Kitty Little (4 page)

‘Oh!’ Startled, Esme had a sudden vision of Archie, tall and lean in spanking new cricket whites, setting a topspin on an overarm as he sent the ball down the wicket towards her. A memory as sweet and fresh as dew. There were many such. She’d been fourteen, an impressionable adolescent, all freckles and coltish eagerness. Archie had been almost twenty-four and amazingly handsome. How she had loved him, even then. ‘What did he say?’ She edged forward in her seat, the tea and biscuits forgotten.

‘That he’s been poorly but he’s on the mend now. See, I’ll show it thee.’ Ida got up from the table with cautious regard to her stiffening joints, to make frustratingly slow progress to the dresser. From a drawer she extracted a sheet of paper which she transferred into Esme’s eager hand. ‘Read it for yourself. The lad seems hale and hearty enough.’

‘Is he coming home?’ The question burst from Esme’s lips even as she scanned the single sheet and discovered for herself that there was no mention of a visit.

Ida Phillips felt a surge of regret at having raised the poor child’s hopes. Archie and Esme had grown up together, close friends and neighbours all of their young lives, though there was nearly a decade between their ages. When he’d gone off on his travels the girl had cried as much as she, waiting eagerly for postcards and letters from Venice, Rome, Paris and other exotic locations. His last letter had stated simply that he was back in England, had suffered an accident but was all in one piece, save for a bit of a cold coming on. Since then, silence.
 

‘At least the news is good, eh?’ Ida did her best to let the girl down lightly. ‘He never did care much for this place, not since his parents died. Tragic that were. Poor lad felt he’d no one left.’

‘He had you.’

Ida’s face softened. ‘Aye, he allus had me. Never forgets his old Pips, he don’t. But he’s a man now, with a life of his own to lead. Happen he’ll come home, happen he won’t. We’ll just have to wait and see, now won’t we?’

‘I suppose so.’ Oh, but she did hope he would. Where was he, and why didn’t he come? Distracted by a sudden ache of longing Esme reached for a second biscuit before finishing the first. Ida simply smiled.

Clara refused absolutely to speak to Kitty. She would walk by her on the stairs with her nose in the air, lips clamped tight shut, as if to make plain the injury caused by her daughter’s lack of gratitude.

Frank, however, did his utmost during these early days of their engagement to please her. He took Kitty to the zoo, to see the crown jewels in the Tower of London, for picnics and walks by the Serpentine. Best of all, he took her again to the theatre, this time to the Music Hall, where they marvelled at the magicians, wept at the melodrama, sang along with Marie Lloyd and cheerfully booed the pompous Master of Ceremonies. Seated high up in the gallery he ventured to kiss her but Kitty managed to turn her head just in time and the kiss landed on her cheek instead.

Afterwards they ate jellied eels out of a paper bag. It was great fun, for all Archie mocked the outing as being fit only for the ignorant masses and not true theatre at all. Kitty responded by saying how she greatly appreciated Frank’s efforts.

He was proving to be quite a gentleman, in his bluff, self-deprecating way. Most evenings would find them in the parlour playing backgammon or chess quite companionably together. Almost like an old married couple, as Archie would caustically remark.

And as they played Frank talked, usually about the smart little house he was having built for them in the garden suburbs, while Kitty observed the guests seated morosely around the lounge, wondering if perhaps she should consider it a blessing not to have been taken up by a theatrical agent into this most insecure of professions. Amongst the motley collection of actors who occupied her mother’s lodging house, few seemed to profit from it. Most appeared down-at-heel in their luck. You only had to look at their clothes and footwear to know that. Nor did many put much effort into rectifying the situation as if, like her, they’d tried but lost heart. But then hope was something you’d largely abandoned if you chose to stay at Hope View, despite its optimistic name.

Most actors managed to keep the wolf from the door by doing odd jobs, working as a waitress, shop assistant or barman which, generally speaking, they hated. They called this ‘resting’. They rarely wanted regular work in case an audition or good part should turn up. Others would lose their job through drowning their sorrows in too much drink, or ‘a superfluity of alcoholic beverages’ as Leonard, a one-time Shakespearean actor preferred to call it.

