Besides, working backstage allowed her ample opportunities to be alone with her lover for intimate moments in some shadowy corner.
‘Now all we have to do is slide the chain into the bottom hem to weight it.’
‘Slave driver,’ Reg said, wiping his brow. ‘Pity we don’t have a giant darning needle.’
Esme playfully punched him and got down on her knees, chain in hand. ‘We’ll pull it through with wire and a long stick. Idiot!’’
‘I wish I’d got a big darning needle to stitch us two together. That’d be grand. I’d be a happy man to go through life with the pair of us all sewn up.’
‘Reg, I’ve warned you before about these fantasies of yours,’ Esme scolded, but she was smiling. He was a predictable if unexciting man, kind and caring, never taking liberties but patiently hoping for her to give the word to take their relationship further. Esme tolerated these constant hints of his faithful devotion with warm good humour, for all she’d no intention of ever succumbing to his charms. But Reg would never be her secret lover.
There had been a time when she’d imagined that she’d lost Archie, but one glorious pink and green spring afternoon, he had come to her. They’d made love, just as wondrously as that first time by the lake. Since then Esme had blossomed. The youthful plumpness had fine-tuned to more slender lines, which Archie described as sweetly pretty. She was no longer a child, but a woman.
Esme knew that he could easily have chosen Charlotte for her greater beauty, or Kitty with her dignified loveliness and efficiency. Instead he preferred herself, a plain and dull little mouse. She didn’t ask or expect anything more of him; certainly not duty, commitment or marriage, any more than she craved excitement or fame. Charlotte’s warning, coupled with Archie’s attitude in the early days of their relationship had made a deep impact upon her. Esme saw herself as a ruined woman and was more than grateful for whatever he was prepared to offer.
Not that any hint of their affair must ever be revealed. Kitty, as her dearest friend, was aware that Esme still adored Archie but had no idea they were lovers. No one must know. It was their own delicious secret. Archie preferred to keep their relationship entirely private, and Esme agreed with him. She was a rather private person too.
So, in the circumstances, she was more than content to leave the accolades of acting to Charlotte, Kitty and the other members of the group. Didn’t they deserve it? Charlotte in particular gloried in the fame the LTP’s had brought her, parading about in fashionably exotic costumes so that no one would be in any doubt she was a famous actress.
Esme took no trouble at all over her appearance, usually opting, as she had today, for a pair of Reg’s old dungarees. Finding her splattered with paint or glue was so common an occurrence the company didn’t expect to see her any other way. Certainly not Archie. He called her his “little ragamuffin”.
‘It’s ready to fly,’ she called now, tying the last tape that fastened the finished backcloth onto its baton. This moment, when they saw the results of their handiwork in situ, always excited her. It took both their combined strength on the pulley to hoist the painted ballroom scene up into place. ‘To think we’ll have to drop and haul that thing back up into the flies every night,’ Esme gasped, rubbing her aching arms.
‘I could manage it on my own. It’s too heavy for you in any case.’
‘And let you take all the credit. No fear!’ And they grinned at each other in perfect accord.
‘It looks grand. You should be stage manager, Esme, not me. You’re so talented. I’m just a pair of strong hands.’
‘For goodness’ sake. Don’t put yourself down.’ As if she would never dream of doing anything so foolish, trying not to notice the gratitude in his eyes. ‘Come on, we’ve work to do.’
Their main difficulty was creating a set in the limited time in which they had access to the stage. Erecting the fitup, curtains and lights at speed had become second nature to them. Pantomime, however, was technically more demanding, requiring trickery such as wires, special lighting effects, flashes and painted backcloths. Not to mention the harlequinade where magical scenes, transformations or gauzes were involved.
‘It won’t do.’
