Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  Kitty rolled over onto her stomach and set her glass down carefully on the shabby Persian rug. ‘No, I don’t know. What happened?’

  ‘They died. At least his mother did, in a hotel fire while they were touring the continent. Archie had just left school, he’d be seventeen or eighteen. I remember there was talk of him going on to university but first the whole family was to enjoy a year of travelling together. They got on so well, you see. It all ended rather abruptly and horrifically. Archie and his father were out at the casino at the time. Fay, that’s Mrs Emerson, died instantly it was believed, from the smoke.’

  ‘Dear Lord, how awful. What happened to his father?’

  ‘He tried desperately to save her, searching the burning ruins for hours until someone managed to stop him. He couldn’t forgive himself for leaving her alone that night, poor man. Drove him mad in the end. Finished his days in some sort of institution, not knowing who or where he was. Archie thought it rather a blessing when he finally died.’

  Kitty felt awe-struck by this tragic tale. In all the time Archie and Raymond had been friends, he’d given no hint of anything like this. She said as much now.

  ‘He can’t bear to talk about it. Won’t let himself think of it. Certainly he never spoke of the fire once in the years following, seemed to block it right out of his mind.’

  ‘It does explain his somewhat cavalier approach to life,’ Kitty conceded, as well as his attitude towards marriage and his reluctance to be responsible for another person’s happiness. Poor Archie. For a fleeting second she considered revealing to Esme the true state of their relationship, perhaps in a rash attempt to prove her supremacy. But tears were glistening in the other girl’s eyes, spilling over to run unchecked over rosy cheeks as she agreed that the loss of his parents in such tragic circumstances had indeed damaged him, and the words died on her lips unspoken. How could she wound Esme further when they both cared about him so deeply. Kitty reached out to wrap her arms about the other girl, and it was in that moment that they finally acknowledged not only the love each felt for the same man, but the birth of a new friendship. The next instant they were mopping tears from each other’s eyes, and laughing at their own sentiment.

  ‘Let’s drink to friendship. You, me, and Archie. The two of us to look after him for ever, our very dear friend.’

  ‘To Archie.’

  Their friendship thus established, dissension was banished for ever in several more glasses of Archie’s excellent wine. And with all inhibitions gone, each was finally able to admit that he wasn’t actually in love with either of them, so where was the use in squabbling? He saw Esme as a young girl and Kitty as his adopted sister.

  ‘But what if things were to change? I mean, what if Archie were to - choose - one of us. What then?’

  The silence lay heavy for some moments. It was Esme who broke it. ‘Were that to happen, the other would simply have to accept it, wouldn’t she? Take a step back. But our friendship must remain.’

  Kitty considered her over the rim of her wine glass. ‘That could prove difficult.’

  ‘But surely not impossible?’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’

  ‘We shall make a pact, Kitty, to remain friends, no matter what. I’ve never had such a good friend as you. And I’d hate anything to stand in the way of that.’

  ‘So would I. It’s been a wonderful summer. The best ever,’ and Kitty realised suddenly that it was true. But what next? Where did they go from here?

  The next day Mrs Phillips placed one of her excellent breakfasts before each of them. The aroma from the plate of bacon and eggs had no sooner reached Kitty’s nostrils than she flew from the room to be sick in the cloakroom toilet.

  ‘Too much red wine last night,’ she admitted rather shamefacedly on her return. Archie offered his commiseration's and Esme a slice of dry toast with a wry smile.

  In the days following Kitty made a private vow that in future she would be more abstemious. Esme insisted on coddling her by bringing her breakfast in bed till the sickness passed. It was while she lay about bored in bed, that the idea came to her. ‘I know what we can do now that summer is over. We’ll put on a play.’

  The other two laughed. ‘A play? Where? We don’t have a theatre.’

  ‘By the lake. We’ll invite people to come and watch. Something light and funny,’ she said, enthusing to her idea. ‘Shakespeare perhaps. There must be a copy of his plays somewhere in the house.’

  ‘I’m sure there is dear heart, but won’t we be rather short of bodies? I mean,’ Archie pointed out in all reasonableness, ‘there are only three of us.’

