Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  It was then that Esme had made her decision. She would take him up on his offer, since it seemed the lesser of two evils. If she was to be one of his “Lovelies”, she would be the best he’d ever had. She would do anything he asked of her - on stage. But nowhere else.

  When Esme put this proposition to him she saw his eyes gleam with interest, watched with horrified fascination as he licked his lips, almost as if he were relishing the taste of her as a future dessert to titillate his palette.

  He taught her to practise her art in front of mirrors. At least this helped to squeeze out every last drop of embarrassment from her system. You couldn’t do what he asked of her otherwise. Sometimes he would sit and watch her rehearse the routine from start to finish, over and over again, commenting and criticising, planning and adjusting her costumes, making suggestions, attending to each fine detail with scrupulous care.

  By the time the performance was over on this, its first public showing, Esme knew, with a terrible sinking of her heart, that she’d been wrong to think she could fall no further. She’d just taken another tumble.

  It was a couple of months after she’d sent the letter to Charlotte, that Esme spotted Archie in the audience. She could hardly believe her eyes. There he was on the front row, large as life and grinning at her from ear to ear, just as if his own heart was leaping as madly as her own.

  That evening she found her performance the most difficult yet. Esme was awash with embarrassment to know Archie’s eyes were upon her, perhaps not judging her too unkindly, since he wasn’t the moralistic sort, but he would surely be disappointed in her. This wasn’t what she should be doing. They were both aware of that.

  He came to her dressing room when the show was over and gave her a great hug but quickly silenced her hasty explanations. ‘That was wonderful, old love. Never would’ve thought you had it in you.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I have. Oh Archie.’ She let him hold her for a long time, revelling in the solid comfort his presence offered. Esme could sense freedom. She could smell it. Archie would take her away from this seedy existence she’d been forced to endure. He would sweep her up and take her back to Repstone, no matter what Charlotte might say. Hadn’t she known, in her heart, that he would find her. He would carry her away like a knight of old on his gallant white charger, and she would be safe once more. Esme felt light-headed with relief, bubbling with delighted energy, laughing as she rained kisses all over his beloved face.

  ‘You can’t know how happy I am to see you.’

  ‘My word, and I am happy to see you too, my little Ragamuffin. No, not a ragamuffin any longer, eh? You looked beautiful out there. By Gad, you had them eating out of your hands.’

  It was these words which brought the first stirrings of disquiet.

  He took her out to dine in a cosy Italian restaurant just off Deansgate, where he filled her in on Charlotte’s latest antics and histrionics, of the removal of Dixie and how she was enchanting the Misses Frost. It was only when the waiter brought the bill, that it occurred to Esme that he had never once asked about her.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what I’m doing here, how I came to be part of this dreadful little theatre and one of Terrence’s Lovelies?’

  ‘Why should I, sweetie? None of my business eh? Besides, you were doing a splendid job, so it’s pretty obvious you’ve found your niche at last. Much better than being stage manager for the LTP’s.’

  ‘What?’ Esme stared at him aghast. He didn’t seem to understand. He thought she enjoyed degrading herself in front of all those men, and then slowly her eyes began to fill with tears. ‘Aren’t you going to take me home with you, Archie? I hate it here. You must realise I wouldn’t perform those - those lewd routines if I weren’t forced to.’

  He glanced up from counting out coins to look at her in surprise. ‘Take you home? How could I do that, sweetie? Charlotte would never agree to having you at Repstone. Oh, but don’t cry. I can’t bear to see a woman cry. I’ll come and visit you here. How would that be? We could become chums again, just as we used to be. Wouldn’t that be grand?’

  ‘Oh Archie.’ No knight in shining armour then. No white charger upon which to carry her away.

  He stayed with her for much of that night, making love to her in the gloomy little room back at the lodging house, leaving some time before dawn. At least she supposed that he did, since she never heard him go but, true to his word, he came to see her regularly after that, and they fell into a routine.

