‘Lottie! Stop this!’ Truly concerned, Pol swung her to face her, shaking her a little. ‘Stop it!’ Poppy was crying again, her frightened sobs mingling with her mother’s.
Lottie was beyond control. ‘I ’ate ’er! Yer ’ear me? I ’ate ’er!’ The words were almost incoherent. With a glance at the white-faced Kitty, Pol put a gentle arm about Lottie’s shoulders and drew her close. Lottie sobbed on into her shoulder. ‘It ain’t fair! It ain’t! ’Oo stuck by ’im these two stinkin’ years? ’Oo went to see ’im in that filthy ’ole? I’d ’a’ done anythin’ – gone anywhere – don’t ’e know that? Don’t ’e care?’ The words were threaded with pure despair. Kitty felt the cold and sticky trickle of blood upon her chin. Her cut lip throbbed. She took a tentative step towards the sobbing girl, but Pol shook her head fiercely, and she stepped back. Lottie lifted her head, and nothing had ever struck such a chill to Kitty’s heart as the look in the great violet eyes. ‘Watch yer back from now on, you,’ Lottie said, almost choking with rage. ‘You ain’t safe. You ’ear me? You ain’t safe from me – an’ nor’s that bastard brat o’ yours.’
‘That’s enough, Lot.’ Gently but firmly Pol ushered the sobbing girl back to the gate, throwing a quick look of helpless commiseration over her shoulder to Kitty. Kitty stood for a long time after they had gone, the echoes of hatred, of Lottie’s unbalanced hostility ringing like the knell of death in her ears. In the warm sunshine she shivered, and it seemed to her that the garden was strangely shadowed.
* * *
Kitty could not rid herself of the memory of that scene, nor of the apprehension that Lottie’s almost deranged hatred had engendered in her. She could not forget the girl’s threats, especially where they concerned Michael; and her concern was not the slightest abated by the news that Lottie and Luke were estranged.
‘But – I thought she was living with him? What happened?’
Pol shrugged gloomily. ‘What d’yer think? Silly little fool couldn’t let the dead lie. ’Ad ter keep on about it. Luke told ’er—’ She stopped, glanced at Kitty sharply then corrected herself. ‘Luke threw ’er out.’
‘Luke told her what?’ Kitty asked, quietly.
Pol said nothing.
‘Pol! What?’
‘’E said,’ Pol said reluctantly, ‘that it was you ’e was goin’ to ’ave. You an’ the boy. An’ no one – not ’er an’ not you – was goin’ ter stop ’im.’
Distractedly Kitty rubbed her forehead with her hand. ‘I have to get away, Pol. Oh, God! Why didn’t I do it before? Away from Luke. Away from London—’
‘Where would yer go?’
Kitty shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know! Pat would let me go to the provinces if I wanted, though he wouldn’t like it, but if I’m going to earn a living it has to be as Kit Daniels, and if I go as Kit Daniels then Luke can find me whenever he wants. Oh, Lord, what a mess I’ve made of things.’
Quickly and with genuine sympathy Pol laid a hand over hers. ‘Don’t be daft. It ain’t your fault that Luke Peveral’s nothin’ but trouble an’ never ’as bin. Nor yet that Lottie’s flipped ’er lid—’
‘You think it’s as bad as that?’
‘Well she ain’t normal, that’s fer sure,’ Pol said, the shortness of the words disguising her concern.
Kitty frowned worriedly. ‘Pol – you don’t think she’d – well – do anything silly?’
‘Seems ter me she’s done enough yer could call silly already,’ Pol said grimly.
‘You know what I mean. Michael – she threatened him—’
The kitchen clock chimed the hour, flatly strident.
‘Pol?’ Kitty asked, uncertainly, as the sound died.
Pol shook her head. ‘No. ’Course not.’ The words, after the pause, were unconvincingly quick.
Dejectedly Kitty sat down and leaned her elbows on the scrubbed kitchen table, resting her chin on her hands. ‘She really hates me,’ she said.
Pol said nothing. In the silence the clock ticked on. Lightly she touched Kitty’s shoulder. Kitty lifted her head. Pol’s smile was as warm as ever it had been. ‘Don’t worry so. It’ll all blow over.’
Kitty smiled back, but shook her head.
