Kitty Little (2 page)

‘Wasn’t it all wonderful?’

‘Of course, my dear. Don’t I always know what is best for you?’ Frank concluded in self-satisfied tones. And while he collected coats and capes and hailed a cab, Kitty experienced the slightest chill drift across her shoulder blades.

On their arrival home Frank lingered in the hall hoping for a goodnight kiss but Kitty hastily excused herself and made for the stairs, claiming she was tired. From the first landing she watched him disappear into the back kitchen, no doubt for a night-cap with Ma, then picked up her skirts and fled. But instead of going directly to her own room, tucked away in the front attic, she scrambled up the back stairs and slipped quietly into the top floor back.

Archie Emerson was sitting up in bed, a muffler tucked in the neck of his striped pyjamas and an old cardigan draped loosely over his shoulders. His too-thin face looked a sickly grey in the light of the gas mantle above his head and Kitty stifled the anxious enquiry concerning the state of his health which sprang instantly to her lips whenever she saw him.

Archie had survived the accident that had killed her brother, physically at least, with barely a scratch. Outwardly he was unchanged, the same relatively fit young man, as raven-haired, blue-eyed and handsome as when he and Raymond had first met years ago at some motor rally or other. But this was merely the shell. Inside, Kitty could tell that, like herself, he was quite different. The accident had changed him.

It had been Archie who’d been driving the motor, probably far too fast on a country road slick with rain and mud. It had run out of control, hit a tree and Raymond had been killed outright. Guilt now ate away at Archie’s soul. It was this awesome weight of responsibility, in addition to grieving for a much loved friend, which had led him into depression and near starvation till, in the end, he’d caught a ferocious attack of ‘flu which had in turn resulted in pneumonia. For a while his life had hung in the balance, and, with no family of his own, Kitty had brought him to Hope View to nurse him.

Surprisingly, Clara had not blamed Archie for her son’s death, taking a philosophical view about the pranks of boys. She’d gladly taken Archie in, didn’t even charge him rent for all she was not known for pampering her guests, and ordered special egg custards and beef tea to be made for him. Nevertheless, for all he enjoyed being the centre of attention, he couldn’t bear to be fussed over.

Kitty flopped down on the bed beside him, lying flat out on the crumpled eiderdown.

‘Hello Kitty-Cat, old thing.’ Raymond had given her this pet name from childhood, when he couldn’t quite get his tongue round Katherine, and Archie had adopted it. She didn’t mind as she missed her twin sorely, as did Archie, so was content for him to act as Raymond’s stand-in, a sort of surrogate brother. ‘Good show, was it?’

‘The best. You wouldn’t believe how marvellous it was.’

‘Did the actors declaim and rant and rave in suitably heroic fashion?’ he teased.

She sat up, eyes bright, fixing her gaze earnestly upon his. ‘No they did not. They sang and danced and spoke with such
feeling
, you wouldn’t believe. Not in the least Victorian but entirely modern. A glorious riot of colour, wickedly clever scenery and there was the most wonderful song performed by a woman with cropped hair, would you believe? topped with a huge ostrich feather.’

Unconvinced, as if determined to prove that he had missed nothing by being forced to remain in bed, Archie persisted. ‘Surely the keynote of good drama is simplicity, in order to let the characters shine. The set should not in any way detract from the play.’

‘Oh, I do agree, in principle. I mean, in the straight theatre, words, words, words are everything. The set doesn’t need to be so important then as you can leave much to the imagination of the audience. But this was a musical, so those rules don’t apply.’

Kitty loved to air her views on the theatre, most of which she’d picked up from the constant stream of thespian tenants who had passed through the doors of Hope View
over the years. Years in which she’d grown up without a father, and with a mother whose sole aim was to create a vastly different future for her only daughter. Yet Kitty loved to soak up the many stories of theatrical life which buzzed all around her, longing to taste it for herself. If she had a dream, this must be it. To appear on stage. Sadly, it was never likely to happen.

‘But was it
art
, darling?’ There was a mocking cynicism in his tone, one she’d grown accustomed to of late and Kitty paid it no heed.
 

