Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Sneeze.’

  ‘Sweet peas.’

  ‘What about golf? Oh dear, writing poetry isn’t as easy as I thought.’

  Everyone simply smiled, knowing that Kitty always suffered a crisis of confidence when she was writing, and it would turn out fine in the end.

  There were the usual colds and sniffles but nobody took time off as ‘the show must go on.’ Kitty would frown anxiously whenever she heard Archie sneeze or cough quietly into his handkerchief as it reminded her of those early days in Ealing when he’d seemed to be clinging desperately to the fragility of life.

  She felt at times as if she too were hanging onto life by a thread, always keenly aware of the pitiful state of their finances. And coping with a small baby in addition to the Players took a great deal out of her. Kitty knew she couldn’t have managed at all without the help of Esme and Mrs Pips, who took turns to mind Dixie when she was busy. Not that Dixie was a fussy child. She’d sit on anyone’s knee so long as they gave her the undivided attention she demanded. And she’d been known to woo the hearts of more than one cantankerous landlady.

  But constant touring wasn’t easy. Good lodgings were sometimes hard to find. They often arrived late, were unpunctual for meals, slept at odd hours, none of which endeared themselves to landladies who expected guests to be out of their rooms from ten till six each day and sit down to dinner along with everyone else. Wherever possible they procured invitations to stay in people’s homes, though that too presented difficulties; over familiar husbands, stage-struck daughters and housekeepers who didn’t approve of theatricals at all.

  Then there were the freezing halls, the tuneless pianos, the stuffy rooms with windows nailed down, the smell of mildew and caretakers who spied on the female cast as they changed.

  Yet Kitty wouldn’t have missed it, not for the world. Wherever they’d performed, whether it be in a traditional theatre or a leaky shack, she’d loved every minute, and not even Charlotte’s sulks could diminish her enthusiasm for the life.

  Sometimes Kitty would dream of having a theatre of their own, once tentatively suggesting they might convert the old barns at Repstone. Archie only shook his head and laughed, saying it would be far too expensive, even for his pocket.

  They’d acquired a van, somewhat beaten up and decrepit but which carried their equipment with greater ease than the trailer, although space was still limited. The company was heading north, progressing through picturesque Westmorland villages with grey-stone cottages where sheep could be found grazing on wide village greens. Appleby and Kirkby Stephen, Penrith and Carlisle; some of the loneliest roads of England. It seemed as if they were on top of the world, often passing gypsy caravans making their slow progress to the Appleby horse fair which took place every year in early summer.

  Kitty announced that they would next be heading for Yorkshire as she handed round a list of venues, which made Charlotte pale. Some of the towns Esme had booked were just a little too close to her old home near Leeds for comfort. In one respect being in Yorkshire would make it easier for her to get time off to see Magnus. In another it created a serious risk. Charlotte quite enjoyed living on the edge, but discovery was not a part of her plan.

  But that was next week, or the week after that, for now she was revelling in her hour of fame. She went around using words such as ‘chic’ or ‘smart’, wearing hats with veils pulled almost, but not quite over her face whenever she took tea in whatever town they were currently playing in. This was most afternoons during the run of the Review, so that people would have the opportunity to recognise her for the star she undoubtedly was.

  ‘What fun to be incognito,’ she would say to Archie as she sat scarlet-lipped, gazing around some crowded tea-room with delighted anticipation. ‘I feel like a film star.’ With luck someone would be sure to have seen A Springtime Revue and scurry over with a napkin for her to scrawl her signature upon it.

  Magnus, she decided, would have to wait.

  Charlotte had never been the kind of actress to avoid eye contact with the audience. She loved to see the adulation in their faces. So as she confidently swept her gaze over her adoring fans at a small theatre in Richmond, her heart very nearly stopped beating. For there he was, his invalid carriage beside him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fortunately, the man turned out to be a stranger, Charlotte clearly summoning his image out of her imagination. But having received yet another irate letter from Magnus, the incident left her badly shaken. The tinsel fame of a touring company, however delightfully flattering, would never provide her with the funds she needed to keep her in the style she enjoyed.