‘Let’s ’ave a cup o’ tea,’ Pol said.
No matter how she tried Kitty could not get the thought of Lottie Smith’s unbalanced malevolence out of her mind. She found herself jumping at shadows, worrying constantly at her son’s whereabouts and well-being. ‘Watch yer back,’ Lottie had said. ‘You ain’t safe – an’ neither’s that bastard brat o’ yours.’ Once or twice Kitty was certain that she saw the other girl, once in the street outside the house, another time standing on the pavement outside the theatre after the show, in her face the most implacable hatred, but when she mentioned it to Pol, Pol dismissed her fears as ridiculous. ‘You’re gettin’ as bad as she is! Ferget it, I tell yer! She’ll get over it.’
Luke was another problem. Within as many weeks he called upon her three times, his manner surprisingly conciliatory, his physical appearance less menacing with each passing day of freedom. Kitty was adamant. She would not marry him. He would not have Michael. Each time Luke smiled, spoke courteously and left her, with no sign of the fury he had shown at that first meeting. She detested and distrusted this new patience of his: it strung nerves already taut almost to breaking point. Each day she woke with a dull feeling of dread. Something was going to happen. She knew it. They could not go on like this. Yet the days ticked by and spring advanced into summer, and nothing did happen. When a week went by with no visit from Luke she began to relax a little. Perhaps after all sensible Pol was right; she was overwrought and making mountains out of molehills.
* * *
In the middle of May, Amy came down with a fierce and feverish cold that all but prostrated her. Over her faint protests Kitty tucked her into her bed and brewed her a hot lemon drink flavoured with honey and laced liberally with brandy before going to the theatre. ‘It’s all right, don’t worry – I’ll take Michael with me tonight. He sleeps perfectly well in my dressing room, and Pol will be there to care for him.’
‘But, Kitty – there’s no need. I’ll hear him if he wakes—’
Firmly Kitty shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. You need to rest, not to lie here fretting about him. It’ll be much better for you if we take him with us. It doesn’t do him any harm just once in a while. You know how he enjoys it.’
Pale and red-nosed, Amy asked a little tentatively, ‘But – if you take him with you too often, won’t people suspect – well—’
‘That he’s mine?’ Kitty shrugged, picked up her gloves and pulled them on. ‘I don’t know. To be truthful I don’t think I much care any more. We’ve put it about that he’s an orphan Pol’s fostered – but I don’t know who believes that.’
‘But – supposing—?’
Kitty dropped a light kiss on her damp forehead. ‘Suppose nothing, my dear. Get yourself better. I’ll see you later.’
And so a delighted Michael was transported to the theatre with Kitty and Pol and installed in a day cot that Kitty kept in her dressing room for that purpose. Kitty played with him until the long dark lashes were drooping tiredly upon the still rounded baby cheeks, then tucked him in tenderly before changing for her first spot of the evening. ‘There, little man. Sleep tight.’
She was performing twice that evening, once in the first half and once, a slightly longer spot, in the second. The audience was good and warmly responsive. Her first song went down well, the applause was enthusiastic, the Master of Ceremonies beamed happily. As always she felt herself relaxing, buoyed up by the happiness of being on stage. When she returned to her dressing room to change Michael was sleeping the sleep of the dead in the cot, totally oblivious to the noise and movement around him as Kitty, with Pol’s help, changed into stylishly cut tailcoat and trousers. Pol stood back to admire the finished toilette. ‘Bloody stunnin’,’ she said, satisfied. ‘The best yet, I reckon. They’ll love yer.’
‘So ’e said. ’E’s out front. I’ll pop up an’ watch fer five minutes while yer on.’ She did not miss Kitty’s flickering glance at the sleeping child. ‘All right, don’t worry,’ she said, soothingly, ‘I’ll get one o’ the other girls in ter sit with ’im while I’m gone.’