  Archie would watch her act from the front row, then he’d take her to dinner at Romero’s, followed by an hour or two of lovemaking in her room before he would dash back to Charlotte, full of apologies and promising to stay longer next time. He never did, of course. Esme soon realised that, despite her pleas, he never would mention her predicament to his wife. He had placed Esme in the role of mistress, which was no more than she deserved, and that was where she must stay. It seemed to be the best she could hope for.

  It was just before the interval on the last night of their stint at the military theatre and Kitty was singing Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, smiling at the audience, in particular at one young man on the front row who kept grinning or winking at her, nudging his mate in delight when she winked cheekily back. The pair had hardly missed a show that week and Kitty liked to show her appreciation.

  She was also keeping half an eye on Tessa at the piano who was nodding her head in time to the beat, when there came an awesome, head-blasting explosion, a blinding white flare, followed by utter pandemonium. One minute there were rows of smiling faces, the next there were flames everywhere, a terrible roaring and screaming in her ears. Thick, choking smoke. Sheets of corrugated iron from the roof slicing downwards into the melee, shards of metal and cross beams falling as rain poured through, thankfully drenching the worst of the fire but creating its own mayhem as men blindly slid and fell over each other in their desperation to get out of the ruined building.

  ‘Dear God, help us,’ were the last words Kitty heard.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Some time later, when she came round, Kitty lay in her bed and listened with increasing horror as Felicity gently described the resulting devastation. ‘About a dozen young soldiers were killed, several more wounded. Jacob and Reg were fortunately backstage. Suzy and I were in the kitchen brewing tea.’

  Kitty struggled to sit up, eyes dark hollows of pain. ‘Owen. Where was Owen? Is he safe?’ It suddenly seemed vitally important to hear that he was.

  Felicity smiled. ‘Perfectly safe. He was practising his scales, would you believe, in the dressing room at the back of the building. It was the front which took a direct hit.’ She paused, stared down at her clenched hands, then back at Kitty. Even before she said the words, Kitty guessed what she was about to say.

  ‘Oh no. Not Tessa.’

  ‘She didn’t feel a thing. Death would be instantaneous. Her hands were still on the keys.’ Kitty read the pain and sympathy in her eyes, then put her face in her hands and wept.

  She later learned that it had been the young soldier who had winked at her from the front row, who’d leapt up onto the small wooden platform to drag her to safety. But for his heroic act, she too would have lost her life that day. Kitty wasn’t able to thank him personally however, for he’d dashed straight back inside to find his mate, and never returned. But she would always remember his courage with gratitude.

  ‘I have to go home.’ It was the following day and Kitty and Owen were sitting on a stone wall in the sun. A soft April breeze brought with it the scent of blossom from nearby apple orchard, just as if death and annihilation had never visited this French valley.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘It’s not because I’m afraid, or because I want to go. The others will be home too in four or five weeks, but I must go now, and do what is right for Tessa. I must take her home to her family.’

  He stared down at his hands, not looking at her as he spoke. ‘What about you, and your family?�
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  ‘I have a daughter,’ Kitty told him, quite calmly. ‘It’s long past time I reminded her that I’m her mother. You spoke once of us both keeping secrets. Well, Dixie is mine. At least, she isn’t meant to be a secret but I’d never mentioned her to you. Perhaps some of the others did. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had.’

  Owen smiled. ‘Your company is clearly loyal, for none did.’ Again a small silence. ‘You’re married then.’

  Kitty gave a short laugh of amusement at this assumption. ‘Oh no, perhaps I was prone to foolishness on the odd occasion but there’s no need to make it a lifetime’s pursuit, is there?’

  He looked up and smiled, a mixture of interest and puzzlement in his eyes. ‘Is that because he wasn’t the right man after all, or do you have a natural antipathy to marriage, as you do to Welshmen?’

  Kitty pulled a face at him. ‘Don’t start all that again. I thought we’d called a truce.’

