Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  This worthy ideal didn’t stop Dixie from surreptitiously dropping a piece of her own toast, which was instantly snapped up by ever open jaws. Though clearly not in the first flush of youth and with indifferent eyesight, yet the dog could sniff out the smallest crumb at a hundred paces. When he was presented with the scrambled eggs, it took mere seconds for him to lick the plate clean and Kitty managed to retrieve it only just in the nick of time, before Miss Frost marched in with the toast rack. She glanced at the shining plate in surprise.

  ‘My word, that didn’t take long. You must have been hungry. Would you like a second helping, dear?’

  Kitty shook her head with shame as she assured her generous landlady that she really couldn’t manage another bite.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. We can’t have you fainting away from lack of sustenance, now can we?’

  Dixie wanted to come with her, of course, trailing after Kitty as she put on her coat, collected her bag and hovered in the hall waiting for the promised taxi cab to collect her. Kitty had arranged with Miss Bebe for the sisters to take care of Dixie for the day. She would have taken Dixie to visit her father but decided Charlotte might prove difficult. Kitty also meant to tackle them about the success or otherwise of their promised search for Esme, so preferred the girl not to be present.

  Dixie, however, objected to this decision, not by howling, as some children might naturally think to do, but by complicated and persistent argument, punctuated by an endless supply of whys and buts so that Kitty laughed and told her she was far too precocious for someone not quite three and really should be on the stage.

  Miss Bebe hastily came to the rescue. ‘Why don’t you come and help me in the kitchen while Mummy is away seeing her friends.’

  Kitty kissed the soft papery cheek in a rush of warm gratitude, whispering to her in a soft undertone so that the child couldn’t hear. ‘Thank you for letting her stay, despite my lack of credentials. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness.’

  Miss Bebe did not entirely approve of Kitty’s unmarried mother status but was cautious in her censure because she utterly adored Dixie and was half afraid Kitty might move the child elsewhere if she objected too strongly. Even Hetty had been persuaded not to attempt to ‘save’ Kitty, or preach to her on the possible dire outcome of her immoral folly. Turning to Dixie, Miss Bebe offered her more toast soldiers.

  ‘I expect Lad has taken most of yours cherub, has he?’

  ‘He asked very politely,’ Dixie explained.

  ‘Well that’s all right then. And are you going to help me make custard tarts for tea.’ Lured by this treat and finally admitting defeat, for the present at least, Dixie thanked her in the sweetly old fashioned manner the two spinster ladies had taught her, and very solemnly informed Miss Bebe that she would also entertain her with a tap dance, if she liked.

  ‘Well how splendid. I should enjoy that enormously.’

  Charlotte was all lightness and warmth, playing the diligent hostess to perfection. She sat, suitably draped in fur trimmed silken wraps, pouring tea and serving tiny cucumber sandwiches and scones in the recently refurbished summer house. It had a new tiled floor, wicker chairs and even a fireplace where a small wood fire burned, presumably as an attempt to warm the cool atmosphere. She’d hardly stopped talking since Kitty had arrived, social chit-chat about tea-parties and luncheons with her new friends, in which Archie made no attempt to join. He sat slumped in a chair, puffing on his cigarette in brooding silence.

  It was some time before an opportunity presented itself and Kitty was able to stop the flow. Only as Charlotte sipped delicately at her Earl Grey tea in the bone china cup did she manage to ask the question which was beginning to haunt her. ‘Where is Esme? Have you heard from her?’

  Charlotte’s lips tightened, as if in disapproval, while there was the first spark of interest in Archie’s eyes. The two glanced across at each other before shaking their heads in unison. Neither heard a thing, she said, not since that first letter telling them she’d gone to Preston.

  Kitty spoke of the many letters she’d sent from the Front, with no reply to any of them, and Charlotte responded by complaining of how Esme had simply vanished, without even a word of thanks for the free accommodation Archie had provided her with over the years. ‘She owes him a great deal, you know.’

  It was perhaps this which finally broke Archie’s silence. ‘Utter tosh,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t owe me a damn thing,’ and stubbed out his cigarette with fierce stabbing motions.