The familiar voice at her elbow made Esme swing about, irritated by the unexpected interruption. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Charlotte was looking as glamorous as ever, from the tip of her ridiculous flower pot hat with its spiky feather, through the extravagantly pleated, magenta silk dress with its hobble skirt so narrow at the hem she could hardly walk on the tiny pointed toed shoes. She looked as if she were dressed for a cocktail party rather than a rehearsal. ‘There are too many shadows.’
‘We haven’t got all the lights in place yet.’
‘And we need more depth. When I walk down the staircase in my ball gown - I assume it will be a wide staircase - I need to make impact. So either you move the cloth back a couple of feet, or we’ll need an apron at the front. Preferably both.’
‘For Gooodness’ sake, Charlotte, it’s the Dress tonight. We haven’t time to start rehanging backcloths, let alone construct an apron,’ Reg protested. ‘In any case, this is one of the biggest stages we’ve ever performed on, so where’s the problem?’
‘I insist,’ Charlotte said, flicking a pair of gloves in her agitation to prove her point. ‘It simply will - not - do! The colours are too dark, and splodged all over the place. Either repaint it, move it, or take it down this instant.’
Tight-lipped, Esme held on to her patience with difficulty. It was ever so in discussions with Charlotte. ‘We’ll let Kitty decide, shall we?’
‘What must I decide?’
The next hour turned into one of those hellish arguments the company had become used to over the months. In so many ways they’d grown together almost like a family. Jacob and Tessa Crump taking the parental roles, respectively doling out advice or aspirins, whether asked for or not. Rod and Sam, along with other young people who joined the Players from time to time as the mischievous, bright young things. Esme and Kitty two hard working, independent young women. Archie standing slightly apart, the placid young hero, quiet and somewhat enigmatic. And Reg, Esme’s loyal and stalwart supporter.
‘Which leaves Suzy Grant and Felicity Fanshaw as a pair of maidenly aunts who act like sisters but aren’t quite,’ Kitty had once declared when she and Esme had giggled over this notion one night after too many glasses of wine.
There was of course one other member of the Lakes Players, perhaps the most important so far as Kitty was concerned. This was Dixie, her darling baby daughter.
Dixie had caused quite a stir when she’d arrived on scene back in April 1913, not least because her mother was not, never had been, nor seemed to have any intention of marrying and thereby becoming an honest, respectable woman.
At the time of Dixie’s birth one or two well-meaning people had hinted the child should be adopted, or put into an orphanage. Kitty had shown complete outrage at both suggestions. From the moment she’d set eyes on her, Kitty was entirely enslaved. Dixie belonged to her and always would.
But the decision had resulted in a certain notoriety, and from time to time scandalous comments would appear in some local newspaper or other, wherever the group happened to be performing. Her name, always Miss Kitty Little, would be prefixed by such adjectives as infamous, outrageous or even disreputable. She was considered something of an outcast in her bohemian gypsy dresses and trailing scarves, which had become her accepted mode of attire. Kitty ignored them all and gradually the furore would die down. It certainly didn’t in any way harm their takings at the door, rather the reverse. Some came to see her as much as the play.
At nearly nine months, Dixie was a contented baby who loved nothing better than to sit in her pram and watch proceedings with a surprising alertness, when she wasn’t crawling about the stage getting under everybody’s feet, that is. She possessed an impish grin, pale auburn hair and the most enchanting chocolate brown eyes very like Kitty’s own, fr
inged by dark lashes. She was hugely adored, properly if unconventionally cared for and thoroughly spoiled by all members of the company. Already she‘d appeared in several plays as a babe in arms and the moment she’d found her feet, would no doubt be treading the boards wherever a child actor was called for. She was treated as a sort of mascot, always managing to lift spirits if someone had “the glums”.
But so far as Kitty was concerned, the identity of her child’s father was nobody’s business but her own. Let people speculate as they wished.
It never ceased to amaze her that Frank was still here, hanging on to her like the proverbial limpet.
‘Saw a piece about the LTP’s in a local paper,’ he’d glibly informed her when she’d asked how, exactly, he’d found her. ‘It told all about your latest tour. What an adventure! I thought, why not pop up north and join you.’
