Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Hey, steady on, old thing. That’s going it a bit strong.’ Even Archie felt moved to protest.

  The Ugly Sisters had been an absolute riot, keeping the audience hooting with laughter throughout, almost completely upstaging Cinderella, which was probably the cause of Charlotte’s foul temper. It took all of Kitty’s tact and diplomacy to placate everyone and get them back on stage for the second act.

  Amazingly, despite these squabbles and first night nerves, the audience responded well, clearly loving every minute, judging by their laughter and applause, proving the pantomime to be a great success. The rest of the cast, ever responsive to an audience’s mood were buoyant as a result, sharp on cues, almost flirting with witty ripostes, till even Charlotte was driven to lift her performance if she was not to be outshone. Which she did of course, magnificently.

  Love her or hate her, the girl could act.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The weather improved as the week progressed, much of the snow melting away in a massive thaw. Audiences grew nightly but each evening as the actors prepared to go on, nerves were ever stretched to breaking point. Kitty made it her duty to set about calming ruffled tempers, soothe battered egos and lift everyone’s spirits. Some could be found huddled in a corner going over their script, while others would pace about the stage, striving to get in the mood. Tessa Crump always required one of her “little pink pills” and a frantic search for her sheet music. Felicity too often arrived only moments before curtain-up, frightening them all by this predilection she had for taking a spin on her bike when she should be in make-up. Nothing Kitty could say would persuade her to take the exercise earlier.

  When Kitty warned Suzy not to practise her scales in the wings, within earshot of the audience, she loudly protested. ‘Don’t criticise me. Go and see to Jacob. He needs a firm hand if he’s to stay off that bottle.’

  ‘I thought you promised to stop this,’ Kitty gently scolded the old actor, removing a whisky bottle from the pocket of his ancient dressing gown.

  ‘Gets harder. That pit-in-the-stomach feeling,’ he mourned, looking thoroughly dejected and sorry for himself. ‘Won’t touch another drop Kitty. Honest injun.’

  It seemed to be a never-ending battle to make the company toe the line, and despite going over what the stage manager had already checked a dozen times, there were the usual small panics and mini-crises. Some essential item of costume would tear and Mrs Pips would be found sewing frantically. A no. 9 make-up stick would be ‘borrowed’ or Esme would be chasing an actor for a prop that hadn’t been returned to her precious properties table after using it the previous evening.

  The two minute call would be given and several of the youngsters would look green, as if about to be sick. Even the old hands would declare this must be their very last show. Never again would they endure this nervous torture. Then the opening number would begin, hearts would slow their frantic beat, chin’s would lift, deep breaths taken and off they would go, bouncing on stage with a smile and a song, delighted to be there and loving every minute.

  When the week in Kendal finished they again took to the road, performing a watered down version of the panto in a string of villages from the White Hart Inn at Bouth to Meaburn Hall, from the Parish rooms in Shap to a billiard hall where they had to compete with the clicking of the balls, and in a Salvation Army hostel with a hymn practice going on in the next room. And on one never to be forgotten night in a school room close to Barrow docks with the sound of ship’s hooters intruding at every wrong moment.

  As the pantomime season drew to a close, Kitty was already making plans for A Spring Review. Rehearsals began while they were still performing Cinderella and were soon well under way. There were a few moans and groans, the cast complaining that they were in dire need of a rest but when Kitty pointed out the size of the company’s bank balance, they knuckled down to work, as always.

  Charlotte, however, was another matter.

  In the final week of the season Kitty was making her usual tour of the dressing rooms just before curtain-up. Charlotte was adding yet more lipstick to an already vivid mouth; next came a liberal dusting of powder to rouged cheeks before she flicked off the excess with a rabbit’s foot. She’d never looked less like a virginal Cinderella.

  ‘A touch less colour, perhaps?’ Kitty tentatively suggested, knowing her remarks would be ignored. ‘Cinders doesn’t transform into a beauty until the end of Act One remember.’

  Charlotte paused in the application of yet more carmine to her cupid’s bow mouth and, ignoring Kitty’s comment entirely calmly remarked, ‘I’ve decided to take a couple of weeks off, so you’ll have to line up an understudy for the start of the next tour. Got to go and see my dear old mother.’