  Charlotte set down her cup and wafted the smoke away, as if it displeased her. ‘Where would she have been without you? I’ll tell you where, skivvying for a demanding mistress, or as companion to some old dear, no doubt. Esme’s problem was that she was quite unable to accept her limitations, or to put the past behind her.’

  Kitty very nearly responded that this had clearly never been a problem for Charlotte, but managed to bite the words back. She still wondered from time to time about Charlotte’s background, and how much truth there was in the story of the tragic fiancé or her tales of an orphanage upbringing. It sounded far too much like something out of a penny melodrama. For now Kitty confined herself with the usual platitudes about how they were all struggling to do just that and returned to her chief concern.

  ‘She must be involved with a theatrical group somewhere. She can’t simply disappear. Have you made any enquiries?’

  Archie shook his head. ‘If Esme does not write and has no wish to be found, what are we expected to do?’ A reasonable enough remark, Kitty conceded, which did little to dispel the feelings of unease she had over her friend.

  After tea they strolled in the gardens, admiring Charlotte’s new rose bower, listening to her plans for restoring the remainder of the neglected acres, of rebuilding the glass houses and reclaiming the old irrigation system, though she complained that the war prevented her from finding a decent gardener, since all the young men had joined up.

  Kitty half glanced at Archie, wondering what his reaction might be to these ambitious plans, and whether he could afford them. Generous to a fault he might be, but although he had always appeared to be comfortably placed financially, even Archie’s bank account must surely have it’s limits. His face appeared pale and drawn, the muscles taut, preoccupied with other matters, as if he wasn’t listening to them at all. His next words seemed to prove this as he suddenly suggested they visit the theatre together in Kendal, the very next evening.

  ‘For old time’s sake. It’s Midsummer Night’s Dream would you believe? The nearest we’ll get to art in these grim times; a welcome change from all the light music and sentimental drivel they’ve served up since war began.’

  ‘Archie, what a snob you are.’

  Charlotte gave a quick frown but smilingly agreed that such a trip might be quite pleasant. ‘Of course it means that I must cancel a long standing engagement with Phyllis, my dearest friend, but...’

  ‘Splendid,’ Archie said. ‘That’s settled then.’

  While Charlotte went off to telephone and change her plans, Kitty and Archie strolled on down to the lake, as they had so often in the past. The daffodils were in full bloom, lining the banks, the hedgerows thick with blossom. Somewhere, high above, a skylark was singing.

  ‘I shall always remember the first day we arrived here. I was so amazed that you even owned such a wonderful place. Pity we never did get around to converting the old barns into a proper theatre. But what a lot has happened since. Has it all been worth it Archie? Have you been happy?’ She hadn’t meant to sound quite so bitter but the words were out now; they couldn’t be taken back.

  ‘Do you mean with my marriage?’

  ‘Yes, I mean with your marriage. With Charlotte.’

  Archie looked into her eyes for the longest thirty seconds Kitty had ever known, sharpening the pain of regret that still lingered within. ‘She isn’t you, old thing. That’s the trouble. You know how I’ve always felt about you.’

  Kitty felt a wa
ve of panic. What on earth was he trying to say? She could hardly bear to hear this, to witness his distress, or read the deep unhappiness in those deep blue eyes.

  Sighing deeply he put back his head to gaze across at the misted hills, mouth a tight line, jaw rigid. ‘Let’s say marriage with Charlotte has been an interesting experience. I sought perfection, in an imperfect world. Charlotte was, is - so gloriously beautiful.’

  ‘And have you - found perfection?’

  ‘Doesn’t exist, old thing. Should’ve known that. We rumble along, one or two problems I have to admit, but nothing I wish to air in public. I made my bed, as they say, and must lie in it.’

  Kitty was grateful for his reticence. She really had no wish to hear Archie’s marital problems. She needed to believe that he was happy, that losing him to Charlotte had been worth the sacrifice. Yet what did it matter now? Desperate to change the subject she returned to her concerns over Esme and asked, quite bluntly, if it had been Charlotte’s idea that no enquiries be made.

