Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I told her it wasn’t true, Archie. You’d never do such a thing, not now you’ve declared your love for me.’

  Something inside him seemed to snap, as if he wanted rid of pretence and prevarication. He shook her impatiently away, reaching for his cigarette case. ‘Love. Love. Love. That’s all I ever hear from the pair of you. What good is love, I ask you? I’ve seen what love can do, it can destroy a man. I saw what it did to my father and I vowed never to allow such a thing to happen to me. He adored my mother and do you know why she didn’t come to the concert with us that night? Well, let me tell you. Because she had an assignation with her lover. She died in the hotel fire in another man’s arms, and yet it was my father who was driven mad over losing her. Love? I do assure you I’ve been happier without it. Causes far too much pain. My one aim in life has been to protect myself; to live a life of ease and comfort without commitment or responsibility of any sort, and so long as one or other of you was prepared to provide me with those comforts, why not? What are friends for? That’s the long and short of it.’

  ‘Dear heaven,’ Kitty said. ‘You’re the one who’s mad. Unfeeling, insensitive, calculating - entirely cruel and self-serving. Amoral.’

  ‘Nonsense. Our affaire was most enjoyable, quite titillating in its way. And seeing Esme cavort herself in front of all those leering men, knowing that I was the only one she allowed anywhere near her, was really most entertaining.’

  ‘But you’d never any intention of giving Charlotte up, had you? Because you suit each other admirably. You’re two of a kind.’

  Archie simply smiled. ‘Of course. Charlotte may be demanding in practical ways, money, objet d‘art, nonsense of that sort, but she makes no demands on me emotionally, do you see?’ He drew on the cigarette and blew smoke down his nostrils, considering them both through narrowed eyes. ‘I loathe emotion.’

  Esme was quietly weeping. ‘But what about our plans for you to leave her? For you to divorce her and marry me?’

  ‘Never actually said that. Never told you any real porkies, sweetie. You heard what you wanted to hear. I always think it’s best not to disagree with people and let them believe what they like, don’t you?’

  Kitty was beside herself with fury. ‘We can clearly see the extent of your cruelty - your unfeeling heartlessness. We should have recognised it for what it was years ago. You’ve made fools of us, Archie, by your determination to think only of yourself, you and Charlotte both. But perhaps you’ve been hoist on your petard, as it were.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He was laughing at her now, which enraged Kitty all the more.

  ‘Perhaps it’s time to put an end to secrets.’ So saying, Kitty swivelled on her heel and made for the dressing room. Archie’s shout was ignored as, closely followed by Esme, she thrust open the door and stormed into the room. ‘Well, are you going to tell her, Archie, or shall I?’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Charlotte, seated at her dressing table in her silk dressing gown, set down the pot of cold cream, picked up a wad of cotton and began to calmly wipe her face as she considered their reflection through the mirror.

  Archie went to bend over his wife and plant a kiss upon one greasy cheek. ‘That you were superb in the show, my darling, no matter if the audience didn’t fully appreciate the chosen extract.’

  Kitty said, ‘Go on. Tell her, or admit to Esme that you’d never any intention to do so. I think you owe her that much. Its long past time there was an end to all this subterfuge.’

  Charlotte glanced from one to the other of them and then snorted her derision. ‘What subterfuge? What is it Kitty wants you to tell me?’

  Esme edged forward, chin high, a glassy look in the clear grey eyes. ‘About our affair. Archie has been visiting me at the theatre for months. We’re just as much lovers now, as we ever were.’

  Charlotte’s smile froze upon her lovely face and for a moment Kitty thought the revelation might pass off in a quite civilised fashion, and then she suddenly launched herself from her seat and lunged at Esme, polished nails extended like claws, grasping her hair, shrieking like a harridan.

  ‘You little whore! You tart!’ Whatever other epithets she might have found to use were lost as the two girls fell grappling to the floor. It was the most appalling, undignified tussle Kitty had ever witnessed and throughout it all, Archie did nothing. He stood by watching with an expression almost of amusement upon his handsome face and Kitty recognised true arrogance. He was a complete dilettante, and cared nothing for any of them.

