Kitty Little (37 page)

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.

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.

It was then that Esme had made her decision. She would take him up on his offer, since it seemed the lesser of two evils. If she was to be one of his “Lovelies”, she would be the best he’d ever had. She would do anything he asked of her - on stage. But nowhere else.

When Esme put this proposition to him she saw his eyes gleam with interest, watched with horrified fascination as he licked his lips, almost as if he were relishing the taste of her as a future dessert to titillate his palette.

He taught her to practise her art in front of mirrors. At least this helped to squeeze out every last drop of embarrassment from her system. You couldn’t do what he asked of her otherwise. Sometimes he would sit and watch her rehearse the routine from start to finish, over and over again, commenting and criticising, planning and adjusting her costumes, making suggestions, attending to each fine detail with scrupulous care.

By the time the performance was over on this, its first public showing, Esme knew, with a terrible sinking of her heart, that she’d been wrong to think she could fall no further. She’d just taken another tumble.

It was a couple of months after she’d sent the letter to Charlotte, that Esme spotted Archie in the audience. She could hardly believe her eyes. There he was on the front row, large as life and grinning at her from ear to ear, just as if his own heart was leaping as madly as her own.

That evening she found her performance the most difficult yet. Esme was awash with embarrassment to know Archie’s eyes were upon her, perhaps not judging her too unkindly, since he wasn’t the moralistic sort, but he would surely be disappointed in her. This wasn’t what she should be doing. They were both aware of that.

He came to her dressing room when the show was over and gave her a great hug but quickly silenced her hasty explanations. ‘That was wonderful, old love. Never would’ve thought you had it in you.’

‘I’m not sure that I have. Oh Archie.’ She let him hold her for a long time, revelling in the solid comfort his presence offered. Esme could sense freedom. She could smell it. Archie would take her away from this seedy existence she’d been forced to endure. He would sweep her up and take her back to Repstone, no matter what Charlotte might say. Hadn’t she known, in her heart, that he would find her. He would carry her away like a knight of old on his gallant white charger, and she would be safe once more. Esme felt light-headed with relief, bubbling with delighted energy, laughing as she rained kisses all over his beloved face.

‘You can’t know how happy I am to see you.’

‘My word, and I am happy to see you too, my little Ragamuffin. No, not a ragamuffin any longer, eh? You looked beautiful out there. By Gad, you had them eating out of your hands.’

It was these words which brought the first stirrings of disquiet.

He took her out to dine in a cosy Italian restaurant just off Deansgate, where he filled her in on Charlotte’s latest antics and histrionics, of the removal of Dixie and how she was enchanting the Misses Frost. It was only when the waiter brought the bill, that it occurred to Esme that he had never once asked about her.

‘Don’t you want to know what I’m doing here, how I came to be part of this dreadful little theatre and one of Terrence’s Lovelies?’

‘Why should I, sweetie? None of my business eh? Besides, you were doing a splendid job, so it’s pretty obvious you’ve found your niche at last. Much better than being stage manager for the LTP’s.’

‘What?’ Esme stared at him aghast. He didn’t seem to understand. He thought she enjoyed degrading herself in front of all those men, and then slowly her eyes began to fill with tears. ‘Aren’t you going to take me home with you, Archie? I hate it here. You must realise I wouldn’t perform those - those lewd routines if I weren’t forced to.’

He glanced up from counting out coins to look at her in surprise. ‘Take you home? How could I do that, sweetie? Charlotte would never agree to having you at Repstone. Oh, but don’t cry. I can’t bear to see a woman cry. I’ll come and visit you here. How would that be? We could become chums again, just as we used to be. Wouldn’t that be grand?’

‘Oh Archie.’ No knight in shining armour then. No white charger upon which to carry her away.

He stayed with her for much of that night, making love to her in the gloomy little room back at the lodging house, leaving some time before dawn. At least she supposed that he did, since she never heard him go but, true to his word, he came to see her regularly after that, and they fell into a routine.

Archie would watch her act from the front row, then he’d take her to dinner at Romero’s, followed by an hour or two of lovemaking in her room before he would dash back to Charlotte, full of apologies and promising to stay longer next time. He never did, of course. Esme soon realised that, despite her pleas, he never would mention her predicament to his wife. He had placed Esme in the role of mistress, which was no more than she deserved, and that was where she must stay. It seemed to be the best she could hope for.

It was just before the interval on the last night of their stint at the military theatre and Kitty was singing
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag
, smiling at the audience, in particular at one young man on the front row who kept grinning or winking at her, nudging his mate in delight when she winked cheekily back. The pair had hardly missed a show that week and Kitty liked to show her appreciation.

She was also keeping half an eye on Tessa at the piano who was nodding her head in time to the beat, when there came an awesome, head-blasting explosion, a blinding white flare, followed by utter pandemonium. One minute there were rows of smiling faces, the next there were flames everywhere, a terrible roaring and screaming in her ears. Thick, choking smoke. Sheets of corrugated iron from the roof slicing downwards into the melee, shards of metal and cross beams falling as rain poured through, thankfully drenching the worst of the fire but creating its own mayhem as men blindly slid and fell over each other in their desperation to get out of the ruined building.

‘Dear God, help us,’ were the last words Kitty heard.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Some time later, when she came round, Kitty lay in her bed and listened with increasing horror as Felicity gently described the resulting devastation. ‘About a dozen young soldiers were killed, several more wounded. Jacob and Reg were fortunately backstage. Suzy and I were in the kitchen brewing tea.’

Kitty struggled to sit up, eyes dark hollows of pain. ‘Owen. Where was Owen? Is he safe?’ It suddenly seemed vitally important to hear that he was.

Felicity smiled. ‘Perfectly safe. He was practising his scales, would you believe, in the dressing room at the back of the building. It was the front which took a direct hit.’ She paused, stared down at her clenched hands, then back at Kitty. Even before she said the words, Kitty guessed what she was about to say.

‘Oh no. Not Tessa.’

‘She didn’t feel a thing. Death would be instantaneous. Her hands were still on the keys.’ Kitty read the pain and sympathy in her eyes, then put her face in her hands and wept.

She later learned that it had been the young soldier who had winked at her from the front row, who’d leapt up onto the small wooden platform to drag her to safety. But for his heroic act, she too would have lost her life that day. Kitty wasn’t able to thank him personally however, for he’d dashed straight back inside to find his mate, and never returned. But she would always remember his courage with gratitude.

‘I have to go home.’ It was the following day and Kitty and Owen were sitting on a stone wall in the sun. A soft April breeze brought with it the scent of blossom from nearby apple orchard, just as if death and annihilation had never visited this French valley.