Standing in the wings a few minutes later Kitty felt the familiar rise of excitement that always preceded a performance. The theatre was packed, the air very close and thick with cigarette smoke. She could see the faces of the first few rows of the audience, highlighted in the glow of the footlights, enthralled, watching the Great Romanski as he chained his scantily clad, tiny assistant inside the small, straw-filled box to which, in a moment, he would apply a flaming torch. Kitty did not much like this trick, the climax of Romanski’s act, and had thought more than once that she would not have liked to take the chances that the fragile-looking girl assistant took each evening. She knew that as the flamboyant illusionist made a few florid passes with the lit torch the girl would be quickly and efficiently slipping the manacles from wrists and ankles before pressing the hidden spring that released the trapdoor beneath the false bottom of the box. What might happen if one day the trapdoor refused to open Kitty hated to think. Then in a spectacular flare of stage-flame the straw in the box was incinerated. A moment later, to a roar of applause, the tough little beauty was being handed from a tall, lacquered cupboard on the opposite side of the stage. Not for the first time Kitty wondered a little uncomfortably how many of the wildly applauding audience waited with bated breath hoping that this time the trick might go wrong.
‘And now, Ladies and Gentlemen—’ She grabbed her hat and cane, took a swift sip of water.
‘With a brand new song, straight from Gay Paree—’
Whistles and stamping from the audience. Smoke still drifted across the stage. Kitty wrinkled her nose and cleared her throat.
‘Your own – your very own – Miss Kit Daniels—’
The roar of applause carried her, smiling, onto the stage. Through it she heard the orchestra strike up. She stepped to the footlights, had to wait several seconds before the enthusiastic greeting died. ‘Who do you see in Mayfair, Strolling with the girls—’
By the second chorus they were singing it with her, and she caught sight of Bart’s grinning face, his lifted thumb. It was a simple, catchy tune, one of his best. In the wings she saw Pol, beaming. When the song ended it was to another great roar of applause. The orchestra leader signalled to her again. The orchestra led once more into the opening bars of the song. The audience quieted. Kitty cleared her throat. The smoke from the illusionist’s trick had hung about the stage for longer than usual tonight. ‘Who do you see in Mayfair, Strolling with the girls—’
There was a quick flutter of subdued commotion in the wings. The smell of smoke was stronger. There was a sudden strange and restless stir in the audience, like the ripple of wind through a standing field of corn. Backstage, someone shouted urgently. Kitty’s voice dried in her throat and she stopped, coughing. The orchestra played on raggedly for a moment then died to bewildered and bewildering silence. The cry came again, and this time the urgency of the message was unmistakable.
‘Fire!’
The panic was immediate. At the back of the auditorium someone screamed. The great mass of people before the stage began to move, scrambling from their seats, fighting to get to the exits. The theatre manager, a mild-mannered man of no great presence, rushed past Kitty to the front of the stage. ‘Please! Ladies and Gentlemen – please! Keep your seats—’
No one took the slightest notice. Smoke now seeped from the stage into the auditorium. Choking and coughing, people fought each other to escape it. Horrified, Kitty saw a woman go down, screaming terribly, beneath the stampeding feet. And then her confused brain started to function again and she remembered. Michael! She turned. Great, terrifying billows of smoke rolled towards her. People – stagehands, and performers still in their costumes streamed past her, buffeting her as she stood. ‘Get out!’ A brawny young man grabbed her arm and dragged her with him, ‘Hurry, Miss Daniels! The side door—!’
‘No!’ She struggled free of him. Where was Pol? Where was Michael? A panic-stricken girl, eyes starting from her head, cannoned blindly into her and sent her reeling. The theatre was filled with sounds that might have come straight from Bedlam – screams and moans and a fury of shouting as people jammed the aisles, the stairs and the doorways in their attempts to escape. Someone jumped from the circle, desperate to avoid the lifting, roiling smoke, uncaring of the people below. Another followed, and another. A woman screamed, piercingly. Now, behind the stage, was the unmistakable and lurid lick of flame. She tried to fight her way against the streaming tide of humanity and was almost swamped by it. Terrified, she fought to stay on her feet, knowing that once down she would be trampled to death. Someone caught her arm, trying to force her towards the door. Again, frantically, she fought free. A great choking cloud of smoke boiled across the stage, cutting off the air in her lungs and she gagged, choking. Flames licked higher, blood red in the darkness. The curtains smouldered.
‘Get ’er the ’ell out of ’ere fer Gawd’s sake!’