  ‘We have. We have.’ He laughingly held up his hands by way of apology. ‘So tell me about this chap. What’s he like? Is he the lost love you’ve also kept secret? Tell me what went wrong.’

  Kitty jumped down from the wall, and, before walking away, told him to mind his own business.

  Owen naturally insisted on accompanying her safely to the ship, and it was not until they were bumping along in an old army vehicle that the story began to unfold. Perhaps they both felt the need of something to occupy their minds, other than the coffin they carried in the back but Kitty found herself pouring out all her troubles to this man she’d dubbed an arrogant Welsh-man. She related how she’d loved Archie for years, and how it had come about that he’d rejected that love and married Charlotte. ‘Now he claims that it was all a mistake, that he still loves me. It’s almost more than I can bear.’

  ‘Yet he betrayed you.’

  ‘That wasn’t entirely his fault.’

  Owen gave a snort of disbelief. ‘He was dragged kicking and screaming to her bed, was he?’ Kitty flushed but said nothing and he continued in a quieter tone. ‘There are many different kinds of love. Perhaps he loves you in a different way.’

  ‘No, no. He says he loves me properly, not simply as a brother. Charlotte was wrong about that. It was Charlotte’s manipulations that drove him away from me in the first place. She was incredibly clever. You wouldn’t believe the lies she told, how she poisoned his mind against us both. I can see it all now, looking back.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Well there was Esme too. She’s my friend. We both loved Archie but agreed that whichever he chose, the other would stand back.’

  ‘And he chose Charlotte instead of either of you?’

  Kitty looked out of the window at the countryside unravelling slowly like a bright green ribbon beyond the confines of the vehicle, wishing suddenly she’d never embarked on this discussion. It was so hard to explain to an outsider what it had been like. ‘He loved us all, in his way, do you see?’

  Owen gave a shout of hollow laughter. ‘So this man, who claims that he still loves you, also loved your friend and betrayed you both for Charlotte, to whom he is now married?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Kitty agreed in a small voice.

  ‘My God. How does he do it? How can you care for such a bastard?’

  Kitty flushed with anger. ‘Don’t call him that. I knew you wouldn’t understand, that it was a waste of time trying to talk to you.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Only, you must see Kitty, that he isn’t worthy of you. If a man allows himself to be led by the nose by a manipulating woman, he must be either willing or a fool. Perhaps both. Do you want him to leave this Charlotte - for you?’ He negotiated a row of pitted holes in the road, lurching sideways as the car bumped and bucked over the ridges.

  Kitty grasped the door handle. Held on tight. ‘No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know.’ Was that what she wanted, for Archie to abandon his marriage for her sake; which seemed such an irrevocably shocking thing to do. He never would, of course. Too scandalous for words.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

  But he was weak, she thought. If she were honest with herself, she’s always known that. And he could at times seem quite cold and heartless, utterly devoid of emotion, while at others he could be entirely sweet and kind, generous to the point of carelessness with his money and possessions. But then perhaps it was less generosity than a desire to seek an easy route through life. Could it be that it was this very weakness which had allowed Charlotte’s wickedness to flourish?

  Tears were choking her throat as Kitty thought back over the pain Charlotte had caused; her complete lack of scruples in her efforts to get exactly what she wanted most. Archie. Or at least to get her hands on his title, which he never used, and his wealth, which he didn’t care about. Kitty knew that she really shouldn’t allow this to bother her, not after all this time, that she should let him go. It was just that Archie had always been there for her, an essential part of her life ever since she was a young girl. Even more so since she’d lost Raymond, her beloved twin. Was that why she still clung to him, still defended him so tenaciously?

  They drove on in brooding silence, neither speaking to the other. For much of the journey the army car had been slowed to a crawl by the usual congestion of military traffic, now they were entirely alone on an empty road, skirting woodland that fringed green meadows where the occasional French farmer bent to his weary task. Some time during that long afternoon it began to rain, beating down on the car, washing the windscreen so that visibility became increasingly difficult. They hit a stone or boulder on the rough road and the vehicle suddenly skewed crazily out of control and lurched to a halt. ‘Damnation. We’ve got a puncture.’