  A Spring Review was already booked solid from the very next week, the first in March right through to the end of May and, as always, young females were hard to come by. So even if they could find someone, there was no time left for extra rehearsals.

  Kitty side-stepped Mrs Pips as she bustled past to pin up a torn hem on one of the dancing girls, thereby gaining herself a moment’s grace before answering. ‘Sorry Charlotte, that’s not on, I’m afraid. We’re pretty stretched as it is. Everyone gets three days as a breather and that’s it, I’m afraid. All we can afford at the moment.’ Then she lifted her voice to address the entire company. ‘Chin, chin, everyone. Break a leg,’ offering the usual alternative to good luck, which theatricals believed brought anything but.

  Clearly fuming at having her plans squashed, Charlotte turned her back on Kitty and screamed at Mrs Pips. ‘For God’s sake get that rabble out of here. I really should have a dressing room to myself. And where’s my fan? I’m so hot my make-up’s running. Oh, and make sure you dress my wig properly this time. It looked like a wrung out dish-mop last night.’

  Ida Phillips opened her mouth to protest and then snapped it shut again.

  ‘Beginners please,’ Kitty called in her brightest voice, trying to avoid the mute appeal in the glance Mrs Pips cast her.

  The one-time housekeeper waylaid Kitty just as she was making her escape. ‘I’d like a word please, about madam Charlotte, if you’ve a minute to spare. There’s something not quite right about that young lady.’ But Kitty didn’t have a minute. Kitty was far too busy to bother about Charlotte’s tantrums. A fact she would later come to regret.

  There was a mildness now to the spring breezes and the winter wildness of the garden was pierced by spears of new growth: crocus and snowdrop, wild daffodils and violets. The barren fells still wore their cloth of Hodden Grey, like that once woven in Kendal town itself, and the rivers gushed and gurgled with the melted snows from the mountains. For the first time in months Kitty had time to think and draw breath, time to lie in her cosy bed with her delightful baby daughter crawling all over her, gurgling happy nonsense.

  The exhausted cast was enjoying three glorious days to rest and recuperate at Repstone before the start of A Springtime Review. Kitty meant to take full advantage of the break by staying in bed all morning, instead of bouncing up to do her usual million and one tasks. She might even snatch an hour or two from her endless planning and organising to take Dixie out on the fells this afternoon, and quietly reflect upon these last weeks and those ahead.

  Hopefully Archie would find time to do the accounts at some point during the weekend, if Charlotte permitted. Even as the thought came to her she heard the smash of crockery from the bedroom down the hall. Dixie, busily engrossed in trying to push open her mother’s eyelids to bring her properly awake, gave a small start of shock and began to cry.

  Charlotte made no secret of the fact that most nights she shared her bed with Archie. No doubt he’d brought her breakfast in bed and for some reason she’d thrown it at him.

  Kitty smoothed the soft down of her baby’s hair. ‘Don’t fret my darling. Only naughty Charlotte having a bit of a tantrum.’

  Three days rest were insufficient time, apparently, to allow her to visit her “poor mother.
” Rather unkindly Kitty wondered if the mother in question might even be relieved. Somehow, Charlotte in the role of dutiful daughter didn’t quite ring true.

  Kitty put her head under her pillow, striving to blot out the sound of their noisy quarrel. Dixie, thinking this another new game, giggled all the more and was trying to pull it off again when there came a knock on her door. Wearily, Kitty dragged on a dressing gown and went to answer it. It was Frank.

  ‘Wondered if you and Dixie would fancy a charabanc trip to Morecambe?’

  Another crash, and the prospect of another day coping with Charlotte’s temper was suddenly too much.

  ‘Why not?’ Anything to get away. Besides Dixie had never seen the sea, so how could she refuse?

  Charlotte was railing over the injustice of Kitty’s decision not to allow her to go home. She stormed back and forth, fists clenched, the cerise silk tassels on her peignoir trembling with fury.

