Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  It had come to be a familiar scene: Charlotte railing while Archie buried his head behind his newspaper, sometimes making no response at all. Today, his dry, quiet tones broke into her dreaming fantasies. ‘Utter tosh.’

  Charlotte pouted. ‘I want us to take our proper place in Society as your mother must have done, and no doubt her mother before her.’

  ‘Ma? Lord, she didn’t give a fig for Society, only her own little clutch of friends. Cackling hens, Pater called them, affectionately of course, don’t you know.’ A sadness came into his eyes as he gazed across the room, almost as if he could see his darling mama seated behind the huge silver teapot with whiskery Aunt Grace and scrawny Mrs Pilling gossiping away twenty to the dozen as they consumed scones and fancies to their heart’s content.

  Charlotte stamped her foot and a cloud of dust burst forth from the faded Persian rug, which raised her temper another notch. Even finding staff to keep the place up to her immaculate standards was proving vexingly difficult, since all the young men were joining up with a fervour and young women taking over their jobs on the farm and in factories, scorning poorly paid domestic service. There were even days when she’d come close to regretting having disposed of the irritating Mrs Pips since the woman had her uses.

  ‘Well I do care a fig, so don’t compare me to your stupid, unfashionable mother.’

  The look on his face was dreadful to behold, warning Charlotte that she’d gone too far. She mellowed her tone upon the instant. ‘Darling Archie,’ she wheedled, kneeling beside him as was her wont. ‘I didn’t quite mean that as it sounded.’ The nearest Charlotte could ever come to an apology was to deny what she had said. ‘I know you do your best. It’s just that you give so little credence to the importance of Society because you’ve always had a secure place in it. You take it all for granted. But don’t you see what it would mean to me? I need to make my mark in this new world I have entered, as your wife.’ She dabbed at a manufactured tear.

  ‘You have already, judging by the bills for frocks and furbelows I’ve received,’ Archie coolly reminded her.

  ‘Drat you Archie Emerson, you’re being deliberately difficult. ‘Anyway, who are you to talk? Aren’t you quite the man-about-town yourself?’

  It was one of the things she admired most about him. He always insisted on the very finest worsted suits, even a matching cap for his knickerbockers when he went bicycling. Charlotte simply adored his crimson silk dressing gowns and velvet smoking jackets, his Moroccan leather travelling case which held his cut-throat razor, stick of shaving soap, toothbrush and tin of Calvert’s Carbolic toothpowder. Archie was fastidious to the point of obsession, which fascinated and infuriated her all at the same time; particularly if she was waiting for him to come to bed and he was still fussing in his dressing room. ‘You’re ashamed of me, that’s what it is,’ she shouted, patience exhausted.

  ‘Perhaps I’m sick of being used as a walking bank account.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Charlotte was on her feet, small face scarlet with fury. Her own attire that morning was, as always, the height of fashion, being a beige silk suit with an ankle length narrow skirt over which she wore a modish over-tunic that reached almost to her knees. As she yelled and screamed, throwing herself into a fine paddy, she took great care not to crease it. And as she did so, her Yorkshire accent thickened, deliberately so. ‘You think I’ll let thee down. Well ‘appen I will.’

  ‘Calm down, Charlotte. You’ll hurt yourself. You don’t normally speak so broad, so why adopt that dreadful accent just to make a point which is completely fallacious.’

  ‘Fallacious? What’s that when it’s at home?’ She put her hands on her hips and rocked back on her heels, laughing at him, the raucous sound of her voice frighteningly close to hysteria. ‘A girl from t’gutter wouldn’t know the meaning of such fancy words. I only know the kind of words that would’ve made your precious Ma faint clean away. Words like bugger and whore. That’s what I am tha knows. A bleedin’ ...’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Archie leapt to his feet, flicking out one hand as a warning for her to stop. But he’d forgotten he was still holding the newspaper and the corner of it caught her cheek, shocking her into a stunned silence.

  ‘You struck me.’

  ‘Charlotte, I didn’t... I never meant to.’

