Rather fancies the prospect of fatherhood, don’t you old chap?’ And he slapped the grinning Frank on the back.

  Kitty stared at Archie in stunned disbelief as the truth slowly dawned. He hadn’t realised the baby was his at all. He thought it was Frank’s.

  Chapter Thirteen

  1914

  The people of Lakeland quite took the LTP’s to their hearts. The Players travelled the length and breadth of the north from the mill towns of Lancashire where the factory girls shrieked with laughter, to the dales of Westmorland and Cumberland, Yorkshire and beyond. Without question they were a success. During the last year since that momentous first tour, any number of village halls, school rooms, repertory theatres, and even one or two seaside pavilions, had been granted the pleasure of a show from the LTP’s.

  With all the unease associated with Ireland and the Balkans, ‘goi
ng to a show’ was a welcome and cheap night out, a relief from the constant concern over possible invasion. The wind might blow, rain, hail or snow might cloud the Lakeland skies but if the LTP’s had a booking, no matter what the weather, they would be there as promised, and the show would go on.

  On this winter’s night early in 1914, they were in Kendal at the St George’s Hall, in rehearsal with Cinderella. This was their own version, written and produced by Kitty herself. Ticket takings had fallen off a bit lately, due to competition from the new rage for cinema. Available theatres were becoming an increasing rarity and posters needed to proclaim that the show was live, to encourage people to attend. Cinema wouldn’t last, everyone said so. It was no more than a fad. Live theatre would always prevail.

  For much of the year even this famous theatre was now proud to be known as one of the finest picture houses in the north. But for a few weeks at Christmas, it gave itself over once again to live theatre. A professional company, currently in the middle of its annual run of Shakespeare had agreed to take a week’s break so the LTP’s could present a pantomime for the townsfolk.

  Draughts from every direction rattled through the empty auditorium and Esme was wearing her coat as she worked on a new backcloth. Even so her hands felt stiff with cold. Together with Reg, now official stage manager, the pair had spent hours slapping size on to the hessian cloth in order to stiffen it, followed by yet another missed night’s sleep painting it so that it would be ready for first night tomorrow. Reg had chalked out the grid pattern into which Esme sketched the outline, gradually building up a picture of a ballroom. After that it had simply been a question of filling in the squares with the appropriate coloured paint. It was laborious and painstaking work since there were only the two of them. Reg was a bit slapdash but Esme had come to enjoy working with him. They made a good team.

  Ever since her disastrous performance on the last night of that first tour when she’d dried from shyness and panic, she’d confined herself to backstage work, for which she’d proved to have quite a talent. The company had all tried to persuade her to continue with her acting. Jacob had related countless horror stories of his own, one of losing his wig when playing in The Rivals. Suzy told of the night her voice had vanished completely and Tessa Crump promised to play the piano very loudly if ever Esme should forget her lines in future. All to no avail. Even Kitty’s more practical suggestion that she have extra private rehearsals was not taken up. Esme had, in short, lost her nerve.