Kitty Little

by Freda Lightfoot

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tommy Atkins was not winning. Not yet. The war on the Western Front continued unabated with neither side ahead. If it had been a game of football, he said, it’d be considered a draw at this point, but he was hoping for better luck in the second half. The Germans had started their bombardment on Verdun in February but the French managed to hold on, minimising their losses by keeping the bulk of their troops out of the front line. But the future did not look promising, and men were losing hope.

  It was March and the LTP’s were weary too. They’d been in France now for almost six months, without any leave and precious few letters, so it was with great excitement that Kitty heard of the arrival of a post bag. She set off at a run, hoping for news of Dixie, to be met by Frank.

  ‘I thought you’d like these. Just delivered at great expense over land and sea.’ He handed her two crumpled white envelopes with a sufficient air of condemnation to tell her, without even looking, that one of them was from Clara. She recognised Archie’s handwriting on the other and stuffed them both into her pocket, perversely quenching her excitement. Not once had he ever written to her before, in all the years she had known him.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll read them later I’m rather occupied at present.’

  They were in the middle of rehearsal in an Estaminet near Amiens which, within the next hour or two, would be filled by servicemen and no doubt thick with smoke. Tessa had played the overture twice through already. The room was freezing cold and Kitty was quite certain she was coming down with ‘flu, so her tolerance level was low.

  Frank stood blocking the path with his obtrusive presence. Resisting the urge to push past him, Kitty drew in a slow, patient breath. ‘I really don’t have time for games this afternoon, Frank.’ Still he made no attempt to move and she became filled with a sudden and infuriating sense of frustration. Why was he always there, under her feet, filling her with guilt.

  ‘Clara has written to me too. Are you going to write back? You should. You know she’d love to get a letter from you. I’ll find someone heading home who can deliver it. I’d do anything for you, Duchess.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ Shooting him a fierce glare, Kitty jerked away from him as he put out a hand towards her, her skin crawling in that all too familiar way, for she could barely tolerate his obsequiousness.

  ‘Did she send her love? She says in my letter that you don’t rightly deserve it, neglecting her as you do.’

  Kitty was at once awash with fresh guilt. Like it or not, there was an element of truth in the accusation. She had neglected her mother, not having visited her once in all these years. She dreaded to think how she’d feel if Dixie ever treated her in the same way. But then Kitty would never dream of trying to marry her off to a man she didn’t love, in order to settle a few debts. Nor be discovered in her daughter’s fiancé's bed. ‘I’m surprised she notices I’ve even gone. You’re more likely to be the one she misses, wouldn’t you say? Though no doubt she’s found some other young fool to warm her bed,’ and Kitty walked briskly away before she could say anything that she might later regret.

  Following the rehearsal, the Players grabbed coffee and a bun before the start of the evening performance, though as usual Kitty was far too nervous to eat. Afterwards she would eat like a horse, though it would probably be bully beef and mashed potato again.

  She did find a moment’s privacy to open the letter from Archie, which informed her that things hadn’t quite worked out as he’d hoped. The tone was bitter, of his dissatisfaction with his marriage, how Charlotte was determined to bankrupt him, and how much he missed Kitty.

  She gazed upon the words with awe. There was no mistake. He’d written it clear as clear, if in Archie’s usual sort of blunt shorthand. ‘Miss you Kitty, old thing. Still love you. Wonder sometimes if I married the right girl. What a rotter I was. Will you ever forgive me I wonder?’ She felt herself start to tremble with shock.

  He concluded with a postscript which informed her that Dixie was now staying with the Misses Frost, two delightful eccentrics who kept a boarding house in Carreckwater near Ambleside. Kitty scanned the rest of the page with dawning dismay, searching in vain for some reason, some explanation as to why he should be so heartless as to abandon his own child.

  This must be Charlotte’s idea. How could she do that? Kitty took comfort from the fact that at least Dixie would still have Nanny, a plump, well-meaning girl who absolutely adored her young charge. But who were these Misses Frost? Would they give Dixie the love and care she needed? Kitty felt sick with fear. What on earth was she doing here in France, when she should be caring for her own daughter back home in the Lakes.