  She slid to the floor in a paroxysm of tears, surreptitiously adjusting the overskirt so that it billowed beguilingly about her as she fell most becomingly. Archie held her shuddering body close, giving her shoulder awkward little pats and murmuring pitiful apologies about how the fault was all his. Even as he did so, he recognised this weakness in himself to always take the blame where Charlotte was concerned.

  There had been moments in recent months when he’d bitterly regretted this hasty marriage, particularly since Charlotte lost the baby. He should never have allowed himself to be talked into it, and all because Kitty had lied about the father of little Dixie.

  What was it they said? It takes only a weak man to do nothing for evil to flourish. No, it takes only a good man to do nothing. But he wasn’t good, was he? Never had been. Else why would he treat people in the offhand way he did? He’d hurt Esme badly. Oh, he recognised these flaws in himself. Only too well. If only he’d seen them in Charlotte before they tied the knot. But he’d been besotted, captivated by her sensual charms, and ready enough to take the blame and do the decent thing.

  But she was becoming increasingly difficult, selfish and vain, as well as utterly profligate with money. But evil? Surely not. Perhaps it was the miscarriage, or her disappointment in Repstone Manor that was making her unhappy.

  ‘When I think of all I’ve done for you,’ she wept, ‘even agreeing to taking in your by-blow. ’ She was playing the poor wronged wife to perfection and Archie’s sense of guilt soared, for all he recognised the role. ‘Yet have I once complained about the poor motherless infant?’

  She was turning her body into his now, pushing her hand down to cup him, making him groan with guilty pleasure. Charlotte lifted her face, offering him the moist pout of her lips. How he adored the suppleness of her lovely body, the touch of satin smooth skin beneath his fingers. He simply couldn’t get enough of her delectable body. She was utterly irresistible, and for all her histrionics and natural misgivings she’d been kindness itself to Dixie. Much as he still held a fancy for Kitty, and adored Esme’s sweetness, Charlotte was infinitely more exciting, appealing to a part of him he didn’t care to examine too deeply.

  Archie pulled the flimsy tunic roughly aside to grasp one rosy nipple with his mouth and suckle her, making her gasp with pleasure. God, how he needed her. Excitement was mounting in him. She was unbuttoning his trousers and he was frantically trying to free himself from their encumbrance; the erotic squeak of silk underwear urging him on as she too fought to free soft flesh for his delight, all consideration for her gown now quite abandoned. He entered her as she sank to the dusty Persian rug. Not that she was in any way submissive. Charlotte was never that, always an equal and willing partner in their search for new delights. Sometimes she would straddle him, riding him like a horse to hounds, at others play the innocent maid succumbing to the wolfish demands of her lord while enticing him on to greater adventures. Or she would scold him as if she were his nanny and he were a naughty schoolboy. Her facility for acting any part, even in their lovemaking, never ceased to amaze and enrapture him. Sensation swamped him. All cares faded away, nothing else existed but his need for Charlotte.

  Much later, as they lay together in the huge four poster bed, he carefully explained that he was not half so rich as she seemed to imagine. Even so, Archie knew that he would take her up to Town on one of her gargantuan shopping sprees, by way of recompense for her disappointment over the shabby house he’d saddled her with. Tight as his finances seemed to be these days he’d find the wherewithal to stay a night or two in a small hotel he knew in Kensington, where they could enjoy long breakfasts in bed together.

  ‘Silly boy. You worry
far too much.’ Charlotte gave a little sigh of pleasure as she tenderly stroked his dark curls.

  Before he knew it, Archie had agreed not only to the redecoration of the main salon, including the new white sofas she coveted but also to a grand dinner party afterwards to show them off. How he would manage to pay for it all, he had not the faintest idea, but then didn’t Charlotte always get her way?

  Chapter Eighteen

  They entertained the soldiers there and then on the road. Some of the men were injured and had to be set down with care by their comrades. Then the whole troop squatted or sat in enthralled silence throughout the performance, apart from a huge swell of laughter which greeted a short parody of a sergeant major on parade. The players finished with a rousing chorus of Tipperary in which the soldiers joined with gusto. Somewhere in the distance could be heard the faint crump of shells, but here, in the middle of nowhere, in the dusty French countryside, the voices of British soldiers outdid the sounds of death for once.

