Kitty Little (29 page)

In the main she sat elegantly in the prompt corner, taking enormous pleasure in correcting the cast’s mistakes. And no matter how busy they were, she always insisted on a lie down in the afternoon.

It was during one such siesta that Mrs Pips came to see her. She walked boldly in without knocking, or even a by-your-leave, and closed the door behind her. Irritated by this intrusion, Charlotte bit back the complaint that sprang to her lips as one glance into the old house-keeper’s face revealed that her situation was even more dire than she’d appreciated.

Mrs Pips wasted no time in coming to the point. ‘I followed you that night, the one where you ran off during the interval,’ she bluntly informed Charlotte, folding thin arms across a narrow chest. ‘I know where you went, and I know why. I know all about that invalid husband of yours. It took no more’n a few questions round and about to find out the whole sorry story. So I’m telling you straight, if you don’t leave my Archie alone and give him and Esme a proper chance to make a go of their relationship, I’ll tell him what I know. Tell everyone in fact.’

Charlotte listened almost open mouthed to these pronouncements. They came quite out of the blue, and shook her more than she could say. She hadn’t even begun to shape any sort of reply before the old woman issued her parting challenge. ‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think about it.

After she’d gone, Charlotte stormed back and forth in the green room, ranting and raving so that anyone hearing her changed their mind about coming in and scurried away. Except for Frank.

Frank’s opportune visit, just an hour after that of Mrs Pips, shed a completely new light on the entire problem. It was really most fortuitous that his anxiety to remind her of an earlier promise to help him to persuade Kitty into matrimony gave her the further information Charlotte needed to bring about the required solution for her own problems.

She was a model of diligence during that evening’s performance. Reg never needed to call her twice for she would be there, smiling serenely at his elbow, whatever task he’d required of her dutifully completed. And if during the interval she spent far longer than necessary on stage, checking furniture and props, testing the winding gear which hoisted and lowered the backcloth, no one remarked upon it. Nor did anyone notice her slip into front of House, or see coins being slid into back pockets among the riff-raff standing at the back. So it came as a surprise to them all when the riot started.

It began as a groundswell from the back of the hall. A soft wave of complaint and grumbles that ebbed and flowed till it washed over the back stalls, peaking to a roar with individual voices calling out louder than the rest.

‘Where’s little Lottie? We want our lottie.’ The cry was taken up by several more.

‘Take this boring play off,’ they yelled.

‘Bring back the dancing girls.’

‘Aye, them in the flimsy frocks wi’ nowt underneath.’

‘Bring us our Lottie.’

It felt as if a tidal wave rose and broke right over the stage itself, for the cast were suddenly swamped by brutish young men clambering all over it, picking up furniture and breaking it to bits, smashing stage crockery, throwing props about and causing utter mayhem. Esme had her hands to her mouth, screaming with fear. Suzy was frozen with shock while Felicity rushed on stage to batter the rabble-rousers over the head with her bicycle pump. Jacob and Archie ran to help, while Reg fled to call the police.

Mrs Pips was standing where she always stood, at the back of the stage with Esme’s change of costume in her hand, utterly transfixed by the scene before her. Somebody shouted to her to step back, and, although she wasn’t certain from where the voice came or whose it was, she obeyed instinctively, afraid of the crush that was swelling towards her. She didn’t hear the winding handle creak, or spin out of control, nor the rope snap as someone cut it, because of the bedlam all around. And she never thought to look up as the backcloth, complete with its weighted chain and heavy crossbeam that usually held it secure high up in the flies, came careering down upon her head.

Archie was devastated, so desperately upset by the death of his former housekeeper and dear friend that Charlotte left it until the week following the funeral before embarking on the last part of her plan. She allowed him to stumble across her seated on a dressing trunk behind the scenes, weeping softly into her hanky. She brushed the tears quickly away, feigning bravery, for this always appealed to the gentleman in him.