  It was Kitty herself who fought to drag the two screaming girls apart, a battle she was clearly losing as nails scored deep and teeth bit through torn flesh. But then good old Reg, bursting in through the door, saved the day. He dragged Esme clear and held her safe in his arms where she burst into a loud paroxysm of cathartic sobs.

  ‘There, there. Let it all come out. That’s right, love. Never fear. No one will hurt you ever again. Not if I’ve aught to do with it.’ And when the sobs finally abated, allowing him to wipe her eyes, Esme offered up a watery smile.

  It made Kitty wonder if Reg’s patience might be rewarded after all.

  Archie helped Charlotte back to her seat, smoothed her hair and poured her a glass of restorative champagne. ‘Sorry Esme old sweet, but Charlotte was much more to my taste. I’d never leave her for either of you. When she brought it all out into the open about Dixie, thought I’d best settle for marriage after all and make the best of it. We do suit each other rather well, don’t you know, despite everything. No strings. And I didn’t want Kitty to start staking claims on me.

  Charlotte smiled triumphantly. ‘He only has to keep signing those lovely banker’s drafts and I’m his for ever.’

  Archie actually laughed out loud at this, as if it were all a jolly joke. ‘Think yourself lucky, the pair of you. I make a dreadful husband. At least Charlotte doesn’t expect anything from me that I can’t afford to give.’

  ‘And which I don’t return tenfold between the sheets at night,’ Charlotte finished for him and they smiled at each other, in perfect accord.

  Kitty said, ‘So all that separate beds tale was rubbish too.’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘You disgust me.’

  ‘I disgust myself at times, but there we are. Such is the harsh reality of life. But would you believe it? Here I am, landed with marriage after all.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ During the preceding conversation, no one but Kitty had been aware of the door opening. Now it swung wide so that the invalid carriage could be pushed fully into the room by a young and pretty nurse. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Magnus Gilpin, at your service.’

  A strange silence fell as all eyes centred on the stranger.

  ‘Lady Emerson, what a delight to see you again after this long while. Or should that still be Charlotte Gilpin? I am correct in saying that we never did get that divorce, aren’t I, my dear? You are still my wife, or certainly were the last time I looked at our marriage lines, which admittedly was some days ago. Who knows what might have happened in the interim.’

  Charlotte had turned a deathly white, staring at Magnus as if she were seeing a ghost. ‘What the hell..?’

  ‘Am I doing here? I do assure you that I’ve come by invitation to your Benefit. I received a mysterious, complimentary ticket in the post yesterday morning. What a coincidence, I thought, seeing your name upon it. I mean, how many Charlotte Gilpin’s can there be? Perhaps you should have used your new married name on the programme instead, foolish girl. But there I go, getting it wrong again. How can you have a new married name when you haven’t yet rid yourself of the old one.’

  Archie took a step forward, opened his mouth to address Magnus, then swung about to face Charlotte. ‘What the hell is he saying?’

  ‘That you aren’t her husband at all, old chap. I am. Can you still go to jail for bigamy, I wonder?’

  Archie looked aghast. ‘You mean I’ve suffered this damned marriage for nothing?’

  ‘Drat you.’
Snatching up the scissors, she flew at Magnus like a screeching banshee. Everyone stood frozen in horror, with only Archie making any attempt to stop her. They heard him call out her name, heard Charlotte’s furious scream that she should have made sure he was dead the first time. Then she’d be free. At last.

  ‘Get out of my way, Archie!’ It was then that Charlotte lunged. But in the seconds it took for the scissors to plunge into soft flesh, Archie had again stepped forward, desperately begging her to be calm. Only when he fell to the ground with her name still upon his lips, did Charlotte realise what she had done.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  October 1918

  Kitty’s eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. A bat touched her cheek. Out in the mass of the unseen audience she could hear muted laughter, the pulse of anticipation. This was to be their last performance; their finale. She could sense, even before they began this farewell concert that the men were happy, more relaxed than they’d been in years.