Rents were paid weekly and, if they were unable to meet the cost, were expected to visit Clara in her office with an explanation and proposed time-scale of when the debt might be settled. It was always a humiliating process for it was well known that Clara Terry was not a woman of sentiment. No rent - no room, was her policy. Poor payers were allowed two weeks grace before they were evicted, their goods put out on the dusty pavement if necessary. In consequence nobody ever stayed very long at Hope View. Clients such as Frank Cussins who paid on the nail each week, didn’t take to drink and were clean in their habits were a rarity indeed. But then he was far too predictable to be otherwise. No doubt once he had his house in the suburbs, he’d plant a neat little garden surrounded with a privet hedge which he would clip every Sunday. Kitty shuddered. And she still hadn’t confessed her change of heart.

‘I’ve just captured the last of your pieces, Kitty. Another game to me. I fear you’re not concentrating.’

‘Maybe I’m not up to your skill,’ she said, not wishing him to interrogate too closely what it was that so preoccupied her.

‘I shall set the board out again and give you one or two pointers, shall I?’

Sighing deeply, Kitty paid scant attention as he punctiliously laid out the pieces once again, nor on the instructions he issued on her shortcomings as the game progressed.

‘We must take another trip to the theatre one day,’ Frank commented as he captured her bishop, ‘so that you may wear your silk dress again.’

Kitty stretched her lips into a stiff smile, wishing she could feel more enthusiastic. ‘That would be lovely.’

His eyes, set rather too close together, regarded her with a bright fondness but, encouraged by the smile, he leaned forward to whisper confidentially, ‘don’t fret about Clara’s sulks. She has a lot on her mind at present but she’ll come round. I explained that a girl needs time to herself now and then, particularly when she’s newly affianced.’ Frank winked as he removed a knight, following it by two pawns. ‘I pointed out that there’s really no rush for us to wed. I perfectly understand that you need time to get over your grieving,’ as if it were some sort of disease which would ultimately be cured.

Nevertheless Kitty appreciated his thoughtfulness. He was only being kind and he did understand about Clara. Her smile this time was more natural, filled with relief. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered back. ‘You’re a brick.’

‘Check mate,’ he said, gathering up her king, and they both laughed.

Esme sat in the sewing circle making vicious little stabs into the towelling fabric. She had opted to make bibs for babies which, she reasoned, even she couldn’t mess up since there were no armholes to worry over, no darts or pleats which always defeated her. But stitching on the bias binding was driving her mad with boredom. It had taken weeks to finish three pink and now she was on her second blue. Did the poor babies care if they were given the wrong one? she wondered.

She could hear a skylark singing somewhere, the pure clarity of its song soaring heavenwards as the tiny brown bird hovered invisibly high above the church meadow.

‘When you’ve finished your half dozen bibs, Esme, you can start on something more adventurous like smocking.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Walsh.’ Was that to be the summit of adventure and achievement in her life? To be allowed to put smocking on a child’s frock?

Her father praised her warmly when she got home. ‘I know needlework is not your forte, but think of those who will benefit from your efforts. Mrs Walsh distributes every scrap to those in the parish who do not have either the time or ability to sew, or the money to purchase clothes for their children. It is a generous act of mercy. Bless you.’

‘I suspect they could get along much better without me. The thread keeps getting tangled or breaking, or slipping out of my needle and it takes an age to re-thread every time.’

The Reverend Bield smiled. ‘I’m sure your skills will improve. Practise makes perfect. Your mother was a splendid seamstress.’

‘I am not my mother.’

‘You’re so like her, you must forgive me if at times I compare you with her. I miss her so very badly.’

‘I know, Father. I’m sorry.’

He came to stand behind her where she sat at the table, cupping her cheeks between his hands as he tilted her head back so that he could kiss her brow. ‘Well done my child. No, not a child any longer. In fact you are growing up far too quickly.’

‘Nineteen soon. My birthday, remember?’ There was excitement in her voice, in her eyes as she looked up at him. Esme had asked for a book, one by Charles Dickens, on a sudden urge to improve the quality of her reading matter.

‘Of course,’ he murmured, half to himself. ‘Almost a woman. Just like my darling Mary.’