Slapping playfully at him, she laughed. ‘Don’t be such an horrendous snob. Why should it not be? It was all so - oh I don’t know. Exciting, wonderful, marvellous! I simply adored it.’

Archie was laughing too, enraptured as always by her enthusiasm. ‘You were glad you went then?’

‘Oh yes.’ She began at once to repeat her tale, frequently digressing with descriptions of a particular scene, the magnificence of the costumes and brilliance of the acting, gesticulating wildly with her slender hands and finishing with a detailed description of the pictures in the lobby. ‘I was looking at a photo of some actor or other doing
Charley’s Aunt.
Do you remember us all going to see it ages ago? Raymond doing a wonderful takeoff of Lord Fancourt Babberley. I laughed till I cried.’

‘Light comedy,’ Archie grumbled, snuffling into his handkerchief and reverting to his self-appointed air of gloom. ‘Hardly Shakespeare, my dear.’

‘But brilliant dialogue. Such wit. Don’t patronise, Archie dear, it doesn’t suit you. You know it’s one of your favourites. Of course this show was entirely different.’ And as she once again pressed home her point, he lay back on the pillows with a sigh and let his eyelids droop, making it clear that he was bone-weary, far too tired for further discussion.

In truth she knew him to be miffed at having missed the show. And he always hated to lose an argument. But then, recalling the lateness of the hour, realised that he might indeed be tired. Kitty stopped in mid-sentence and leaning forward, kissed the lean cheek. ‘Cocoa? You look all in.’

‘Am rather, old thing.’

‘Dearest Archie, I’m sorry for babbling on. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, shall I?’

He knew that she would anyway, so didn’t trouble to reply.

As Kitty crept out, pulling the door softly closed behind her, she heard him call after her. ‘Don’t drip cocoa on that new frock or Ma will kill you. Giggling, she skipped along the landing, up the front stairs and into her own tiny room where she prudently stepped out of the dress before pulling on an old check dressing-gown and heading for the kitchen.

After settling Archie for the night, Kitty returned to her room where she scowled at the pool of lavender blue silk on the floor, only too aware of the reason why her mother had insisted on buying the dress, despite it costing a small fortune she could ill afford. She’d wanted to make absolutely certain that Kitty looked her best for Frank so that the engagement went ahead. Yet there was never any doubt on that score. Frank would do exactly as Clara suggested. Nor did Kitty believe for one minute that the tickets for
Hullo Ragtime
had been Frank’s idea. Kind as he undoubtedly was, he’d never think of such a thing on his own account, not in a million years. He was far too unimaginative, bless his heart.

Oh, but it had been wonderful! Whatever sacrifices her mother had made in order to procure them, Kitty was truly grateful.

Even now she could feel her heart pounding with the excitement of it all and she did a little tap dance before settling to sip her cocoa. Swinging her long legs up over the arm of her chair, she arranged them in the most comfortable and unladylike position she could find and picked up her book,
Arms and the Man,
for a quiet read before bed.

 
But the book remained closed on her lap, the cocoa scarcely touched as it came to her that the thrill of the evening had been generated not by her engagement to Frank but by the show itself. Surely that was the wrong way round?

She sat as if dazed, eyes fixed upon the view of rooftops through the attic window, their chimneys poking like fingers into the darkening sky. The sensation always made her feel slightly claustrophobic. Kitty hated London, wondered desperately if she was destined to live out her entire life in this smoky muddle of bricks and mortar.

She and Raymond had often talked of escaping to a new life, somewhere deep in the country. There seemed no such possibility of that now. They’d often used to giggle about Frank Cussins behind their hands as he pontificated on some worthy subject or other, saying he must have been born middle-aged with that receding hair line and the slightest hint of a double chin. Yet in Clara’s eyes at least he was an excellent catch, and Kitty had to admit that he was steadfast and earnest; she felt safe with him, even if he was rather on the dull side.
 