  The problem of Magnus must be addressed.

  It was also, Charlotte decided, long past time the LTP’s discovered just how much they needed her. They needed a jolt to remind them how vital she was to the production. A Springtime Revue couldn’t possibly survive without her, not now that she was so famous. Besides, hadn’t she begged to be allowed time off for a proper rest? Now, being so close to home, why not take one? It would serve Kitty right for not being more accommodating. Teach them all a lesson, in fact, for not properly appreciating her talent.

  When the curtain came down at the end of the first act, Charlotte ran to the dressing room while everyone was grabbing a much needed cup of tea before the start of the second act. She snatched up bottles and jars from her dressing table, pulling on her clothes in a tearing hurry.

  Mrs Pips, sitting tucked behind the screen, enjoying a well earned forty winks with Dixie on her lap, made no sound as she watched Charlotte hurriedly pack. But as she crept out of the door, Mrs Pips handed the still sleeping Dixie to Esme in the wings, saying she had some urgent business to attend to. Then grabbing her coat and bag, quietly followed Charlotte’s retreating figure.

  As her taxi cab drew away from the kerb, Charlotte did not notice a silent figure quickly step into another, right behind.

  Mrs Pursey appeared at the door like an avenging angel, looking utterly taken aback to see her. ‘You’re the last person I expected to find standing on our doorstep at this hour of the night. Why didn’t you send word? Your room isn’t even aired. Had enough of globe-trotting have you?’

  The whole household, including Magnus, imagined that she spent half her life travelling. Rome, Venice, Paris, Geneva. She’d been compelled to read a good many Beaedekers in order to be entirely convincing. Charlotte had even been obliged to develop a system whereby she could dispatch letters from various parts of the country as well as from Europe, paying landladies or actors she met on tour to post them for her. Whoever she could find with friends or relatives in suitable places from which to forward her mail. It was laborious and expensive, but thankfully worked. Money, she found, could generally buy such favours, and even discretion. No doubt they imagined them to be letters to a secret lover. Unfortunately, it was quite impossible to acquire picture postcards, so when Magnus complained of the lack of them, Charlotte insisted that a letter was far superior, that only shop girls sent picture postcards.

  Now Charlotte lay disporting herself on the chaise-longue in the blue and gold parlour, a cup of Earl Grey tea beside her on the marquetry table. It felt almost as if she’d never been away.

  A surreptitious tour of the house while she’d waited for her tea to be brought revealed many changes since her last visit eight months previous. Doorways had been widened, and rails installed at various strategic points. Charlotte could hardly believe what her eyes were telling her. Further enquiries confirmed that the blue sitting room had been turned into a ground floor bedroom for Magnus.

  ‘So he can enjoy having the French windows open onto the back garden,’ Mrs Pursey had tartly informed her as she’d set the tea tray down.

  ‘My husband has come to terms with his condition then, since he seems to be making more of an effort to adapt.’

  ‘You could say that. All thanks to good nursing. Luggage?’

  The sudden change of subject unnerved her. ‘I beg your pardon?’
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  ‘Your luggage, madam. Where would that be?’

  Charlotte was instantly annoyed to find herself again wrong-footed, as she bore the onslaught of that shrewd glare which seemed to see right through her. She hadn’t given a thought to luggage. In her haste to escape unseen, she’d only picked up her make-up case, and could hardly have toured Europe out of that.

  ‘I - I haven’t brought any. I’m having it sent on later.’

  ‘Very good, madam,’ Mrs Pursey smoothly replied, a dry asperity in her tone. The master is asleep. Please don’t disturb him till morning. I’ll go and see to your room.’ The click of the woman’s heels as she marched away seemed to emphasise her disapproval.

  Charlotte sat thoughtfully sipping her tea, listening to the slow clunk of the pendulum in the grandfather clock that stood in the hall, worrying about what, exactly, she would say to her husband at this much delayed reunion. She hardly expected a warm reception, and cursed herself for leaving it so long. It would be extremely dangerous to risk losing Magnus until she was certain that Archie could provide her with the life she craved.