Weakly she fought the hands that unceremoniously grabbed her. Her throat was raw, her lungs felt as if they were on fire. ‘Door’s blocked,’ someone said, hoarsely. ‘’Ere, give ’er to me—’ She felt herself half-dragged, half-carried through nightmare darkness shot with flame. Then with miraculous suddenness she was in the clear night air, and other hands took her. ‘Michael!’ she shrieked, ‘Michael!’ Her voice was like the hoarse sobbing of an exhausted child.
‘Where?’ The hands that caught her then were not gentle, the demanding voice cool and hard as ice. ‘Where is he?’ She lifted her head. Luke’s blurred face wavered before her, his head haloed in a nimbus of ghastly flame. He shook her again, hard. ‘Where?’
She was trying to rub the streaming tears from her stinging eyes. ‘In my dressing room. Oh, Luke—!’
He let her go and she fell. She heard someone shout. In the distance bells rang, urgently, above the terrible roar of the fire. The fabric of the old theatre was burning like tinder, the flames bright and beautiful and savagely destructive.
‘What’s that bloody madman up to? ’Ere – stop ’im! Catch ’im, someone!’
‘Luke!’ she screamed, tears streaming down her blackened face, and then again, ‘Luke!’ the sound tearing painfully from her damaged throat. She staggered to her feet, rubbing her burning eyes. Flame lovingly licked the ornate façade of the building, streamed from the broken windows, blackening the stonework. Heat billowed, scorching the air about her. She staggered forward.
‘Stop her!’ someone snapped, and she was imprisoned, struggling weakly.
‘Luke,’ she said, rasping upon a cough, ‘my baby—’
The stranger’s voice was soothing. ‘It’s all right. The engines are here. They’ll be all right. It’ll be out in a tick now—’
But it was not. Nothing now could stop the monster from devouring its prey. Shivering and stunned with shock, she watched the building burn. The crowd about her jostled her and almost she fell. Someone tried to usher her away but she shook them off fiercely, her eyes fixed upon the lurid flames. Her throat and lungs were raw. Her left arm hung oddly awkwardly and throbbed with each breath she took. As she stood, a wave of flame-shot darkness lifted about her, threatening to engulf her. She struggled against it. She must not move. She must not. If she waited they would come. Of course they would come.
‘Kitty – Kitty, darlin’ – please—’
As if from a distance she recognized Pol’s anguished voice but was too intent upon her purpose to respond to it. She must not look away. She must wait, and they would come.
‘Kitty – your arm’s all burned. You must let someone see to it—’
She looked down, surprised. The sleeve of her jacket was charred and still smouldering. �
��Wait a minute,’ she said very calmly. ‘Wait until they come.’
The inside of the building was an inferno, the glowing cave of the image of hell.
‘Look out! The roof’s going!’
Hands pulled her back. With something like an explosion the roof collapsed, sending a great torch of sparks to the heavens. Someone screamed. She felt a tearing pain in her throat. Pol’s face, tear-drenched, swam before her and was lost in the darkness that at last engulfed her.
Chapter 5
It was a week before she truly believed what they told her – that Luke was dead, and Michael with him. Almost mindless with grief, she lay for days unspeaking and uncaring of her own injury. She was indeed only vaguely aware of her surroundings, of the painful ministrations to her badly burned left arm. As often as was possible Pol would come, sitting by the bed, holding Kitty’s uninjured hand as she drifted in and out of a drug-induced sleep that was as troubled with nightmares as were her waking moments with grief. Her love for Luke had long ago been defeated by her fear of him, for herself and for Michael: but his death in this sudden and terrible way was a horror she would never have wanted nor even envisaged. That her child too was gone, dead with the father he had never known, was a loss so deep she could barely comprehend it. For a time the enormity of it filled her mind and her heart to the exclusion of all else, and though her body began to heal it seemed at first as if her spirit never would.
Released from hospital, she allowed herself to be taken back to Pascal Road by Pol and Barton. Once there, however, in familiar surroundings and amongst friends the strange anaesthetic of shock wore off, and for days she could neither eat nor sleep as the tears she had been until now unable to shed came in an endless flood. Patiently and with love Pol tended her, knowing instinctively that the storm of grief, healingly released at last, would eventually ease. And so it proved. A couple of weeks after leaving hospital, though almost unendurable sadness haunted her days Kitty was able at last rationally to face the fact of Luke’s and Michael’s deaths, even if still she could not reconcile herself to the loss.
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