‘How’s Ma?’ she’d asked, accepting his explanation without question.
Clara, it seemed, was well, having found herself a new young man; the third, apparently, since that fateful night. Frank doubted this one would hang around any longer than the others. Kitty couldn’t help but smile. Clara was a survivor, albeit one who would lurch from one man to another all her life, each of them far too young and entirely unsuitable. Why could she never allow time to be herself and, vowing never to make the same mistake, Kitty decided she was probably wise to remain single.
Frank had proved surprisingly sanguine about the generally held belief that Dixie was his daughter. Not once had he refuted the rumour, though he could easily have done so, choosing instead to use it as a means to make further attempts to persuade her into marriage. His efforts had proved fruitless, a subject upon which Kitty held firm.
Even if she didn’t have Clara to hold up as a warning of the unreliability of love, since that terrible Christmas when Archie had been only too ready to wear blinkers and shift the blame on to Frank, despite having been prepared to enjoy the favours she offered, Kitty was even more determined to depend upon no one but herself. Men were not to be trusted. She was, and would remain, in every way, her own woman.
Sadly, for all these good intentions, it didn’t make her love him any the less. Archie’s relationship with Dixie was cordial enough, but in spite of the lingering hurt, a part of her stubbornly clung to the hope that one day, against all odds, he might realise that he was the child’s father, and not Frank. Then she could confess all and they would live happily ever after.
The next instant she would scold herself for nurturing such fanciful notions, for how dare she even consider her own happiness at the expense of poor Esme, who seemed destined to be a victim. She’d clearly been ill used by her own father, had loved Archie in vain, lost her ability to act, and struggled through a severe bout of depression from which she’d miraculously surfaced into some sort of contentment over recent months. Kitty put this all down to Reg’s influence, and she hoped and prayed that they would one day find true happiness together.
As for her own future, that must lie with the LTP’s. The company was her life and, in the main, worked well. There were occasions, however, when all might seem happy and chummy during the performance on stage while in reality nerves would fray, tensions mount and tantrums could become a frequent hazard.
This one ended, as it so often did with Charlotte bursting into furious tears and claiming everyone disliked her, which was probably true, and that nobody understood her, which certainly wasn’t true at all. Understanding Charlotte was remarkably simple, living with her day in and day out was the hard part. She considered herself to be the self-appointed heroine, the star in this firmament of jobbing actors. In Charlotte’s eyes she was the sole reason for the success of the Lakeland Travelling Players.
She remained in a sulk at the technical run through prior to the full dress rehearsal. Her acting was wooden, her mouth in a perpetual pout and she kept stopping every few minutes to complain about the lighting, the set, the script or the other actors. She was, in short, the most miserable uncoordinated Cinderella, Kitty had ever seen.
‘Turn into the audience, Charlotte, not away from them. You should know that by now and for goodness sake, smile. The children are more likely to go home weeping instead of happy, following such a diabolical performance.’
Charlotte stormed to the front of the stage, hands on hips, to glare across the footlights at Kitty’s unseen figure in the darkness. ‘How can I smile, or turn in the right direction when Felicity is under my feet the whole time? For pity’s sake, can’t anyone remember their damn moves?’
Kitty sighed. There was really little point in a slanging match at this point in the proceedings. ‘Let’s all have a cuppa, then go straight into the Dress, shall we?’
From then on the situation deteriorated rapidly and everything that could go wrong, did. Tessa couldn’t unlock the piano and had to run back to their digs where she’d left the sheet music. When she did finally get going with the song and dance routines, Charlotte complained she was in too high a key. Jacob, as Cinderella’s father, missed his first entrance and was found wallowing in self-pity, whisky bottle in hand, slumped in the green room. He had to be thoroughly doused with cold water and black coffee to rouse him back into action. Rod and Sam, who were playing the Ugly Sisters, took far too long in make up, and the costume Felicity had hoped to wear as principal boy, didn’t fit.