  Germany was desperately seeking peace, despite its posturing that it could fight again if it must. The soldiers who comprised Kitty’s audience this night knew the truth. The enemy was in retreat. They had them on the run.

  During the last two years the LTP’s had done three tours of duty in France. They had seen the wounded and the dying being brought back from Ypres and the Somme. They’d experienced the gun fire, dodged the shells, watched in horrified disbelief as battle planes chased each other to destruction across the skies; heard the orders ring out for the allied guns to engage fire. Only once or twice had they faced the kind of bowel-weakening fear the soldiers faced every day in the trenches, but it was enough. They understood.

  On one never to be forgotten occasion they’d been forced to step over the whitened bones of men, some still with their boots on, as the Players made their way from town to town parallel with the Front Line.

  Today the banks of the River Scarpe had been littered with the bodies of live men, weary soldiers who had spent it bathing and sunning themselves and as darkness fell, had grown increasingly eager to get on with the show, knowing that deliverance from hell was within their grasp.

  But even though the end was in sight and peace within their grasp, Kitty knew that tonight was important to them. She’d learned how some of the young men were secretly fearful of going home. They worried whether they would be able to adjust to civilian life again. Would their wives still be waiting for them? And how would they ever get over losing so many of their comrades, and perhaps their own health? Kitty had no answers to these questions, had fears of her own.

  All she could do was bury herself in her work.

  The war was almost over and still she went on singing and entertaining the troops, almost as if she were two people. One part of her was Kitty Little the performer, the much loved Nightingale of Flanders. The other was still Kitty Terry, the girl from Ealing with a dream.

  Kitty had once visited her mother, introduced Clara to her grandchild, and a peace of sorts had been declared between them. Ma was older now, and tired, but still running Hope View in exactly the same way as before, though her guests comprised more sailors than theatricals these days. The two of them would never be close, but at least they could be friends. Kitty was glad of that.

  Following Archie’s death Charlotte had been taken away by the local police, still cursing and screaming hellfire and damnation upon them all. Magnus had returned to Yorkshire with his devoted nurse, and the friendship between Esme and Reg was coming along nicely. Dixie was a healthy five year old now, well cared for by the Misses Frost and showing every sign of having inherited her mother’s talent as well as Repstone Manor and the Barn Theatre from her father.

  In every respect Kitty’s life was fine.

  Except for one terrible fear: would Owen come home safe?

  It was so long since she’d last seen him and so much had happened since, she hardly dared to hope. She didn’t even have any idea where he was, not having received a letter from him in months. Kitty told herself that they’d probably been held up by the war and would all arrive together, in a bunch, but their correspondence had always got through before. If there was silence now then there must be good reason, and Kitty feared the worst. He must have been taken prisoner, or killed.

  She’d arrived late tonight, as usual, sparing precious minutes calling at the depot to check on the mail, always pushing too much into her days. Now she watched in humble amazement as lights flickered on, one by one, candles illuminating the darkness, almost as a defiant warning to the Bosch to stay away.

  Kitty realised with a jolt that the men seated patiently before her were numbered in their hundreds, perhaps as many as two thousand. The sound of their voices, their expectations of her that night very nearly overwhelmed her.

  She felt choked with emotion, turned helplessly to Jacob. ‘I don’t think I can do this. There are so many of them. It’s too much.’

  Jacob beamed at her. ‘Course you can. The show must go on.’

  ‘They all love you. Because you’re Kitty Little,’ Felicity added, while Suzy quickly tidied the heavy chignon and pushed her out into the arena.

  Her nervousness vanished instantly. This was what she was meant to do. Kitty must cheer them on their way, lift their hearts and give these boys the courage to go on and face what might be an uncertain future. This was what she loved to do. To give of herself. This was where she felt most alive.

  A hush fell as Kitty lifted her face to the night sky and began to sing. ‘How can I bear to leave you? A parting kiss I’ll give you.’ A gigantic roar of approval.

  ‘Come home with me, Kitty.’

  ‘Give me a kiss too.’