  She was uncertain as to the extent of his wealth, though she assumed it to be considerable judging from the size of his estate. But Charlotte was also attracted to Archie’s impeccable style; for those little details such as diamond cufflinks, silk shirts, and his penchant for dashing cravats. More importantly, he possessed that one essential which could not be bought: an aristocratic background. And a title. Married to Archie, she would be Lady Emerson.

  Charlotte smiled as she refilled her cup, then sighed. If only it were possible. If only Magnus had died in that stupid accident, instead of just being paralysed.

  And why, instead of enjoying the easy life, as he was surely entitled to do, did Archie persist in remaining with the Lakeland Travelling Players?

  Fascinating as it was to be admired, unless she were to be ‘discovered’ by some professional producer and granted the opportunity to ‘star’ in a West End production, Charlotte had no intention of spending her entire life living in squalid digs and touring the country with a second rate theatrical company. Far more fulfilling and rewarding to devote herself to a man of stature and note. A man who held a position in Society and could offer not only money but the position and power she deserved.

  It wasn’t until after Mrs Pursey had led her to a hastily prepared bedroom, its drawn curtains gleaming rose in the lamp light, that Charlotte thought to enquire who exactly had brought about this change in the home of her husband.

  ‘Miss Mahon.’

  ‘And who might she be?

  ‘His new nurse and companion. Breathed life and soul into the poor man she has.’ Since you’re never here, Mrs Pursey’s tone seemed to imply as she closed the door with a firm click.

  Kitty could hear the audience growing restless, even a few whistles and catcalls. It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes delay to have a riot on their hands. She cast Archie an imploring look, as if expecting him to spirit Charlotte out of thin air. The extract from School For Scandal was due to start now, but, having confirmed that Charlotte was nowhere to be found, that every corner of the theatre had been searched twice over, he simply shook his head and reached desperately for his cigarette case.

  ‘How could she do this to us?’ Kitty railed. That she could walk out halfway through a show was beyond belief.

  It was Reg who saved the day. Taking Esme by the shoulders he gently urged her to go on. ‘You can take her place, why don’t you? You’d make an excellent understudy, since you know the words already from acting as prompt.’

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t... Really I...’

  ‘The show must go on, Esme. You’d do it grand. None better.’

  Esme stood undecided for an achingly long moment, but the sounds of discontent from the audience was growing ever more alarming and, finally, she gave a small nod. ‘All right. If I must.’

  Kitty clasped her in a hug. ‘Bless you! Three minutes to change while I send Rod and Sam on to entertain the audience. Mrs Pips? Where’s Mrs Pips? Oh, lord, don’t say she’s missing too.’

  Suzy grabbed Esme and whisked her off to the dressing room, saying she was the speediest quick-change-artist in the business and they’d be ready in two minutes, not three.

  ‘Good morning Mrs Gilpin.’ Charlotte sat up in bed to be confronted by a formidable young woman dressed in an ankle length blue dress and starched pinafore, her neat brown hair almost entirely covered by a white cotton cap tied with ribbons under a firm chin. The figure was tall and angular, as rigidly formal as the uniform, and the tone of voice uncompromising. Charlotte stared in stunned dismay as the woman ordered a young maid to set down the breakfast tray. Curtains were drawn briskly back, just as if she had a perfect right to allow the morning sun to pour into the room without even asking Charlotte’s permission.

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you, madam, since I’ve heard such tales about you.’

  For all the lively tone of voice, there was something about the way she said madam, and tales, which stirred a chill of discomfort in Charlotte even as she struggled to sit up and take in what was happening. Sybil Mahon was now ordering the maid to withdraw, instructing her to fetch hot water and towels as well as suitable attire from Mrs Gilpin’s wardrobe before presenting Charlotte with a face that had surely never known despair. Beneath the hideous cap was the image of an angel, even to a charming dimple just to the right of a rosebud mouth.

  ‘You’ll want to be entirely presentable before visiting your husband. Though when that will be, I cannot say. He rises late.’

