Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

He’d quite misunderstood, and for a moment Charlotte was nonplussed but, actress that she was, she didn’t allow this to show, merely used it to her benefit. ‘Oh Mrs Pips was such a dear friend, and I’m in sore need of one of those right now.’

  ‘Won’t I do?’ He took away the soggy scrap and offered her his silk handkerchief in its place. Charlotte used it to dab at her crocodile tears.

  ‘Oh dear, I’m afraid you’re going to hate me.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Spit it out Charlotte. You know how I hate prevarication.'

  ‘I’m afraid that our little moments of intimacy, our high jinks, have had an unexpected - well, not entirely unexpected, I suppose - an unasked for result.’

  His eyes widened with shock. ‘You don’t mean..?’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘I do.’ It was a lie, but only she knew that pregnancy was impossible following the accident years before. Not that this troubled her. A timely “miscarriage” could be easily manufactured, once she’d achieved her object. She’d thought it all through most carefully, and now put the last pieces of her plan into effect. ‘Why do you think I ran away? I was filled with shame. I know how you feel about responsibility, commitment, encumbrances, and I don’t want to add to them,’ she whimpered. ‘But I couldn’t cope with being an unmarried mother, as Kitty does. I don’t have her strengths. Oh, it’s all so awful! Yet I know it’s her you owe responsibility to, more than to me.’

  She gave no thought to Esme, not truly appreciating how close the pair had become while she was away. Charlotte had always seen Kitty as her chief rival to Archie’s affections, and still did so now.

  He came to sit beside her on the trunk. ‘Why would I have any responsibility towards Kitty?’

  Charlotte gazed at him in moist-eyed innocence. ‘I mean because of the baby. Everyone knows it’s all a pretence, a lie, that Dixie is Frank’s child. I mean, you know too, deep down? Though you really only thought of her as a sister, didn’t you, despite the fact you must have - well - at least once I suppose. Which I’m quite certain must have been at her instigation. But if you were ever prepared to take on the responsibility of a child, it should be Dixie first, shouldn’t it? By rights. Rather than any child of mine. Mine and yours, that is.’ Charlotte ran out of steam, which was perhaps just as well, judging by his reaction.

  For a moment she thought that he was about to strike her. He was shaking with emotion, his face scarlet with rage, then bleached white, finishing up a sort of dull shade of purple. ‘Are you trying to tell me that Dixie is mine, and not Frank’s at all.’

  ‘Well yes, I thought you knew! Oh dear, I’ve handled this all wrong.’ Charlotte considered it judicious to resort to tears again. The cold fury in his expression was really quite alarming. ‘Oh Archie, you do see why I didn’t dare tell you about my condition.’

  Without a word he strode from the room. For a moment Charlotte was half afraid he intended to confront Kitty with this news there and then. She should have known better, of course. Archie hated confrontations, would do anything to avoid such a thing.

  It was Frank he spoke to, and, once having satisfied himself of the true facts, it took no time at all for Charlotte to bring her scheme to a satisfying conclusion.

  None of this would do anything to improve Frank’s chances, despite her promises to help him, but why should she care about that? Charlotte had got what she wanted. At last.

  It was Esme who came to Kitty with the news. She was weeping uncontrollably, her face pinched with distress, and although she’d done little else since the death of Mrs Pips, her dear old friend, Kitty saw at once that something more had occurred.

  ‘What is it now? What’s happened Esme? Tell me.’

  Esme handed her a note. It was from Charlotte and stated briefly that neither herself nor Archie would be available for the next tour. It said that she was carrying his child and that they’d eloped to Gretna Green, following which they’d be heading for Italy on an extended honeymoon.

  Kitty stared at the letter in stupefaction before screwing it up into a tight ball. Whatever she might have said, or felt, or thought about the situation no one was ever to learn, for Jacob arrived at that moment with more serious news.

  It was the first week in August 1914 and a state of emergency had been declared. Mobilisation was under way. The war that was to change the course of history was about to begin.