  Archie, all too accustomed to her tantrums, was smiling benignly. He couldn’t remember having seen her quite this angry. But then she’d always been able to ‘play the drama-queen,’ or ‘put on one of her paddy’s,’ as he teasingly termed her outbursts of temper. She could, in fact, quote directly from any script, or play any role she’d ever performed. Today, she was playing Kate from Taming of the Shrew.

  ‘I won’t be dictated to. I need to be free.’

  ‘Free to do what?’

  ‘To take time off when I need it. To do as I please. I hate acting,’ which certainly was not true. Charlotte loved to perform, she adored having everyone’s eyes upon her, have people admire the way she moved or recited her lines, marvel at her beauty and the wonderful gowns she wore. She also found it surprisingly satisfying to make the audience laugh or cry, or simply give them pleasure, something she’d never experienced before. The theatre was indeed wonderful, and Charlotte adored being the star of it. But it wasn’t real life and she longed to shine even brighter in the wider world.

  Her dream of playing Lady Emerson of Repstone Manor would be far grander than anything Magnus could offer. Unfortunately, it hadn’t yet come about. Archie was a dear, sweet man and she adored him, but he could be vexingly stubborn as well as increasingly parsimonious for one so well placed.

  She’d been berating him for a full ten minutes over her need to take some time off, perfectly convinced that he hadn’t taken in a single word she was saying. He just sat there in silence, smiling and nodding while reading his damned paper.

  ‘Kitty doesn’t own us for God’s sake,’ Charlotte stormed. It irked her that she must always seek Kitty’s permission, and Archie’s support was essential to achieve this. But how could she explain to him how her entire life was in danger of falling apart.

  Despite their increased intimacy, she’d made regular excursions home to visit her “mother”. But these visits had grown rare in recent months due to the pressures of touring, and Magnus had shown signs of losing patience. His most recent letter, delivered via the post office box she held specifically for this purpose, had warned her that since she hadn’t come home for Christmas, as instructed, he would sue for divorce if she did not return at once. The very idea was intolerable. Terrifying. She really couldn’t risk losing access to all the lovely money which Magnus so generously provided, in spite of her neglect of him. But nor could she risk losing everything she’d gained thus far with Archie.

  Archie shook out his newspaper, barely glancing in Charlotte’s direction as he answered her pleas. ‘We’ll go on the next tour with the rest of the company, as usual.’

  ‘I shall do as I please.’ Now she did stamp her foot, making the crystal teardrops of the chandelier shake. Seeing the startled expression in his eyes, Charlotte wondered if perhaps she’d gone too far.

  ‘Kitty needs you here, my sweet.’ Never had he taken such a firm stance against her, and it enraged her all the more. ‘Don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss.’

  Charlotte snatched the newspaper from his hands and tore it in two. ‘For pity’s sake listen to what I’m telling you, and then you might.’

  There was a long, awful silence. Usually Archie found her tantrums amusing, even titillating, her passions always igniting a spark in him that the traumas and disappointments of life had very nearly destroyed. But recently he’d begun to see them as trying and pettish. He quietly picked up the two sections of his newspaper and carefully folded them back together before taking both her hands and drawing the now weeping Charlotte down beside him on the sofa.

  ‘Sweetheart, you’re working yourself into a fine lather over nothing. Whatever’s the matter, for goodness sake? There’s an article about Asquith rejecting a bill on compulsory military service which I’d like to read, if I may. So explain it to me, calmly and quietly if you please, without tearing up any more of my newspaper.’

  ‘Oh Archie, you’re so kind to me.’ She was at once contrite, snuffling up her tears like a small child caught out in some misdemeanour. She hiccuped slightly, blew her nose on his white linen handkerchief and, snuggling against his shoulder, adopted a more wheedling tone. ‘I feel you and I should have more time together. Alone. Why don’t we take a long cruise down the Nile, or spend a few months in Venice. Or even a lovely long weekend in Town, just the two of us. So romantic! See some real shows, dine out at divine little restaurants, patronise my favourite shops. Wouldn’t that be much more fun than embarking on yet another dreary tour?’