‘What’s wrong, Charlotte, old love? No more sniffles allowed. We have to go on. Pips would expect it.’

He’d quite misunderstood, and for a moment Charlotte was nonplussed but, actress that she was, she didn’t allow this to show, merely used it to her benefit. ‘Oh Mrs Pips was such a
dear
friend, and I’m in sore need of one of those right now.’

‘Won’t I do?’ He took away the soggy scrap and offered her his silk handkerchief in its place. Charlotte used it to dab at her crocodile tears.

‘Oh dear, I’m afraid you’re going to hate me.’

‘Never!’

‘Promise?’
 

‘Spit it out Charlotte. You know how I hate prevarication.'

‘I’m afraid that our little moments of intimacy, our high jinks, have had an unexpected - well, not entirely unexpected, I suppose - an unasked for result.’

His eyes widened with shock. ‘You don’t mean..?’

Charlotte nodded. ‘I do.’ It was a lie, but only she knew that pregnancy was impossible following the accident years before. Not that this troubled her. A timely “miscarriage” could be easily manufactured, once she’d achieved her object. She’d thought it all through most carefully, and now put the last pieces of her plan into effect. ‘Why do you think I ran away? I was filled with shame. I know how you feel about responsibility, commitment,
encumbrances
, and I don’t want to add to them,’ she whimpered. ‘But I couldn’t cope with being an unmarried mother, as Kitty does. I don’t have her strengths. Oh, it’s all so
awful
! Yet I know it’s her you owe responsibility to, more than to me.’

She gave no thought to Esme, not truly appreciating how close the pair had become while she was away. Charlotte had always seen Kitty as her chief rival to Archie’s affections, and still did so now.

He came to sit beside her on the trunk. ‘Why would I have any responsibility towards Kitty?’

Charlotte gazed at him in moist-eyed innocence. ‘I mean because of the baby. Everyone knows it’s all a pretence, a lie, that Dixie is Frank’s child. I mean, you know too, deep down? Though you
really
only thought of her as a sister, didn’t you, despite the fact you must have - well - at least once I suppose. Which I’m quite certain must have been at her instigation. But if you were ever prepared to take on the responsibility of a child, it should be Dixie first, shouldn’t it? By rights. Rather than any child of mine. Mine and yours, that is.’ Charlotte ran out of steam, which was perhaps just as well, judging by his reaction.

For a moment she thought that he was about to strike her. He was shaking with emotion, his face scarlet with rage, then bleached white, finishing up a sort of dull shade of purple. ‘Are you trying to tell me that Dixie is
mine
, and not Frank’s at all.’

‘Well yes, I thought you
knew
! Oh dear, I’ve handled this all wrong.’ Charlotte considered it judicious to resort to tears again. The cold fury in his expression was really quite alarming. ‘Oh Archie, you do see why I didn’t dare tell you about
my
condition.’

Without a word he strode from the room. For a moment Charlotte was half afraid he intended to confront Kitty with this news there and then. She should have known better, of course. Archie hated confrontations, would do anything to avoid such a thing.

It was Frank he spoke to, and, once having satisfied himself of the true facts, it took no time at all for Charlotte to bring her scheme to a satisfying conclusion.

None of this would do anything to improve Frank’s chances, despite her promises to help him, but why should she care about that? Charlotte had got what she wanted. At last.

It was Esme who came to Kitty with the news. She was weeping uncontrollably, her face pinched with distress, and although she’d done little else since the death of Mrs Pips, her dear old friend, Kitty saw at once that something more had occurred.

‘What is it now? What’s happened Esme? Tell me.’

Esme handed her a note. It was from Charlotte and stated briefly that neither herself nor Archie would be available for the next tour. It said that she was carrying his child and that they’d eloped to Gretna Green, following which they’d be heading for Italy on an extended honeymoon.

Kitty stared at the letter in stupefaction before screwing it up into a tight ball. Whatever she might have said, or felt, or thought about the situation no one was ever to learn, for Jacob arrived at that moment with more serious news.