  ‘Let the Huns hear we’re not beaten yet,’ roared one young private, his ashen face a mask of pain as he nursed an arm strung up in a makeshift sling.

  They were the merriest group Kitty had ever met, for all their sorry appearance, and she’d never enjoyed herself so much in all her life. Her headache had quite gone.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Kitty whirled about, stunned by this angry interruption from a voice that resounded above the din, drowning out even the soldier’s lusty singing. The men, she noticed, began desperately scrabbling to their feet as quickly as their injuries would allow.

  Ignoring her completely the newcomer sharply informed his troops that if they did not get on their way in double quick time he would personally extract their lily-livered hearts from their puny bodies and make them eat it for breakfast.

  ‘Now move!’ Once these orders were instantly put into effect, he turned his fury upon Kitty. ‘Don’t you realise you could have got all these men killed if they’d been spotted by German scouting planes?’

  The gall of the man was beyond belief. How dare he shout at her for entertaining his men? His suave arrogance brought Kitty out in a lather of hot sweat. But at this precise moment, merely looking up into his face robbed her of breath, leaving her utterly speechless. His tall, commanding presence emanated an aura which was both compelling and disturbing. Perhaps it was the rust-red hair which haloed his somewhat square head with unruly curls, or the deep set, greeny-grey eyes glittering with an artless ingenuousness in the undoubtedly handsome face that caused her to judge him so harshly. She caught the scent of his hair cream, all mixed up with the scent of dust and smoke. Rich. Woody. Intoxicatingly masculine. He really had no right to smell so good in the middle of war-torn France. She took a half step back and rallied her attack. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. They were walking along the road anyway. We’ve just improved their morale, that’s all.’

  ‘You shouldn’t even be here.’

  ‘Someone, presumably you, didn’t show up. What kind of army discipline is that?’

  ‘Army discipline is about doing what you’re told, without question. In this case, waiting by the harbour for me to collect you and issue your next orders.’

  ‘You expect us to wait around all day in case you find time to collect us?’

  ‘Even if it meant waiting all night!’ he roared. And where, exactly, did you imagine you’re going?’

  ‘To the military theatre behind the lines. The corporal said he knew where it was.’

  ‘The corporal had his orders. Now he’s in breach of discipline. You are supposed to be in Boulogne tonight, at the military hospital, entertaining the wounded.’

  Kitty’s cheeks fired with embarrassment. ‘Well, I didn’t know that, did I?

  ‘If you’d waited, you would have found out.’ She could hear the sarcasm in his tone, which infuriated her all the more.

  ‘We did wait. All dratted afternoon, to no avail. Where the hell were you? Oiled wheels of punctuality indeed.’ The phrase, repeated because she rather liked it, was not received quite so placidly by this man as it had been by the young corporal.

  Captain Williams leaned forward, thrusting his great square head close to hers while Kitty’s fascinated gaze traced the line of his full upper lip. ‘I happened to be delayed by a road blowing up in front of me. There is a war on. In case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Now she felt guilt as well as shame, though not for the world would she let him see that. Kitty rolled her eyes heavenward as if she had never heard anything so extraordinary in all her life. ‘So that’s what all this banging and shooting is about. Well fancy that! And there was me thinking it was some sort of Continental Carnival.’ Behind her, she heard Felicity give a loud snort of laughter.

  The Captain was not amused. ‘In the truck. On the double.’

  ‘You can’t order us about in that manner. We’re not in the army.’

  ‘You are now. Under my command. Get in.’ It sounded very like a threat. ‘And put that hat on.’

  Kitty had, naturally, taken the helmet off during the performance. But the road was now empty, their audience having departed at double-quick speed, as instructed. A cold wind had sprung up in the darkening countryside, bringing with it the return of her headache and a sickness in her stomach which had nothing to do with the sea. Even so, as she climbed back into the truck, she was the only one of the Players who did not wear the tin hat.