She let a flicker of moonlight catch the tiny solitaire stone of her ring. Was it a real diamond? Had Frank chosen it himself, or had her mother had a hand in that too? Why didn’t she feel excited? Why wasn’t she happy? And if she wasn’t, Kitty wondered why she’d allowed the engagement to take place at all.

Dear Lord, had she agreed to marry him out of pity? Or to please her mother?

‘A girl must have a husband, oh dear me, yes. What would the world come to if gels refused to marry? Anarchy, no less,’ Kitty recited, rather dramatically, to the empty room. She lifted her mug of cocoa as if in a toast, then drank it back in one like a shot of whisky. Then she closed her eyes in pained resignation.

Or was it simply because she’d been too filled with grief for her beloved brother to care.

A cold hand gripped her heart, squeezing out all the excitement that the evening had engendered and now, too late, she faced reality. She was engaged to be married to a man she didn’t even love. Tears squeezed from beneath the sensible lashes and dripped on to her clasped hands.

She would have to tell him that it had all been a mistake; that she wasn’t ready for marriage, not while she still grieved. She slapped the tears firmly away with the flat of her hand. Over twelve months since Raymond had died, and still it felt like yesterday. Clara said it was time to think of the future. But was marriage with Frank Cussins the right future for her?

The next morning Kitty pulled on a favourite sweater, somewhat disreputable and with a hole in one elbow; dragged on a well-worn tweed skirt that finished just above the anklebone revealing a darn in one stocking, and crept downstairs. She intended to avoid breakfast: kippers, judging by the smell that was wafting up from the dining room. Casting one anguished glance at the hall table, loaded yet again with social invitations her mother had no doubt procured for her, Kitty snatched up her coat and bolted for the front door, her one thought being to escape the anticipated grilling which always followed one of Clara’s carefully planned outings.

Then caught the first bus which happened along in a desperate effort to escape, quite certain that the gown was destined never to be worn again. She was wrong, for the life of this particular garment had barely begun.

Clara, supposedly supervising Myrtle frying kippers while she scraped margarine onto wafer thin slices of bread, kept the kitchen door half open and one ear cocked. She was determined to take her errant daughter to task for leaving poor Frank standing in the hall with not even a goodnight kiss after that
expensive
night at the theatre. She heard the front door slam and ran to snatch it open again to stand dancing with frustration on the front doorstep. She might well have yelled at Kitty to return this instant, were it not for the fact that such an action would make lace curtains twitch all along the street. Foiled in her plan, Clara snatched up a plate of bread and butter, yelled at Myrtle to start on the washing up the minute she’d brewed the tea, and flounced off to the dining room in search of a more sympathetic ear.

Dear Frank was surely the best one to deal with Kitty when she was in one of her moods. He was also the ideal man to bring her grieving daughter back to life and offer her the future she deserved. Didn’t she herself know from personal experience what it was like to live alone, without the comforts a man could offer? The mere thought of the girl’s ingratitude made her blood boil.

Clara kicked open the dining room door, smiling beneficially upon the guests waiting hopefully for their kippers as she slammed down plates of bread and marg. ‘Mr Cussins, may I have a word?’ she purred sweetly.

He glanced up from his seat at the window table and quietly removed the spectacles from where they perched on the end of his nose so he could read the morning paper.

‘Certainly Mrs Terry.’ It was a delightful little game they played, that they were always so punctiliously formal in front of the other guests. He carefully folded the paper and laid it neatly by his plate before weaving his way between the tables towards her.

Clara felt her heart give a little flutter for he was indeed a fine figure of a man. Heaven help us, the girl didn’t appreciate how fortunate she was. Twenty-one years old and still turning her nose up at every suitor who came along. She gave a simpering little giggle as he approached. If that little madam didn’t make an effort to treat this one with more respect she’d be left on the shelf, sure as eggs is eggs, and remain forever an old maid. The very idea made Clara shudder. She was determined that Kitty must be saved from herself no matter what the cost; dragged to the altar if necessary. Whatever had possessed her to run off this morning. She’d wring her bleeding neck when she got her hands on her.