Esme was wondering if her request would be granted when she became aware of a small pressure upon her breast. She realised with a frisson of shock that his hands had slid down, one grasping her shoulder, the other covering one breast, the fingertips flickering lightly over the nipple. She held her breath, waiting for him to realise and remove it. Instead, the pressure intensified and hardened, moving with a sensual purpose that made her feel trapped, unclean. Shocked, she jerked upright, pushing him away, cheeks aflame.

‘What is it, my dear? Don’t be troubled. It’s perfectly natural for me to wish to caress you. It was no more than genuine tenderness.’

Esme felt instantly guilty at her reaction, and very slightly foolish. Was she turning into an hysterical spinster? Probably he’d grown confused again, thinking she was her mother.

He turned away, as calm and unruffled as if nothing untoward had taken place. ‘I shall retire to my study until supper is ready. After we’ve eaten, I may read
Swiss Family Robinson
to you, by way of reward. How would that be, my child?’

Now she was his daughter again, one to be rewarded with the rare treat of a book. So everything must be all right, mustn’t it?

The overwhelming responsibility of her father’s love suddenly swamped her and she felt despair gnaw at her heart. Esme wanted to shout that she didn’t need a reward for being a good girl, because there was no opportunity to be anything else. And she didn’t want him touching her in that way. She was his daughter, not his wife. Would he please try to remember that. ‘You said I was no longer a child,’ was all she managed to utter, rather recklessly, to his retreating back.

She could hear the smile in his voice as he answered without even turning. ‘You are
my
child, Esme, and I am immensely proud of you.’

Tears ran down her cheeks as she hurried to fetch the two pieces of lamb’s liver she intended to fry for supper, from the larder. Esme felt as if she were drowning in his love. Suffocated by it. She rinsed the slivers of slippy offal beneath the cold tap, thinking of the long dull evening ahead. At least
Swiss Family Robinson
was an improvement upon their usual reading matter, though of course even the Robinsons had spurned material possessions. He knew she loved books, which was why he had offered to read to her. A reward for sewing babies’ bibs.

Why wasn’t she grateful? Why had she panicked just now? He was her father, and as such had every right to caress her. He loved her, didn’t he? Esme told herself sternly that he would never hurt her, had never uttered a single unkind word. His one thought was to make people happy, to make her, his beloved daughter, content. Why couldn’t she appreciate his goodness? What was wrong with her? Was she incapable of love? And why did she lack his generosity of spirit? Guilt and rebellion warred within.

Banging the pans about on the old stove didn’t help one bit. Nor did riddling the ash pan bring forth anything more than a belch of smoke and ash. He hadn’t even thought to keep the fire stoked up with coke or wood while she was out, so how could she cook supper in a cold oven?

It took Esme the best part of an hour to heat the stove sufficiently to fry the liver, together with some onions and mashed potatoes. When she was done she was almost too worn out and choked with soot and smoke to eat.

Chapter Three

In between all of this social whirl, as Frank called it, Kitty continued to help her mother run the guest house. She laid the tables with limp, slightly off-white table cloths and tarnished silver, cleaned out the marble fireplace with its heavy brasses, dusted the collection of candlesticks on the overcrowded mantelpiece and polished the bulbous Victorian furniture. She also worked with resignation, if not contentment, alongside Myrtle in the kitchen.

In addition she tramped up the back stairs a dozen times a day with scotch broth and any number of delicious milk puddings in an effort to tempt Archie’s appetite back to normal and put some solid fat on his wasted muscles.

She would much rather have talked through her problems with him but whenever she tried, he’d grunt and feign sleep, suffer from a fit of coughing or complain his head ached. Once or twice she’d been heartened to find him actually writing letters, which she gladly took to the post for him, having failed to persuade him to come with her. Even coercing him into the chilly bathroom to shave or bathe was difficult enough. Kitty was quite sure he wouldn’t bother to do either if she didn’t insist. He seemed to have lost all interest and pride in himself. Fending off beard growth or wearing a clean shirt didn’t matter a jot, he told her, not in the general scheme of things, nor did it offer any protection against mortality; an argument she found difficult to repudiate.