  To Kitty this was a trifling matter which presented no problems at all, for, as she sensibly pointed out, they need only do selected scenes and they could each perform several parts. Even Esme agreed that it might be fun.

  They chose As You Like It since the copse by the lake, with a little imagination, could represent the Forest of Arden. They couldn’t guarantee the weather, of course, but they’d just have to hope for a golden autumn day for which the Lake District was, after all, famous.

  Esme was to play Celia, as well as Oliver, one or two servants and a shepherdess. Archie was to be Duke Frederick and Orlando, who is loved by Rosalind. This latter part Kitty bestowed upon herself along with various other minor roles.

  ‘What happens if Celia has a scene with Oliver?’ I can’t talk to myself, Esme very reasonably objected.

  ‘We’ll cut that bit out. Shakespeare won’t mind, I’m sure,’ which sounded rather like sacrilege but in the circumstances they all agreed it couldn’t be avoided.

  They wrote out tickets and programmes. Posters were drawn up to advertise the production and stuck up in village post offices, on walls and even trees and since it was a scattered farming community with little in the way of entertainment, word spread quickly.

  The attics of Repstone Manor were raided, Mrs Pips offering to alter anything which looked vaguely suitable for costumes. Several dreadfully old fashioned ball gowns were discovered, although Esme begged to wear the lavender silk. For some unknown reason, Kitty had thrown the gown in with her other belongings when she’d hastily packed.

  ‘It certainly looks better on you than it did on me, if slightly long,’ she conceded. Mrs Pips tacked it up and Esme strutted back and forth, transformed by the dress and with her pale blonde hair flowing loose over her shoulders.

  Again the prick of jealousy stabbed, making Kitty almost regret her offer and she set about searching with greater diligence for a suitably bewitching gown for herself.

  The best she could find was a rather dull green which did nothing for her complexion. It boasted a high neck, long sleeves and hung loose at her waist. Even when she’d found a belt to use as a girdle around her hips, she knew it wouldn’t make anyone’s heart beat faster, certainly not Archie’s. However, Kitty did discover an excellent outfit for when Rosalind was pretending to be a boy. A genuine doublet and hose which some previous Emerson must have had made for a fancy dress party.

  ‘How tall and elegant it makes you look,’ Esme commented admiringly.

  ‘I am tall. Despite my name,’ and the new Kitty Little did indeed feel elegant, and not in the least ungainly. It was a good feeling.

  The day arrived, as sweet and golden as they could have wished with falling leaves scattering like jewels upon the azure and white reflections of sky and cloud in the flat calm lake. Kitty marked the front of the acting area with a row of candles set in tins. These would serve as footlights. Others were hung from the branches of trees to give a truly romantic glow. The scene seemed utterly magical, entirely appropriate for the play and certainly delighted the fifty or so people who turned up for the performance, including Miss Agnes and Mrs Walsh who made a point of sitting on the front row so they could see what the daughter of their late notorious vicar was up to these days.

  Esme noticed them as soon as she went on stage but valiantly pressed on, concentrating on remembering her words. It was all for c
harity in any case, so perfectly respectable. It had been Esme’s idea that instead of charging admission, donations be collected for fruit, flowers and gifts in aid of the sick and old. Mrs Pips, dressed as an Elizabethan housewife, collected the offerings and provided refreshments in the shape of tea and orange juice, not forgetting a substantial supply of her excellent biscuits.

  Kitty was in her element. This was what she’d always longed to do, to act, to perform, to make people laugh. How she loved it. Esme too proved skilful, finding it easy to learn lines and moving with a natural grace. Archie was simply himself, handsome and debonair, merrily strumming a ukulele disguised as a beribboned lute as he sang one or two songs they’d improvised. And when the Rosalind he loves masqueraded as a boy and suggested that he practise his love making techniques upon her (or rather him) he had the whole audience roaring with laughter at the expressions of shock and horror upon his face. For all it was acting, those kisses nonetheless left Kitty weak at the knees, reminding her of a previous, more serious encounter.