  Owen climbed out of the car and kicked the offending wheel in irritation. Even in the few seconds it took to examine the torn rubber, he was soaked to the skin.

  Kitty stood beside him, equally wet. ‘What now?’

  As one they both glanced around them. It was past five o’clock, the surrounding countryside of woods and undulating fields already growing dark. ‘We need to find shelter. Deal with this in the morning.’

  ‘In the morning? Do you expect us to sit in this freezing vehicle all night?’

  Owen again looked about him, his red hair now dark and slick with rain, and grinned as he pointed. I think we’re in luck. That looks like an old farmhouse on the edge of that wood.’ He snatched up the haversack containing some light provisions they’d brought with them and, ignoring Kitty’s protests, grabbed her hand and started to make his way through the long wet grass, dragging her behind him.

  ‘What about poor Tessa? We can’t leave her alone.’

  ‘She won’t notice. And if we aren’t to be joining her in that coffin, we need somewhere safe, dry and warm to lay our heads.’ It made sense, hard though it seemed, and Kitty made no further argument but ran with him through the rain.

  It was little more than a cottage, the door swinging open as they walked through into a single room. It looked as if it had been ransacked, or someone had left in a hurry. Drawers had been pulled open, clothes strewn about, photographs of elderly parents left lying on the floor as if someone had riffled quickly through them, choosing what they needed and abandoning the rest.

  ‘Let’s hope they survived,’ Owen quietly remarked.

  They decided not to risk lighting the old wood burning stove, in case the smoke alerted enemy interest. But it was cold in the farmhouse and Kitty shivered. Owen at once took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. It felt a strangely personal thing to do, to wrap her in a garment still warm from his body. ‘Taking off my uniform jacket while still on duty. Another rule broken, but who is to know? Let’s say I’m off duty now.’

  As he broke the bread they’d brought with them into two pieces and handed one to Kitty, together with some cheese, she watched his fingers working, gazed upon the smattering of pale freckles on the backs of his hands. She hadn’t realised until this moment how familiar those hand
s had become to her, and how much she would miss them.

  They sat at the old kitchen table, munching gratefully on the food, thankful to put the horrors of war from their minds for a while; trying not to remember the devastating end to their last performance, or even think of poor Tessa outside in the truck, in the rain. Kitty felt she needed this respite, this time to clarify her thoughts before returning home and facing the more mundane problems of Archie and Charlotte. It felt so peaceful sitting here, so calming after the trauma of the last few days.

  ‘I first went on stage at the age of six.’

  Kitty looked up in surprise. That he should break the silence with this new, and unasked for, piece of information about his past, was so astonishing Kitty almost forgot to eat as he began to talk.

  ‘When I was growing up, moving from place to place with my stage-struck parents, one month Paris, the next Rome, Switzerland or even to far distant India, do you know what I most longed for?’

  Kitty smiled. ‘A home of your own?’ It seemed to be the logical desire for a boy who was constantly travelling, quite the opposite to her own dreams. He shook his head.

  ‘For my parents to love me. The theatre has always been in my life. I loved acting; put my heart and soul into my work, gave every scrap of emotion I possessed to each part, yet whatever I did, however hard I tried, it was never quite good enough for them.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, why?’ Kitty’s eyes were alight with compassion.

  ‘Because I wasn’t my sister.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘She was called Francesca; two years younger than me and not only exquisitely beautiful but a rarely gifted actress, for all she was but a child. She died when I was fifteen. Drowned while out in a boat with a friend, one beguilingly warm spring afternoon. I knew from that day on, that I could never compensate my parents for their loss. They’d much rather it had been me who had died, you see, and not Francesca. She was their bright, shining star, their future. My poor mother, demented by grief, actually said as much once.’