Kitty Little (6 page)

‘Anyway,’ Clara said, critically assessing her daughter, ‘beggars can’t be choosers. You’re no oil painting, great string bean that you are. And you’d be amazed how quickly the years roll by. Grasp the iron while its hot, ain’t that what they say? Frank Cussins is well placed financially for a young man still in his twenties, and not ‘alf bad looking. You have to give him that, Duchess. He don’t come home drunk every night, do he? And there ain’t so much as a sock out of place in his room. You might never get a better offer. Make no mistake about it. He’s a catch.’

Kitty drew stubbornness about herself, like a shell. ‘If you insist on rushing me, I shall call the engagement off.’

Clara’s affability fell away upon the instant. The lips visibly thinned, pressing inward to leave specks of scarlet lipstick on the teeth. ‘You’ll do no such fing, madam. It’s taken months of effort to bring him to this point. We need Frank Cussins, make no bones about it. He’s wurf a bob or two, buying that luvverly house in the suburbs, and once the babies start popping out, I could sell up, or more likely close down, and come and help you wiv them.’

‘
You?
You don’t even like babies. I’m not sure that I do.’

‘I could learn. Same as you. All mothers love their own. So long as it don’t start calling me Grandma, I can cope.’ Clara feigned a shudder. ‘I’d certainly be glad to be rid of this mill stone round me bleedin’ neck.’

If, in the argument which followed, Kitty had hoped to make her point, let alone to win it, she had reckoned without Clara’s trump card. ‘Refuse him and we’ll both end up on Queer street.’

Clara leaned forward, squashing her full bosom against the table top so that it nearly clashed with her plump chin. Her next words came in a sort of stage whisper, which hissed out so fiercely in the silent kitchen, Kitty felt sure it must echo all over the house as she imagined ears pressed to keyholes, drinking in every word.

‘
Do you know how much money I owe on this place? More than I can pay off in one lifetime, that’s how bleedin’ much
. We’re up to our ears in debt.’

Kitty stared at her mother in dawning horror. ‘Debt, but
why?
I thought we were doing all right. We work hard enough, and the rooms are usually full.’

‘It costs a flippin’ fortune to run a house like this, and you don’t fink what I charge this lot covers our lifestyle, do you? When they pays up, that is. Everyone knows I’m too soft fer me own good. Let ‘em get away wi’ murder, I do. Not to mention all them fancy frocks and folderol’s and such like you need for your socialising.’

‘But I didn’t ask for any of those.’

‘They were an investment, Duchess, as I’ve told you before. You’re me best asset.’ Clara refilled her glass to the brim, adding barely a dash of vermouth.

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, Ma.’

Clara’s patience snapped. ‘Don’t Ma me, and don’t you look so po-faced. I’ve few enough pleasures, fer God’s sake. Nor can I ‘ang around waiting till it takes yer fancy to wed. Bills have to be settled, debts paid. Frank’s eager to bring the wedding forward and so will you be, like it or not. In return he’ll settle every bleedin’ one. So don’t you turn stubborn on me, girl. You’ll be wed within the month or we’re both on skid row.’

Chapter Four

It was a Sunday, and the evening before her birthday. Esme asked if they might postpone a further instalment of
Swiss Family Robinson
, as she’d a letter to write.

Andrew Bield glanced up from his paper and frowned. ‘To whom, might I ask? Not a boy friend, I trust?’
 

Esme felt a spurt of self-righteous anger for having laid herself open to interrogation. ‘How could it be since I never go anywhere to meet a boy?’

Esme saw how his expression turned from disapproval to one of sad disappointment, as if she had let him down in some way. ‘I am only showing natural concern for you my dear, a young girl of such tender years. Time enough for all of that nonsense later.’ He waited, one brow raised in interested enquiry, thin lips curving into a conciliatory smile. ‘Well?’

Guilt had dampened her moment of rebellion, as it always did. ‘It’s only to Archie. He’s written to Mrs Phillips, his housekeeper, from some boarding house he’s staying in, in Ealing. I thought I’d like to write to him.’

Andrew Bield’s smile broadened. ‘Then for Archie’s sake I am happy to postpone our reading for tonight. ‘I’m sure he will be grateful to correspond with an old friend who remembers his dear parents.’

For a second the defiance rekindled. ‘I’m writing as much for my sake, as his. I’d like him to write back.’

‘You’re a dear child with a charitable heart.’ He reached over to pat her cheek and Esme flinched instinctively away before she could prevent herself. Andrew gazed down upon his daughter with a puzzled, slightly hurt expression in his pale eyes. ‘I see you are tired. I shall take a late stroll by the lake into town. I may call upon poor Mrs Riley as she’s been most unwell lately.’

‘Netta Riley? At this time of night? But Father, she lives in Tapworth Street, one of the worst streets in the Cobbles.’

‘We live where we must. Judge not lest ye too be judged. She is entitled to succour in her sickness, the same as any other.’

‘Of course.’ Esme hung her head with shame. Her father was so utterly selfless, he’d risk catching some dread disease rather than fail to do his duty by one of his parishioners, while all she could think of was some selfish need for an independence she probably didn’t deserve.

He patted her head, tenderly tidying a few loose strands that had escaped the tightly wound plait. Esme did not move a muscle. ‘You may leave my cocoa ready prepared but don’t wait up for me. I may be some time. And don’t spend too long on your letter, my dear. You need your rest.’

‘Very well, Father.’