  Act Two

  France

  1915

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kitty had never expected war service to be easy. She’d embraced the idea of embarking to France to entertain the troops as a much needed antidote to self pity, but not for a moment had she expected it to be like this. Already she longed to turn and run and forget the whole madcap scheme, yet it had barely begun.

  The journey from Folkestone had been a gruelling nightmare. They’d embarked on a glorious Autumn day in 1915, with the sun striking the chalk cliffs that normally gave shelter to the local fishing fleet and channel steamers rather than ships full of soldiers and artillery, going off to war.

  She’d spent most of the crossing hanging over the rail being stupendously sick while young boys masquerading as soldiers stood about in their life jackets, smoking and joking as if they were off on a Sunday School outing. Feeling rather sorry for herself, Kitty had marvelled that they could be so light-hearted when they were about to face the bitter cold of mud trenches, the whine of bullets or the horror of poison gas.

  ‘Give us a crack at Fritz,’ was their only response whenever they were asked their feelings on the matter.

  Several of the older men were clearly returning to the front for even more punishment after recent hospitalisation, wearing their gold wound bars like a badge of honour.

  Now, having to her great surprise survived the rough voyage, Kitty stood with the rest of the company on the harbour at Boulogne amongst a pile of boxes, bags and even a small piano, while a sea of khaki cascaded around them. A brighter sun was now reflected on guns carried by men swarming down gang planks. Supplies were being loaded on to trucks; motor cycles careered off in every direction on unknown messages of great urgency; ambulances lined up patiently waiting to place the wounded on board before the ship set sail back to Blighty.

  Kitty thought it would be a miracle if it could ever manoeuvre its way out to sea again through a harbour mouth thickly congested with submarines, destroyers, ammunition carriers and craft of every description. Overhead was the constant drone of aircraft, adding to the cacophony of noise which did nothing to ease her aching head, or her sense of disorientation.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ Jacob’s kindly face came into view, his faded eyes peering anxiously at her while his spectacles dangled uselessly, as always, from his waistcoat pocket. Scarlet check today. Ever the dandy.

  ‘I’m just about to organise a cup of tea for her,’ Frank portentously informed him, as if such things could easily be procured in a French harbour in wartime, served in wafer thin china on a silver tray with petit fours, no doubt. He jostled the old man to one side and shouted to no one in particular. ‘Tea. Over here please. Someone unwell needs tea.’ If anyone heard they gave no sign. Frank’s ridiculous pomposity did, however, serve to lighten her mood and Kitty actually smiled, despite her queasiness.

  ‘I don’t think we can expect waitress service, do you?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s the tweeny’s day off.’ Felicity said on a guffaw of her barking laughter.

  ‘Miss Kitty Little? If you’re the Travelling Players, follow me please.’ A booming voice in her ear, shouting above the din.

  ‘That’s us,’ Kitty yelled back, turning with relief to a voice which seemed to hold the authority to understand what was going on. Moments later the small troupe were being led through the confusion. ‘Captain Dafydd Owen Williams will be in charge of you. He’ll be along shortly. The army’s wheels are oiled by punctuality.’

  Their boxes of props, costumes and other belongings were swif
tly loaded onto the back of a small truck and they too were brusquely ushered up after it, each of them being handed a tin hat as they climbed aboard with firm instructions to ‘wear it at all times.’

  ‘I believe we’re to go to the new military theatre that has been built behind the lines. We’re keen to get there today if we can. Is it anywhere near the Front?’

  ‘Ask no questions. Just do as you’re told,’ she was bluntly informed, and before Kitty had time to thank their saviour for rescuing them from being drowned underfoot by the crush of soldiers, he had clicked his heels smartly together, saluted and vanished into that very same crowd.

  ‘I suppose there’s order somewhere in all of this,’ Jacob grumbled, struggling to fasten his helmet on and bringing forth a burst of giggles from Kitty when he finally succeeded, for it was several sizes too small. Her own was no more comfortable, coming half way down her cheeks. Swapping them produced a slight improvement but it still felt so awkward and clumsy, Kitty abandoned all hope of wearing it.

  ‘Don’t start developing Charlotte’s airs and graces,’ Suzy warned.