  Looking uncomfortable he made no reply to this but merely flickered his eyebrows in that way he had when he’d no real wish to state the obvious. Kitty felt a surge of annoyance, irritated that he couldn’t better control his wife, and experienced a sudden insight into all the other times he’d infuriated her by not standing up to Charlotte’s machinations. She would have pressed the matter further only she heard the sound of a car engine and saw that her taxi cab had returned, on the dot of five as instructed. ‘I really must go. Dixie will wonder where I’ve got to. I’ll see you both tomorrow evening then.’

  Archie walked with her to the car and when she reached it, his hand gently cupped her elbow while his voice dropped to barely above a whisper. ‘I meant it, what I said just now.’

  Kitty took a step back, out of his reach. ‘Meant what?’

  Archie pushed his hands into his pockets and stared grimly down into a flower bed, as if it were of vital importance that he memorised all the flowers in it. ‘All that stuff about the feelings I once had for you - still have. It’s true. always did love you best, Kitty. Cared for all three of you but you were special, even though I married Charlotte.’ He lifted his gaze from its frowning study of a clump of pansies, to smile regretfully at her.

  Kitty was suddenly so filled with anger, shaking with such furious emotion that she felt sure her knees might give way. ‘For God’s sake, what the hell are you trying to do to me?’

  ‘Just wanted to set the record straight.’

  A scrunch of gravel and, glancing back over her shoulder, Kitty saw that Charlotte was hurrying towards them, calling out her name. As she reached them, Archie’s tone subtly changed, though his smile remained in place, perfect as ever.

  ‘So I’d like to call in tomorrow afternoon to see Dixie, if I may. Is that all right?’ He was looking at Charlotte now, as if anxious to gain his wife’s permission. ‘We can have a longer chat then.’

  Owen had been entirely wrong. Archie did still love her. He’d always loved her. Yesterday, today and for always. Kitty felt jubilant, confused and terrified all at the same time. It was far too late for him to say such things. Loving her wasn’t enough. He was married to another woman.

  Owen had also asked what she wanted Archie to do about it, even if he did still care for her. Was divorce the answer, shocking as it may seem? Somehow Kitty doubted he would ever bring himself to divorce Charlotte, despite his evident regrets over marrying her. They weren’t happy, that much was clear, both from the hints he’d dropped and from what she’d observed. Even Archie could no longer deny that his most attractive feature, so far as his wife was concerned, seemed to be the depth of his pocket. But Archie had always been bad at making decisions, ever content to sit on the proverbial fence; ready with advice on what others should do while not being prepared to even choose between the three of them.

  If only they’d not taken Charlotte up in the first place; if only Charlotte hadn’t seen the advertisement in The Times; if Archie hadn’t felt such pity over her tales of orphanages and being in service and losing her fiancé. If Kitty hadn’t picked a quarrel with him over his being late and slightly tipsy for their first performance. Or if only Esme hadn’t loved him too. Too many “if only’s”.

  And if only she didn’t still love him, Kitty thought, even now smiling through her tears. “Ah, there’s the rub.”

  But did she? What of her feelings for Owen? What did they amount to? Had their brief affair simply been a celebration of life, in the midst of the terrifying and claustrophobic fear of death which had seemed to be closing in upon them in France. Or was there more to it than that?

  And how could she ever trust a man enough to be sure?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  So here they both were, in the Misses Frost’s overcrowded front parlour; a fitful ray of sunlight capturing the dust motes and glinting on two bent heads as fingers riffled idly through programmes, tickets, play books and other clutter of their once nomadic life, wallowing in nostalgia while eyes carefully avoided direct contact. It was the first time they’d been alone since Archie’s marriage and it seemed odd, even uncomfortable. He smoothed down the lapels of his flannel blazer, immaculate as ever, always a perfect judge of the correct attire, even when visiting with an old friend.

  Kitty suddenly longed for others to be present; even Lad, the old dog, would have been a distraction, someone to help ward off this sensation of stepping back in time, except that the sturdy Miss Frost was, at this precise moment, striding over Loughrigg with the dog. Then again, she half expected Ma to pop in with a mug of beef tea or a list of chores for her to do, or for Archie to get out the old toasting fork and for them to indulge in a heart to heart over charred, over-buttered crumpets.