  Clara’s letter remained in her pocket, unopened.

  Moments later, hurriedly tidying her hair ready to go on, Frank turned up at her side again, just like a bad penny, Kitty thought. ‘Sarcasm don’t suit you, Duchess. Beware of it,’ he warned, breezily tying on the red bow tie he always wore as he showed the audience to their seats, even here for the soldiers, in war-torn France. She had to admire that in him, though it was probably more out of vanity than respect for fighting men. He slicked down his hair and gave one of his cocky little winks. ‘Your ma says it’s time you and me was naming the day.’

  Kitty groaned. ‘Not that old chestnut again.’

  ‘Why d’you reckon I’ve hung around all these years? For the good of my health?’

  ‘Because no one else will have you. Because you don’t know how to keep your stupid mouth shut.’ Kitty blamed Frank entirely for Archie running off with Charlotte. Someone had told him the truth about Dixie, and it wasn’t difficult to guess who. Perhaps that was why Charlotte had thrown Dixie out. Taking her grievances out on Kitty’s child.

  ‘You could do worse than take me on, Duchess. Far worse, and, like I said, I don’t mind waiting.’ With a cheery grin he strolled off to conduct his duties in his usual officious manner. ‘Thank you, sir. That’s five bob for two. Second row down the front in the orchestra stalls, so you can hide under the stage if we get bombed.’ This was Frank’s idea of a joke, for the “theatre” was little more than a wooden hut with a tin roof, the performance was free and everyone grabbed a seat where they could. The two soldiers took the joking in good part though, saying the show was cheap at twice the price to hear Kitty Little sing, and chose the two best seats in the front row.

  ‘Five minutes to curtain up,’ Reg called. ‘Not that there is a curtain, but you know what I mean.’

  Kitty was suddenly overwhelmed by emotion, by memories of past shows before the war, by her worries over Dixie, of missing dear Esme from whom there was still no word and of Archie who claimed to still love her. She dashed outside for a breath of cooling fresh air, flew round the back of the truck and ran full tilt into Suzy who was puffing on a cigarette stuck in her favourite tortoiseshell holder. Suzy put out a hand to steady her, chuckling softly until she saw the tears streaming down Kitty’s cheeks. ‘What is it, love? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Oh, it’s Dixie,’ and Kitty burst into tears.

  ‘Oh God, no. What’s happened to her, poor lamb?’ Suzy was hugging Kitty, dabbing at her eyes, smoothing her hair. ‘Tell me quickly. What is it?’

  Kitty put her hand to her mouth and gulped back the tears. Then she gave a shaky laugh. ‘There’s nothing at all the matter with Dixie really, only with her silly mother. Oh Suzy, I miss her so much,’ and then they were both laughing through their tears and Kitty began to tell her about the Misses Frost. Suzy quickly calmed her concerns, saying the two sisters may well be a welcome improvement on Charlotte. After that it seemed perfectly natural to pour out her frustrations on the subject of Frank, and how he’d been working on her sense of guilt again. ‘I’ll swing for that man, I will really.’

  Suzy’s eyes were dancing with laughter, being all too familiar with Kitty’s fierce passions and her dislike of her one-time fiancé. ‘What’s he done now?’

  Kitty brushed away her tears and began to sm
ooth and tidy the trimmings and ribbons on the diva’s lavender silk gown, one that was all too familiar. ‘It’s amazing how much wear we’ve had out of this frock.’ She gave a harsh little laugh. ‘Though it was intended to catch Frank.’

  ‘Clearly it worked.’ Suzy chuckled. ‘He’s hardly left your side since he first saw you in it, I shouldn’t think. Perhaps it has magical powers. Would it catch me a fine young man too, do you reckon?’

  ‘Frank isn’t a fine young man. Frank is a bore! The dress doesn’t work with the right man. At least it didn’t with me.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s because you haven’t met the right man yet. Or not recognised him as such, shall we say?’