  Without doubt the play was a riotous success; the audience demanding several “curtain calls”.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were such a fine actor,’ she whispered to Archie as they took yet another bow, grinning from ear to ear with the excitement of it all.

  ‘You were the star, dear heart. You make a better chap than a girl, old thing, with all that manly hey-hoing and those dashing tights. Perhaps I should call you my adopted brother instead of my sister.’ Then he strolled away to change, his laughter echoing back to her from across the garden.

  Kitty stood watching him go, stunned to the core.

  She told herself sternly that he hadn’t meant to be unkind. It was simply another example of that acerbic wit of his. He’d be devastated to think he’d hurt her by implying she wasn’t in the least bit feminine. He probably hadn’t meant that at all. He’d just been teasing. Having fun. Being typically Archie.

  Unfortunately it no longer seemed any fun to be his dear adopted sister, let alone his brother! But then it was surely all her own fault for feeling foolishly jealous and mooning over him like some love-sick schoolgirl. Plus the fact that she hadn’t been feeling quite herself lately. Clearly she was in imminent danger of making far too much of this typically male thoughtlessness. Even so, as she ran to her room, Kitty was appalled to find her cheeks wet with tears.

  Chapter Eight

  Now that the excitement of the play was over, they all suffered from a terrible sense of anticlimax. A warm September changed into a damp October and the days were shortening. Day after day they were confined to the house and their restlessness increased.

  ‘Even I’m bored now.’ Archie’s voice emerged with a fit of coughing from amidst a swathe of woollen scarves and jumpers. ‘Pips has lit a fire in the library and is serving tea. That is the sum of our excitement for today.’

  ‘If we’re so gloomy now, how will we fare when winter really arrives?’ Kitty asked, to which nobody had an answer.

  The next morning the grey clouds retreated and after a lazy morning and a late lunch, Archie came across Esme where she lay flat on her back on a glassy slope by the lake.

  ‘Enjoying the sun? Don’t blame you old thing.’ He propped his back against the sun-warmed wall, rested his elbows on his knees and, gazing up into a pale blue sky puffed with soft cloud, remarked on what a wondrous glow the copper beech made. In fact, all the trees bordering the lake were basking in an unexpected blaze of glory, emerald, saffron, gold and deep olive greens. A family of moorhens paddled off into the shallows, clearly irritated at having been disturbed. Out in the centre of the lake, a couple of fishermen in a lone boat were plying their rods. ‘Perhaps we should have a go at that,’ Archie idly remarked. ‘Catch some char or pike for tea.’

  Esme, worrying over Kitty’s remark about the coming winter and wondering what she should do with her life, said something to the effect that if she went fishing, she’d probably only catch eels and toads.

  Archie attempted to jolly her out of her soulful mood. ‘Don’t run yourself down, old thing. You’re more capable than you realise, not perhaps as organised as Kitty, but you have other strengths.’

  ‘Do I?’ Esme turned her gaze full upon him, surprised by the warmth in his.

  ‘We had some fun once, you and I, eh? All those tennis parties and picnics on the lake in the old steamboat. You falling in and frightening Ma half to death.’

  ‘Oh, she was always kind to me, was your lovely ma. And good to my own mother, a humble vicar’s wife. I also remember helping Mrs Pips to make coconut ice and sticky bonfire toffee.’

  ‘Burning it more like,’

  ‘And getting it all in my hair.’ They both chortled with delight at happy memories, then almost simultaneously the laughter faded as if such levity wasn’t quite appropriate.

  ‘They’re all dead. Pater, Mater, Kitty’s beloved brother, your people too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A chap gets lonely with all his family gone. A gel too, I dare say. Dashed bad luck for both of us. But we have each other, eh? Remember that, old thing.’

  ‘You know you’ll always have me Archie. If you want me.’

  ‘Of course I’ll always want you.’ There was a hint of surprise in his voice, almost as if he’d only just realised that this was true. ‘You know a chap isn’t always proud of what he does, or how he behaves,’ he remarked, quite enigmatically. ‘Grief and disappointment can do strange things to a person, don’t you know. But as you say, I have you. My dear little solace. My best chum.’ Then quite unexpectedly he kissed her, his mouth warm and clumsily demanding, tasting faintly of a cigarette he’d recently smoked.