  Felicity said, ‘Perhaps she wants to look her best for Tommy Atkins.’

  ‘To hell with Tommy Atkins,’ Kitty warned. ‘It just makes my head ache, that’s all. Anyway, if a bullet has got your number on it, a tin hat isn’t going to save you is it?’ She shrugged, in a what-the-hell gesture, holding up a warning finger when Frank looked as if he might be about to start on his usual fussing.

  After almost an hour of sitting packed like sardines in the vehicle with mayhem continuing unabated around them, they all got out again to stretch their legs.

  ‘Oiled wheels of punctuality my foot. Where is he, this Captain Dafydd- whatever-he’s-called? Can’t we set off without him and meet him on the road?’

  ‘I have my orders to wait here,’ said the young corporal, appalled at the very idea of taking such an initiative.

  Another hour or more went by and only Reg, with his more pragmatic approach to life, seemed able to withstand the pressure of the enforced delay. Felicity was in a lather of impatience, Suzy had smoked a whole packet of cigarettes, Jacob was mopping his brow every five minutes and threatening to go in search of the nearest pub. Tessa had vomited ferociously and was now laid out among all their worldly goods and chattels, moaning that she would take the next ship home if someone didn’t get her some fresh air soon. Kitty herself felt as if her head were bursting. Finally, she’d had enough of kicking her heels and doing nothing.

  ‘Nearly three hours we’ve been stuck here. If we’re to arrive before dark we should get going.’

  ‘He’d have my guts for garters for breaking an order.’

  ‘He can have my guts if he likes, or even my garters, but if you know where this dratted theatre is, lets go. My head is splitting from all this noise. I need a bed, a bath and some food.’

  ‘Not necessarily in that order,’ Felicity grumbled, and with one accord they all piled back into the truck.

  The young corporal climbed reluctantly behind the wheel and with a jolt and a lurch they were off.

  They rattled along at a cracking speed, despite the rutted roads. But progress was frustratingly slow. At every crossroad military police directing operations seemed to be fighting a losing battle against traffic rushing about in every direction. The LTP’s truck frequently got held up behind ranks of new recruits marching to replace the depleted ranks of those already lost at the Front. Or their passage would be blocked by the abandoned wreck of a vehicle, empty trucks returning to Boulogne, as well as those loaded with guns, army boots and other flotsam and jetsam of war travelling in the opposite direction. Often their truck would be forced to pull over to make room for a speeding ambulance or a shrieking dispatch rider which always had right of way.

  Kitty, together with Tessa, who was in an even worse state than herself, sat up front with the corporal and from their vantage point could clearly see the pitted ground where shells had landed. They passed through several villages and small towns which had been ruthlessly shelled, with many buildings reduced to rubble, signs everywhere warning about the dangers of falling masonry.

  ‘What have we come to?’ Kitty murmured, half under her breath as the truck rumbled on.

  ‘Hell,’ came Suzy’s voice from behind, and as the cack-cack of guns sounded, the corporal casually suggested they might care to put on their helmets. As one shell hit the ground no more than fifty feet away, sending a cloud of dust into the air, they did exactly that, all earlier resistance forgotten.

  Kitty closed her eyes in the hope that forty winks might make her feel halfway human again and calm her stubbornly churning stomach. It came to her that the Theatre of War was nothing like as much fun as their more accustomed venue. And the thought that perhaps Esme might have been right to refuse to accompany them, crept into her mind.

  These last months following Archie and Charlotte’s return from honeymoon, everything had changed for the LTP’s. Repstone Manor was no longer available as a base for the company to rehearse in or even for rest periods. Within days of settling into her new home, Charlotte had embarked upon a programme of refurbishment, as if to firmly establish herself as Lady of the Manor. There was no room at Repstone now for a “second-rate group of travelling players”. Charlotte’s description. Nor for those who were once close to Archie, and perhaps still nurtured a lingering fondness for him.

  Not surprising, in the circumstances, that the whole troupe had been behind Kitty when she’d put it to them that instead of touring England they entertain the soldiers in France. Taking the show on the road for another season had somehow lost its flavour and Kitty had longed for a new challenge, perhaps even personal danger which might drive the devils of self-pity from her soul.