It was the first week in August 1914 and a state of emergency had been declared. Mobilisation was under way. The war that was to change the course of history was about to begin.

Act Two

France

1915

Chapter Seventeen

Kitty had never expected war service to be easy. She’d embraced the idea of embarking to France to entertain the troops as a much needed antidote to self pity, but not for a moment had she expected it to be like this. Already she longed to turn and run and forget the whole madcap scheme, yet it had barely begun.

The journey from Folkestone had been a gruelling nightmare. They’d embarked on a glorious Autumn day in 1915, with the sun striking the chalk cliffs that normally gave shelter to the local fishing fleet and channel steamers rather than ships full of soldiers and artillery, going off to war.

She’d spent most of the crossing hanging over the rail being stupendously sick while young boys masquerading as soldiers stood about in their life jackets, smoking and joking as if they were off on a Sunday School outing. Feeling rather sorry for herself, Kitty had marvelled that they could be so light-hearted when they were about to face the bitter cold of mud trenches, the whine of bullets or the horror of poison gas.

‘Give us a crack at Fritz,’ was their only response whenever they were asked their feelings on the matter.

Several of the older men were clearly returning to the front for even more punishment after recent hospitalisation, wearing their gold wound bars like a badge of honour.

Now, having to her great surprise survived the rough voyage, Kitty stood with the rest of the company on the harbour at Boulogne amongst a pile of boxes, bags and even a small piano, while a sea of khaki cascaded around them. A brighter sun was now reflected on guns carried by men swarming down gang planks. Supplies were being loaded on to trucks; motor cycles careered off in every direction on unknown messages of great urgency; ambulances lined up patiently waiting to place the wounded on board before the ship set sail back to Blighty.
 

Kitty thought it would be a miracle if it could ever manoeuvre its way out to sea again through a harbour mouth thickly congested with submarines, destroyers, ammunition carriers and craft of every description. Overhead was the constant drone of aircraft, adding to the cacophony of noise which did nothing to ease her aching head, or her sense of disorientation.

‘Are you feeling better?’ Jacob’s kindly face came into view, his faded eyes peering anxiously at her while his spectacles dangled uselessly, as always, from his waistcoat pocket. Scarlet check today. Ever the dandy.

‘I’m just about to organise a cup of tea for her,’ Frank portentously informed him, as if such things could easily be procured in a French harbour in wartime, served in wafer thin china on a silver tray with petit fours, no doubt. He jostled the old man to one side and shouted to no one in particular. ‘Tea. Over here please. Someone unwell needs tea.’ If anyone heard they gave no sign. Frank’s ridiculous pomposity did, however, serve to lighten her mood and Kitty actually smiled, despite her queasiness.

‘I don’t think we can expect waitress service, do you?’

‘Perhaps it’s the tweeny’s day off.’ Felicity said on a guffaw of her barking laughter.

‘Miss Kitty Little? If you’re the Travelling Players, follow me please.’ A booming voice in her ear, shouting above the din.

‘That’s us,’ Kitty yelled back, turning with relief to a voice which seemed to hold the authority to understand what was going on. Moments later the small troupe were being led through the confusion. ‘Captain Dafydd Owen Williams will be in charge of you. He’ll be along shortly. The army’s wheels are oiled by punctuality.’

Their boxes of props, costumes and other belongings were swiftly loaded onto the back of a small truck and they too were brusquely ushered up after it, each of them being handed a tin hat as they climbed aboard with firm instructions to ‘wear it at all times.’

‘I believe we’re to go to the new military theatre that has been built behind the lines. We’re keen to get there today if we can. Is it anywhere near the Front?’

‘Ask no questions. Just do as you’re told,’ she was bluntly informed, and before Kitty had time to thank their saviour for rescuing them from being drowned underfoot by the crush of soldiers, he had clicked his heels smartly together, saluted and vanished into that very same crowd.