  Song after song she gave them, sometimes joined by the rest of her troupe, often entertaining them with silly parodies and bawdy humour, bringing gales of laughter from her devoted audience. But grown men wept that night as she touched their hearts as never before. ‘Morning will come. Each day the sun will shine,’ she sang, ‘Greet it with joy.’

  The show was over and, as always, had been a great success for Kitty Little and her troupe. It had been more than a concert, it had been a triumph of survival over adversity, a celebration of victory. When it was done, she turned to the others with a joyous smile.

  ‘Thanks everyone. Thanks for everything. Suzy, Felicity, Reg, Frank, and Jacob of course. Esme.’ There were tears in her eyes as she gathered them one by one in her arms. ‘The tour is over. The war is won. I think we can go home now.’

  But they said nothing, merely dabbed at the tears in their own eyes, faces expressionless and Kitty’s heart lurched with fear. ‘What is it? Tell me. Has something happened to Owen?’

  ‘Only that he wants a kiss from Kitty Little too.’ And suddenly there he was, standing before her; a dusty, crumpled mess with one arm in a sling but alive and well and all in one piece. She walked towards him in a trance, touching his face in wonder.

  ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  ‘Everything is going to be all right then?’

  ‘Yes Kitty. Everything’s going to be just fine. All we have to do is go and fetch little Dixie.’

  Kitty flung her arms about his neck and he winced as she jerked the injured arm but he held her as tightly as he could with his good one. The roar of approval this time came from all her dear friends who crowded around to share again the hugs and kisses, this moment of joy for their beloved Kitty, for weren’t they a team? And now they had gained a new member, a new theatre, and a new beginning for the Lakeland Players.

  The Inspiration for Kitty Little

  The Great War caused a boom in theatre going, but not necessarily to see plays. Many serious plays had to be withdrawn as they lost money. Most companies broke up on the backs of theatre-manager’s greed. These men often lacked the paternal care exhibited by the old actor-managers. They were far more ruthless and would quickly call a halt to a tour if audiences began to dip, and rising rents were a nightmare.

/>   The war naturally brought a new surge in patriotism, both in drama and cinema. There were plays written about the suffering, but the emphasis was more on the humorous to attract the masses. There were many songs about the war, even women dressed as soldiers (Vesta Tilley) as well as drama that was hostile to Germany.

  Soldiers on leave flocked to the theatres with their sweethearts, eager to be amused and entertained. Chu Chin Chow was a huge success. Starting out as a pantomime it ran for over 2,000 performances at His Majesty’s. A Little Bit of Fluff, a popular farce, ran for three years at the Criterion. Critics were vociferous against this kind of ‘vulgarity’ as they termed it. Others would complain there was too much Shakespeare and time for a change.

  One of the famous names at this time was Lilian Baylis at the Old Vic, who persisted in presenting Shakespeare. She also started a fine repertory company and established a permanent company for ballet. Miss Horniman, who ran The Old Gaiety Theatre in Manchester, transformed it into a modern repertory theatre and continued to do plays of a high quality, but it was not easy with so many of the ‘stars’ being taken away to go on tour. She had a reputation as a caring employer, anxious to achieve a good reputation for her actors. She even considered a trade union would be of benefit to enforce managers to provide clean and safe theatres, and pay for rehearsals. In 1913 one theatre in Manchester carried a notice which read “this theatre is perfectly ventilated, cleaned daily by the vacuum process and disinfected with Jeyes Fluid.” But on the whole, repertory companies suffered badly, largely because they persisted in presenting the same old Victorian melodramas, perpetuating the myth that anything was good enough for the provinces.

  Films were the new popular treat, both at home and with troops in France, Charlie Chaplin’s in particular. It was estimated that by 1917 half the population went to the Cinema at least once a week as it was cheaper than a night out at the pub. Newsreels and propaganda films were also common. Performers would often entertain cinema audiences between films. Queues too would be entertained by performing dogs or a man playing a banjo or accordion. Then a collection would be taken up for the soldiers and sailors.