  ‘What? Of course I’ve met him. And lost him. You know how I felt about Archie. How I still feel.’ She did not dare mention what Archie had written in his letter about his own feelings.

  ‘Sometimes it’s best to let the past go. However...’ Suzy gave a shrug and a wry smile and, tucking her arm into Kitty’s they walked together back to the Estaminet. ‘Is Frank still going on about you two getting spliced?’ When Kitty groaned and nodded, she gave a little shrug. ’I suppose it is rather daring of you sweetie to be quite so modern. I must say I admire you for not rushing headlong into matrimony but independence can be carried too far. Men can be utter darlings, or so I’m told. Don’t you fancy being married to a lovely chap and having more little Dixies?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t. I’m not in the least interested in marriage or domestic bliss and all of that stuff. I have the LTP’s, and that’s enough for me.’

  ‘Well, my dear, if that’s the case and you truly aren’t interested in either marriage or men, why are you crying?’

  ‘I’m not crying.’ Perversely, Kitty found tears were indeed still running down her cheeks and she angrily slapped them away. Desperate to change the subject, she pulled out the other, still unopened letter, confessing to yet more self-pity for having neglected her mother.

  Suzy dabbed at the tears with a large handkerchief and declared that everyone neglected their mother. ‘That’s the way of human nature, darling child. We take the poor souls for granted and never fully appreciate them until it’s too late. You’re tired. Take a break. Go home to Blighty and see her. It will do you good.’

  ‘But its years too late.’

  ‘It’s never too late to visit your mother. Go and make your peace. Take little Dixie to see her grandmother, why don’t you?’

  Kitty had a sudden longing to hold her child close and breathe in the sweet scent of her. How could she have even borne being away for so long. What was wrong with her, neglecting everyone she loved for the sake of a troupe of travelling players. How many times had Archie complained about her being far too independent? No wonder Charlotte was able to march off with him from right under her nose. Was it too late to win him back? The thought made her smile, even so... ‘When do I have time to take a trip to London?’

  ‘Make time. We’ll manage.’

  ‘On the grounds that no one is indispensable?’

  ‘You come very near that, my dear. Now perk up and dab some powder on your nose. We have a show to do and it’s a brilliant one because you directed and star in it,’ which made Kitty cry all the more.

  ‘I don’t know how I’d manage without you and Jacob and all my friends. You’re like family to me. But everyone assumes I’m so strong.’

  ‘While underneath you’re as vulnerable and confused as the rest of us. I know darling. Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t always give that impression.’ Suzy kept her expression carefully bland as she stubbed out the remains of her cigarette. ‘Perhaps you should let that vulnerability show once in a while.’ Kissing Kitty on each cheek, she pushed her through the door. ‘And don’t worry about Frank. Why not persuade your ma to marry the little blighter herself,’ which set Kitty giggling so much, she went off happily to get changed.

  Esme was starting the third show of the day, though the first of a new routine and she was shaking with nerves. From two o’clock onwards there hardly seemed a minute to call her own. It was the immobile tableaux only in the afternoon so not too taxing, followed by Egyptian dancing in the early evening and later, when the lights were dimmed, came the lightly draped nymphs and goddesses. Live art, Terrence called it.

  Those were the words he’d used when he’d first persuaded her to join his Theatre of Lovelies and Esme still liked to think of it as such, for all that deep down she knew different. She only needed to catch a glimpse of the lascivious glint in the eyes of the watching men, (for the audience rarely featured women) and she understood completely the depths to which she had sunk. Yet without Archie, what did it matter?

  Terrence liked to think of himself as her Svengali. ‘I always take care of my girls,’ he’d say, and in a way this was true.

  He’d find them good, clean accommodation close to the theatre, would cook them delicious meals if they were homesick. Terrence’s love of women was rivalled only by his passion for food, the evidence of which could be seen in his impressive size. And he was always ready to offer a strong shoulder to cry on should they suffer from the blues. He also paid excellent salaries and kept their wardrobes filled with the very latest fashions.