  ‘Have you informed him that I am here? I’m sure he’ll be most anxious to see me.’ Charlotte was filled with fury at being outplayed. Mistress of the House was surely her role.

  ‘Mrs Pursey will attend to that shortly. Now, if you’re quite ready. Breakfast?’ The interloper indicated the loaded tray. An egg, lightly boiled no doubt. Hot buttered toast. The delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee.

  Charlotte stubbornly declined. ‘I’m accustomed to choosing my own breakfast,’ despite the fact she felt near faint with hunger since she rarely ate before a performance and had eaten nothing since.

  ‘As you wish.’ Without allowing a moment for Charlotte to change her mind, the woman swept up the tray and departed, her parting words being that madam would be informed when the master was ready to see her.

  Charlotte was suddenly filled with a sensation far worse than stage fright. If this was how Mrs Pursey and the nurse treated her, with barely disguised contempt, what kind of reception could she expect from her husband?

  Esme was elated. She could hardly believe how well her performance had gone. She hadn’t fluffed a single line, had remembered every move, performed with style and professional aplomb and received a standing ovation at the end. She was beside herself with joy.

  ‘I can’t quite believe it.’

  Kitty was hugging her, Archie was patting her on the back, everyone smiling and kissing her and telling her they’d known all along that she could still act. They all got rather drunk in the Star and Garter, not simply because they were pleased at Esme’s return to the stage but also because this was their last night in Yorkshire, and the tour was going well. Tomorrow they would take A Springtime Revue to Northumberland for three weeks. By the end of that run, they’d need to make a decision about what they were going to do next.

  Esme, hiccuping gently as she sipped a celebratory champagne, told Reg he was the one she had to thank for her success. ‘If you hadn’t bullied me into it, I might never have found the nerve.’

  He laughed, giving her a reassuring hug, and for once Esme didn’t pull away. ‘You’re a star too now, just like Charlotte.’

  Esme said that she’d be more than happy to go back to prompting and helping backstage on Charlotte’s return, which met with howls of protest.

  ‘Good talent should never be neglected,’ Jacob remonstrated with her.

  ‘Competition does no one any harm.’ S
uzy agreed.

  ‘And will keep that little madam on her toes,’ muttered Felicity, half under her breath.

  ‘But where is dear old Pips?’ Archie muttered, as he refilled champagne glasses all round, A question no one could answer.

  When the moment of the confrontation came, Magnus gazed upon his wife as if she were a stranger to him. To Charlotte the look seemed entirely disconcerting. She’d coped with his rages, his brutality, his dictatorial rules, even his perversions. Indifference was unexpected and quite beyond her understanding.

  She’d taken great care with her toilette that morning, and in choosing what to wear; opting for a modestly plain gown from her old wardrobe that must be a good ten years out of date. Her face was almost bare of make-up, save for a blush of rouge to give her lips colour.

  Determined not to let him see her discomfiture, she sauntered to the window to examine the familiar view. The smooth humps of distant hills, the grey roof tops of the neighbouring village, most of which Magnus owned; the rooks still flying from the small copse that made the front of the house so gloomy, seemed to draw her back in time. Yet it was almost poky by comparison with Repstone Manor. Charlotte wondered how she could ever have liked it.

  ‘So, you’ve deigned to pay us a call? How very kind.’

  She swung about and even to her own ears, the normally musical tones of her laughter sounded false. ‘Not still in a sulk are we, darling? You know the rich and famous never live with their own husband. Too banal for words.’

  ‘And are you living with someone else’s?’

  ‘Of course not. I need space in which to flourish, that’s all. You surely wouldn’t deny me that. It gets so terribly claustrophobic here. But I’m always happy to come home, Magnus, you know that. I miss you desperately when I’m away.’ To emphasise this essential fact, she went to kiss him on the cheek but he turned his face away at the last moment, avoiding her. To cover her embarrassment, Charlotte clapped her hands together, as if in delight. ‘I must say you’re looking so much better. What marvellous progress you’ve made these last months.’