  A few enquiries at the War Office ascertained that this was feasible, so long as the Players confined themselves to base hospitals and rest billets. The whole company had readily volunteered to go with her, except for Sam and Rob who had joined a Pals regiment together, and Archie and Charlotte, of course. And Esme.

  Kitty had sat on the bed watching her friend pack, begging her to change her mind. ‘What will you do? Where can you go?’

  ‘You think I can’t survive without you? I did before. Why not now?’

  ‘I thought you and I were friends. Friends should stick together.’

  Esme had put her arms about Kitty and wept silent anguished tears. ‘This has nothing to do with our friendship. You know it hasn’t. If Archie were coming too, then it would be different but while he remains here, so must I.’

  ‘He’s married for God’s sake.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It can’t last. Not with Charlotte. How could it? I must be here in case he should ever need me, at least as a friend.’

  ‘How long are you going to wait for him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe forever.’ A faraway look had come into her eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter. If I can’t have Archie, I don’t want anyone.’

  Kitty gritted her teeth in frustration, but however much she sighed and argued, ranted, railed or reasoned, it did no good. Esme had made up her mind. Her decision was unshakeable. The most Kitty could get out of her was that as soon as she’d found another theatrical troupe to join, and got even half settled in some digs, she’d write.

  ‘Every day.’

  Esme hugged Kitty close, chuckling softly. ‘How will I have time to write every day if the new director works me even half as hard as you did. I’ll write regularly, I promise.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ Kitty asked again, devastated to be losing her friend.

  ‘Wherever there’s work. Perhaps the pier at Blackpool or Morecambe. And Manchester’s full of theatres. I don’t know but I’ll find one that’ll take me up, don’t worry.’

  When Kitty woke the next morning, Esme had gone. There’d been only one letter before they embarked for France, postmarked Accrington. It gave a cheerful account of a week’s work she’d found at the local Hippodrome. After
that, Esme said, she intended to take the bus to Preston where she’d heard of a new repertory theatre starting up. That was months ago and, worryingly, Kitty had heard nothing since.

  She was jolted out of her thoughts by her head banging against the metal door frame as the truck lurched into a pot hole. Loud curses from the corporal soon made it clear that they’d suffered a puncture. Almost with sighs of relief they all scrambled out, eager to ease their aches and bruises while the driver set about the task of replacing the wheel and repairing it.

  ‘Where’s the jack and the chocks?’ Reg said, rolling up his sleeves.

  ‘At least he’s happy,’ Suzy drily remarked. ‘Otherwise I’d say war was no fun at all.’

  It was then that Kitty heard the tramp of tired feet and around the corner of the dusty track that passed for a road came a company of soldiers, each weary man weighed down by his pack complete with entrenching tools and rifle.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said, brightening upon the instant. ‘Here comes our first audience.’

  Charlotte swept her critical gaze about the shabby sitting room, at the threadbare carpets and peeling wallpaper, creeping mould on the ceiling and woodwork that hadn’t been repainted for a hundred years at least. This wasn’t what she’d bargained for when she’d abandoned Magnus and risked bigamy. Yet given proper care and attention, not to mention a dash of those funds Archie kept squirreled away, it could all be so different. She picked sulkily at a tapestry cushion, threadbare and grubby.

  ‘You can be vexingly mean, don’t you know?’ she complained. ‘All I want is to do out this dreary room so we can entertain properly. What is so wrong with that?’

  Given her head, she would refurbish the entire house in a more avant-garde style, as the smart set were doing in Belgravia. Charlotte longed for white sofas and deep pile carpets, Chinese porcelain and drifts of ice cool lilies in every room which she would brighten with marvellous little pictures in sea-washed colours reflecting the new Futurist mode. She would hold smart little dinner parties to which everyone would simply ache to be invited. Now that would be real stardom. Instead, she’d been confined to the redecoration of their own bedroom suite and a small parlour. It was really too bad of Archie to be so parsimonious.