  It was cold in the gloomy parlour and Kitty had lit a small fire, which burned fitfully in the iron grate. Now they both sat in contemplative silence, watching a thin spiral of smoke drift up the chimney.

  Kitty concentrated on keeping her breathing even as she watched him push slender fingers through dark curls in that old familiar way she’d once known and loved. Another image instantly intruded - one with red hair; another hand - liberally splattered with pale freckles. It served only to magnify the sense of chaos and confusion in her head. She blinked it away.

  The silence stretched endlessly between them and then, as they both started to talk at once, he gave a half laugh. Kitty was saying how pale and tired he looked. Archie said how much he admired her dress. ‘You look absolutely stunning, old thing. Blue suits you.’

  It was a simple, linen, pleated day dress, quite fashionable before the war, now looking slightly dated and with a darn on the sleeve, showing the signs of wear exhibited on so many of Kitty's clothes. She gave an amused chuckle. ‘I seem to remember you telling me that once before, because I'm so tall and have such long, manly legs.’

  He looked confused for a moment and then his face cleared and he laughed again, more naturally this time. ‘Oh, I remember. Twelfth Night wasn’t it? I didn’t mean it quite as it sounded at the time. Knew I’d blundered, but didn’t know how to put it right.’

  No, Kitty thought, you never did.

  He leaned closer as he reached for a copy of the first poster they’d made to advertise the event and she caught the scent of his shaving soap. ‘Never ever meant that you actually did resemble a boy. You’re a fine looking woman Kitty. That doublet and hose made your lovely legs look the absolute tops. Very shapely.’

  She considered thanking him for the compliment but somehow it all seemed too long ago, insignificant now. ‘I’m sure the outfit suited me a good deal better than a lavender gown,’ Kitty joked.

  ‘Did that dress ever miss a play?’

  ‘Not that I noticed. Do you remember Mrs Pips endlessly baking biscuits to sell in the interval?’

  ‘Dear old Pips.’

  ‘Remember the time you had a puncture in the Jowett.’

  ‘Heavens yes, and you giving me a pasting for getting squiffy on that home-ma
de wine someone gave us. Felicity insisting that a bicycle was much more reliable.’

  ‘Old Jacob in those dreadful yellow waistcoats, telling us “never listen to your own voice or you’ll lose touch with your character and forget your lines.” He was right though. It’s true.‘

  ‘Lord, I remember. Is he still sneaking nips from that whisky flask?’

  ‘Of course. I think his liver must be thoroughly pickled by now.’ And they were both chortling with glee while recollecting treasured moments.

  ‘We had some good times with the LTP’s.’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘I miss you all, don’t you know?’

  ‘You could have come with us to France. You were invited.’

  ‘Charlotte wouldn’t have enjoyed it.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  Perhaps it was the recollection of Charlotte, and what might-have-been, which caused them both to fall silent again. With remarkably steady hands, considering the tumult of emotion she felt within, Kitty pulled out a folder. Programmes and newspaper cuttings about the LTP’s scattered haphazardly over the table but she could see nothing for a blur of tears suddenly blocking her vision. So many memories, so much happiness, so much pain. Surreptitiously, she brushed them away and began to rub her hands up and down her arms as if warding off a chill of despair, or perhaps because she was afraid they may reach out to him as they had done so often in the past.

  Did she want Archie still? Or was she in fact cured yet still nostalgically trapped by their shared experiences, still striving to see the best in him, when really he didn’t deserve it?

  His voice broke into her thoughts. ‘You asked me if I was happy, Kitty. I shall ask you the same thing. Are you?’

  ‘You mean as a single woman, an unmarried mother, a woman of loose morals, isn’t that how everyone sees me? Perhaps I’ll end up like the Misses Frost, like Ma, running a boarding house for theatricals.’ Kitty spoke with a pseudo-brightness, struggling to find a way out of the quagmire of self-pity she’d landed herself in, but somehow unable to do so.