  Esme experienced a sudden and dizzying panic as a rush of memories clouded her mind; pictures of herself as a child in a bath, the face of her father smiling down at her, whispering something in her ear that she really didn’t wish to hear. Fingers. Hands. Touching. And then, quite unexpectedly, came a sudden kindling of desire for these were Archie’s lips, Archie’s hand upon her breast, and not at all unpleasant.

  ‘It’s all right, isn’t it?’ he murmured, smoothing his hand along her leg as he pushed up her skirt. ‘You don’t mind, do you? A chap has needs, don’t you know. I’ll be careful and I won’t hurt you, old thing.’

  Nor did he. The weight of his lean body upon hers, the thrust of him moving inside her was an astonishing delight. If Esme could have found words in that magical moment, she would have spoken of her great love for him, told him her true feelings. But her heart seemed too full, the sensations she was feeling too overwhelming, the excitement so tight in her chest each word died in her throat, even as they formed.

  ‘Mum’s the word, old thing,’ he murmured softly against her ear when he was done. Esme was used to keeping secrets. She’d certainly keep this one, for hadn’t she always been willing for Archie to choose whatever game he wanted to play. The only difference being that this was a much more grown up sort of game, one she was only too eager to share without thought or question.

  Kitty felt quite herself again, full of energy, apart from one or two odd symptoms to which she’d resolved to pay no heed. If they were still in evidence by Christmas, she’d maybe go and have a chat with the doctor. For now she was far too concerned working on a plan for their future. The success of the play had given her an idea. Filled with fresh enthusiasm, she’d decided that they couldn’t idle the days away at Repstone Manor any longer. They must work, earn money, do something useful, and Kitty had the perfect solution. One evening, over the regulatory bottle of wine, and after much clearing of her throat, she put forward her plan.

  ‘The play was a huge success. Agreed?’

  ‘Absolutely, dear heart. The locals have talked of little else since.’

  ‘Then why don’t we do another? Why don’t we, in fact, do any number of plays?’

  Archie drily pointed out that it was too damned cold to put one on by the lake now, and the drawing room would prove rather inadequate a
s a theatre.

  Kitty slipped from the sofa to sit cross-legged on the rug in her favourite spot, warming her back against the fire. ‘What I mean is that it might be fun to start our own theatre company. We could be travelling players and take our plays around the village halls and schoolrooms of Lakeland, Yorkshire and Lancashire. Anywhere, in fact, where we can get bookings. Think how many people never get the chance to see live theatre, never see a play of any sort, let alone Shakespeare. You could recite your favourite ditties, Archie, and I could try writing some new plays. We might even put on a musical if we can find someone who can sing. We’d need one or two more actors to join us, obviously, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  She was speaking rapidly now as the ideas came bubbling out. Archie was smiling indulgently at her, as he so often did when she was having one of her “enthusiasms” as he called them. ‘And you’ll play the lead, I suppose?’

  ‘Sometimes. You too, of course. And Esme.’

  ‘Me?’ Esme had been listening entranced, more than ready to agree to this thrilling scheme. She’d looked upon playing Celia as a lark, a summer caper, but hadn’t she always yearned for some excitement in her life? Now here was the chance. The solution to everything. ‘Count me in. Anything is better than being someone’s paid companion. What would we call ourselves?’

  ‘The Lakeland Travelling Players, what else?’ It felt almost as if the idea had been there all along, simply waiting to be discovered.

  Charlotte was disturbed by the sound of Mrs Pursey hammering on her bedroom door, her peremptory tone insisting she come and calm her poor husband upon the instant.

  ‘Miles, get up. You must go. For God’s sake go!’

  Her relationship with Councillor Pickering had proceeded quite satisfactorily for weeks. He’d proved to be so generous that she’d awarded him a reprieve. Now Charlotte dragged on her satin dressing gown, unlocked the bedroom door and managed to squeeze through without the housekeeper sneaking the smallest glance into the room, which was just as well or she might have seen the bare buttocks of the Town Mayor as he hopped on one leg in a tangle of trousers and braces.