  The base hospital in Boulogne was situated in the Casino, the largest ward being in what had once been the baccarat room. It seemed almost obscene to imagine that such hedonistic pleasures had ever existed. Now the room seemed strangely bare although it was spotlessly clean, judging by the strong smell of disinfectant and lye soap. Men lay in cots, bandaged from head to foot it seemed to Kitty; eyes watching them with great intensity and without exception every face was smiling; brave, cheerful, strong, for all there was evidence of pain in the drawn tightness of pale skin.

  The ward sister had told her the boys were desperate for entertainment, anything to take their mind off their plight, which might be a future with a missing limb, poisoned lungs or little or no sight.

  ‘We thought you weren’t coming?’ one called out.

  ‘Had you forgotten us?’ cried out another.

  ‘Heavens no. Sorry we’re late. The taxi broke down,’ Kitty quipped. ‘You need to get these roads mended round here,’ and they all roared with laughter.

  The LTP’s had changed their act from the scenes of Shakespeare and other worthy dramas they’d usually performed, to lighter pieces. Music and laughter was the order of the day now, since that was what the soldiers sorely needed. Something to brighten their hearts and lift their morale. With Esme and Charlotte no longer with them, Suzy had spent hours giving Kitty singing lessons, training her voice to a standard that would hopefully pass muster. When Kitty had embarked on this plan, she’d thought her ability, or lack of it, didn’t greatly matter. After all, the wounded would be glad of anything, wouldn’t they? Now she looked into these young soldier’s eyes and knew they’d paid dearly to be among her audience tonight, and she wanted to give them the best she could offer.

  Aware of the captain standing close behind, who would no doubt be only too pleased if she fell flat on her face, she determined that was one thing she would never do.

  Kitty smiled as she sang, the lovely wide winning smile that had once won the heart of an unknown porter in a dusty London theatre. Now it won over the hearts and minds of a ward full of wounded soldiers who had moments ago been in despair.

  They listened to her entranced and, as she neared the end of her song, Kitty knew she had reached into their very souls, so absolute was their silence. When the piece was over, there came a great tumult of sound, a roaring in her ears which she realised was the hammering of crutches on the floor and the rattling of bed pans.

  She laughed with delight and, half turning to Captain Dafydd Owen Williams, gave a small smile of triumph, on
e which faded slowly as she met the intensity of those enigmatic sea-green eyes. Kitty could not read his thoughts but nor could she tear her gaze from his. The tumultuous roar seemed to wash over them both as his silent stare gripped her, then he turned on his heel and abruptly walked away, leaving her feeling oddly bereft. She turned back to her more appreciative audience, lifted her arms for silence and began to sing again.

  The rest of the show went off every bit as well as that first number, proving that the Lakeland Travelling Players were indeed a success and Kitty Little herself, a triumphant hit. Even the good Captain was forced to admit as much when pressed to do so by the ward sister. But on matters of military orders, however, he was unforgiving.

  ‘In future you’ll go where I tell you, when I tell you, and always do what I tell you without argument or dispute. Is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ Kitty paused, then added, ‘except for that bit about what. I make the decisions about what my own troupe does or doesn’t do. I’m as much responsible for their health and safety as you are. Is that clear?’

  His eyes narrowed, most alarmingly. ‘You may decide what they perform. Which songs they sing, which recitation, what dress they wear. Everything else is under my jurisdiction. Military discipline prevails.’

  Kitty was almost jumping with fury, thinking she might explode if she heard that word ‘discipline’ one more time. But before she had a moment to think of a suitable response, he continued: ‘And you will wear that damned helmet.’

  She placed it on her head, tipped it to a rakish angle and saluted him with a mocking smile. ‘Yes sir!’

  He looked at her long and hard, the grey-green eyes clear and probing which for some reason made her heart beat fast with nerves. Then he turned slowly on his heel and marched off. His silent reaction to her sarcasm left Kitty with an odd sense of embarrassment, so that she had to bury her head in the props basket to hide her burning cheeks.