‘I’ve put pounds on since last Christmas,’ she mourned.
Too late to point out that it should have been tried on earlier, or even that a diet might have been a good idea, for within twenty-four hours they would hopefully be playing to a packed house.
The audience, however, on that first night, was decidedly thin. For once the weather seemed to have beaten them. Outside a veritable blizzard raged, snow forming in drifts against the stage door.
‘We’re done for. Nobody will come out on a night like this,’ Archie moaned with gloomy pessimism.
‘That’s right, cheer us all up,’ Kitty said, coming to stand beside him at the open door and gazing upon a scene of fairy-tale whiteness. ‘So far we’ve an audience of fourteen, not counting the caretaker.’
‘This’ll finish us, Kitty. We’ve not been doing as well as we should lately and pantomimes are fiercely expensive to put on. If we don’t get a good audience this week, we could end up with a serious loss.’
‘Let’s not think the unthinkable shall we?’ Determined to remain buoyant, she stepped out into the road to check if a queue was forming. There wasn’t. She shivered, rubbed her hands up and down her arms to warm them then walked back inside, closing the door against a blast of icy wind. ‘It’s early yet. How’s Charlotte?’ she asked. ‘Feeling more relaxed?’
Archie’s face was expressionless as he assured Kitty that she seemed perfectly recovered. They both knew this to be untrue. Charlotte was becoming an increasing worry to them all, constantly flying into a rage for no apparent reason, or playing the prima-donna and seeming to revel in making everyone’s lives a misery. But the faintest hint of criticism about her irascibility and Archie would spring to her defence, citing first night nerves, or the difficulties of a childhood which still haunted her. As he was the only one who could get any work out of her, it was quite impossible to countermand such arguments.
Jacob appeared at their side, loudly complaining of a poor house and begging Kitty to forgive him for his unspeakably unprofessional behaviour at the Dress. ‘Gone on the wagon now. Won’t fall off it. Honest injun.’
Laughing and shaking her head in despair and disbelief, Kitty hugged him, a feat in itself in view of his increasing girth. ‘I have every faith in you.’
Jacob’s predilection to imbibe of the “Dutch courage” in order to counteract his stage fright, was beginning to be a problem. Archie merely smiled and said nothing, as usual. ‘However small the audience tonight, once they’ve seen Rod and Sam as the funniest Ugly Sisters ever, not to mention our delightful chorus of nymphs and shepherdesses, they’ll spread the word around town and ev
eryone will come in droves tomorrow and for the rest of the week. See if they don’t.’
Thankfully the seats did fill up, in spite of the bad weather, but Charlotte took her revenge for losing the argument over the ballroom backcloth by delaying curtain-up by ten minutes. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she changed several of her moves and omitted a number of essential cues which made it look as if Felicity, in her role as Prince Charming, was the one at fault as she desperately tried to guess what Charlotte might say next and where on earth she was in the script.
A quarrel erupted the moment they stepped off stage, Archie valiantly defending Charlotte by saying that she was in dire need of a holiday. ‘Tired out, poor love.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Kitty, performing as the Fairy Godmother as well as directing, since they never had quite enough people for all the parts, wished she could wave her magic wand to turn Charlotte into a calm, sweet natured, quiet person like Esme. But then that would be too much to hope for. Charlotte was arrogant, demanding and completely selfish while Esme was - Esme. Even now she was apologising to Charlotte for not having given her a prompt.
‘Nor did you produce the pyrotechnic flash on cue.’
Esme’s cheeks grew pink, for that certainly was not the case. Yet she knew better than to protest.
Charlotte turned on Kitty. ‘And you mumbled your lines. Archie was the worst Buttons in the history of the theatre, and Rod and Sam were wooden and never in the right place at the right time.’
Kitty Little Page 18