  ‘Can’t have my girls looking anything but classy,’ he’d say. This wasn’t strictly true since he might insist they be modestly and expensively dressed, right down to their silk panties, but the overriding image he sought from his “Lovelies” was that they be sensual and salacious. He was fond of telling them how they were ‘images to celebrate the beauty of womanhood; untouchable, unreachable, but infinitely desirable.’

  In return for this excellent care and attention he expected them to work hard by doing three performances a day plus rehearsals, submit to whatever routines he planned for them, and, should they choose to offer any extra “services”, he would naturally show his gratitude for that too.

  From the start Esme had resolved not to fall into that particular trap. There was a limit, she decided, to how far she was prepared to fall. So long as she sank no further, she could survive.

  At first Terrence had pestered her daily, constantly coming to her dressing room, suggesting that he pay her a call later, and on one occasion actually did so without asking her permission. She woke up one night to find him standing by her bed. Cold fear had shot through her and she’d yanked the bedclothes as high as she could. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Don’t fret. Only calling in to check you were well, and to say goodnight. I thought you seemed a little off colour this evening.’

  ‘I’m tired of your pestering, that’s all. Leave me alone.’

  ‘You have to be kind to me, Esme. It’s part of the job.’ He’d considered her in thoughtful silence for a long moment, tugging at the whiskers on his chin, before leaving, softly closing the door behind him.

  The next night he came again, and the one after that, till she was jumpy from lack of sleep. ‘Leave me alone,’ she’d cried, desperate to make it clear that she was not on the menu.

  ‘Can’t I persuade you? I’d make it worth your while.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Such a waste, Esme love.’

  She was afraid. Panicking, Esme dispatched a hastily written letter to Charlotte, begging for her help. Employment had been hard to find of late. She had nowhere else to go since the kind of plays she’d usually excelled at were no longer being performed, because of the war. She’d earned insufficient money so far from this new job to make her independent, and was concerned that unless she provide these extra ‘services’ he required, she might never actually do so.

  She was not surprised when Charlotte did not reply. Why should she? Hadn’t she been furiously jealous of Esme’s success while she’d been away visiting her mother that time? Why should Charlotte be expected to come to her aid now? Filled with despair, Esme decided she had only one option. She must go back to the endless knocking on doors, the trek from town to town, and hope to survive.
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  Unfortunately, Terrence found her hastily packing a suitcase. Esme guessed that one of the other girls had told him that she was leaving. He came in, quietly closing the door.

  ‘I wouldn’t try to leave if I were you, love. You know that would hurt me very much and I’d only have to get one of my friends to fetch you back. You represent profit to me, girl. And a great deal of time and training.’ He put his hand on her neck, caressing the skin while circling it almost entirely with his thick fingers. ‘Just be a good little flower and do as you’re told. The show must go on, eh?’

  Bravely, Esme had looked him straight in the eye and demanded to know if these extra ‘services’ were obligatory, because if so, to hell with his “profit”, she was off right now. He’d calmly assured her this was not at all the case. ‘This is a free country, flower. I may be a businessman with an eye to the main chance, as they say, but I hope I’m still a gentleman.’

  Esme had simply lifted her eyebrows and said nothing.

  ‘But a girl has to pay her way, one way or another.’

  ‘I’m an actress, not a...’

  He’d put a finger against her lip. ‘Never use rude words, not in front of Terrence. My mother always brought me up to be sensitive to a lady’s needs. I understand women. Believe me. Women often say no when really they just need a little persuasion.’

  ‘No amount of persuasion will make me change my mind. Ever.’

  Something in her tone, and perhaps the fierce look in her eye, finally made him believe her and although for a second the hold on her neck had tightened, he’d quietly removed it. ‘Make yourself indispensable on stage then, and I might be persuaded to let you off other duties - for now. But don’t even think of running. I won’t be cheated out of my investment in you, Esme.’

  She’d understood perfectly that although her boss might seem perfectly calm and reasonable on the surface, he possessed an underlying taste for violence. And he had friends with even fewer scruples. She saw enough of them in the audience, night after night.