  ‘I’m sorry if you’re tired sweetheart, but we can’t go away just now,’ he patiently explained. ‘We’re both needed. You in particular, my precious.’ But even flattery failed to calm her.

  ‘I say we will! I’m utterly exhausted and in need of a long rest.’

  ‘Then I suggest you go back to bed and take one while you have the chance, my darling. We leave here first thing on Monday morning. Best make the most of the weekend.’

  Whereupon Charlotte picked up a Chinese figurine and flung it into the fireplace. It smashed into a dozen pieces, and Archie, infuriatingly enough, informed her from behind his newspaper that he’d never liked the thing anyway.

  A soft spring breeze chased chip papers and old bus tickets into the gutter, propelling people along the promenade like steam trains. Kitty and Frank walked along the sea front together pushing the pram just as if, Frank commented, they were a proper family. They ate haddock and chips for lunch at a cafe on the front, where the waitresses wore white frilly caps and aprons and had notebooks dangling from their waistbands on a string.

  Throughout the long afternoon Kitty asked herself why on earth she’d come. Dixie would have been quite content with a short walk, then she could have taken the opportunity for a quiet session putting the finishing touches to her script. Instead, here she was seated on a wind-swept beach while Dixie poured sand into a bucket which Kitty would turn out into a pie so that her beloved child could smash it with her spade and shout with baby laughter.

  Frank, as cheerful as ever, was still urging her to name the day, insisting she needed him to look after her.

  Kitty was feeling distinctly harassed. ‘I simply don’t love you and never could,’ she said at last, driven to blunt honesty as every other excuse had so far failed to convince him.

  ‘But don’t we always have a good time together, Duchess? And don’t we owe it to Dixie to provide her with a proper ma and pa.’

  Gritting her teeth, Kitty drew her scarf more tightly about her neck, trying to keep warm as the breeze turned chill in the late afternoon. ‘You and I both know that you’re not Dixie’s father, no matter what anyone else might think.’

  Frank’s smile was one of studied blandness, which did nothing to reassure her. ‘Nevertheless, she can’t go through life without a dad, nor you without a man. Besides, you wouldn’t want Dixie’s real father, whoever he might be, to learn the truth, now would you?’

  She glanced up at him sharply. ‘What are you saying? That sounded suspiciously like blackmail.’

  ‘As if I would stoop to suc
h a thing. Dear me, whatever put such an idea into your head.’ Then reaching for Dixie he purred softly to the child, ‘come to Pops my darling. Come to Pops.’

  Dixie happily reached out her chubby arms to him, gurgling prettily. Kitty snatched up the toddler to hold her close. ‘Don’t you ever use that name in front of her again. Look, it’s starting to rain. Let’s go home.’

  By the time she’d reached the promenade Kitty had calmed down. ‘I’m grateful, Frank, for your not telling the truth about Dixie. But I can’t marry you, nor will I have you assuming any rights over her, or interfering in my life in any way. Is that clear?’

  Frank calmly regarded her for a long moment, an errant breeze lifting a strand of lank hair and slapping it against his shiny forehead. ‘As crystal. Though perhaps one day I hope you might think differently. I’m a patient man, quite happy to wait.’

  ‘But you mustn’t. I don’t want you to wait.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’ll need me one day. I know you will.’

  The chill that shivered all the way down her spine now had nothing to do with the cool spring breezes.

  A Springtime Revue opened to a full House and got off to a cracking start with Suzy singing a lively number The Call to Arms. Although her voice had nowhere near the range it once had, it sounded good, and the audience happily joined in with the chorus. Jacob did a stand-up routine poking fun at the old aristocracy, then made jibes at the mining barons and cotton kings, which brought a storm of cheers from the working class audience.

  Tessa, swathed in cardigans and bitterly complaining about the interminable draughts, searched frantically for the song sheet she wanted, her constant cry being, ‘I know it was here a moment ago.’ Then out of the maelstrom would come a breath-stopping rendition of What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor which always brought a standing ovation.

  Kitty had written a parody on Suburbia and had spent a good deal of time agonising over rhymes. ‘What rhymes with afternoon teas?’