When he had gone, a peaceful silence folded in upon her and Esme closed her eyes in relief. Then on a burst of rebellion she unwound the neat plait and pulled it apart, shaking out the curling strands of fair hair and combing her fingers through in a moment of sheer ecstasy at being free to please herself, at last.

Father was a kind, sweet man, she had to admit, even though the grief over the early death of his beloved Mary had increased his tendency to vagueness over the years. Was it any wonder that his parishioners loved him, particularly the ladies. But then he always put the needs of others before his own.

 
True, it was beginning to worry her that his habit of confusing her name with her mother’s had become more frequent of late, but really the fault must be entirely her own. All she needed to do was to establish her own personality a little more, though how this was to be achieved Esme hadn’t quite worked out. Frowning, she reached for her writing pad. She wouldn’t think any more about her wretched problems, not tonight. Her father lived in a world of his own, one of rectitude and duty, as all parsons did. A fact she must simply accept.

Now what titivating gossip could she find to entertain Archie?

Esme awoke early the following morning, stretching her limbs deliciously in the warm cocoon of sheets. Today she had at last turned nineteen, one small step closer to being her own woman. She smiled at the dust motes dancing in a ray of sunlight. What did it matter if life would go on as usual? Inside she could at least
feel
different.

She wondered if her father had bought her
Great Expectations,
or
The Old Curiosity Shop
perhaps. If he hadn’t, she could only hope for something a little livelier than the copy of
Pilgrim’s Progress
he’d bought for her last year
which remained on her shelf, unread. And anything would be a change from
Swiss Family Robinson.

From the crags surrounding the vicarage garden, she could hear the chack-chack of a merlin falcon. It brought her leaping from her bed to fling open her window and draw in lungsful of clear, crisp air.

‘The first day of the month and I forgot to say white rabbits,’ she chided herself. ‘Now I shall have bad luck.’ But she was laughing as she pulled on her old grey pleated skirt and blouse, for the day was already showing every promise of being hot, and perhaps, if she hurried over making her father’s porridge and skimped on the dusting and cleaning today, (since it was her birthday after all) she might have time to walk up through the woods and find some real rabbits.

Esme splashed water from the jug into the blue bowl and dipped her hands in it, enjoying the sting of its coolness on her warm cheeks.

 
Would anything ever change? This afternoon she must attend the sewing circle as usual, and no doubt be politely scolded for slipping out early last week. Tomorrow evening she must attend a special meeting of the Sunday School teachers where suitable infant hymns would be chosen and lessons planned. The only possible subject which might provoke interest and even a lively discussion, would come over where to take the children for the summer picnic. The superintendent would suggest a long walk in stout shoes. Mrs Walsh would opt for a steamer trip while Miss Agnes would offer dire warnings about children falling overboard. The children themselves might dream of a trip to the seaside, to Morecambe or Blackpool, but in the end they would do what they always did. They would take a charabanc to Arnside, then walk over to Fairy Steps and eat their picnic before trekking all the way back again.

On Wednesday there was to be tea and buns at the Mother’s Meeting, for which she’d promised to fill the urn with water to be boiled in good time. Someone recently returned from the Far East was to give a lantern slide show. What relevance it would have to motherhood she couldn’t imagine, nevertheless it was an undoubted improvement upon the usual dull lecture on the problems of colic or nappy rash. And so the week would continue, dull, dutiful, all carefully set down in the parish diary.

But this morning, apart from the preparation of breakfast and lunch for her father, and because Esme was determined not to do a scrap of housework, she was free. Gloriously free. It was her birthday and she meant to enjoy what she could of it, meetings or no meetings.

She left the porridge simmering on the stove and ran all the way up the hill without even pausing for breath. In the woods she did indeed see several rabbits, moving through the dewy grass quite unafraid at this hour of the morning. A thin pearly light filtered down through the branches and here and there patches of blue sky glowed bright as a jewel, seeming to represent a glorious glimpse of freedom. One day, Esme vowed, she would journey to the very edge of its vastness. A magpie eyed her quizzically before flying off, perhaps in search of its mate. Esme watched it go. ‘One for sorrow, two for joy,’ she recited, anxiously looking for another
.

She lingered for an hour or more, picking violets and garlic flowers, then heard the church clock strike ten before turning to run all the way home.

Reckless with joy on this glorious summer’s day, she didn’t care that she was late. Perhaps Father might not even notice. He would have eaten his breakfast by now and be in his study surreptitiously reading the morning paper while purporting to prepare his next sermon. He spent a good deal of time in his study, when he wasn’t visiting his faithful flock. ‘But not always working,’ she said out loud, giggling to herself. ‘Thinking I don’t know he’s taking a nap.’

Esme often talked to herself, largely because she liked to but also because there was rarely anyone else for her to converse with. The Reverend Bield did not approve of idle chatter.

He wasn’t in his study when she arrived back, rather flustered and out of breath, feeling a nudge of guilt at having taken so long, despite her brave-hearted rebellion a moment ago. The porridge was where she’d left it, keeping warm on the hob, browning slightly at the edges where it had stuck to the pan. Her father’s bed had been neatly made, Esme noticed, when she risked a peek around the bedroom door to check he hadn’t overslept. Not that she ever remembered him doing so. Deciding he must have gone out early to see some sick parishioner, she ladled a portion of congealed porridge into a dish for herself, hungry after her morning’s exercise, enjoying the healthy glow of her cheeks.

Esme was on her second bowl when the knock came. She opened the door upon an agitated Mrs Phillips. Afterwards she was to be grateful that it was her dear friend who brought her the news but for now she simply stared, knowing at once by the expression on the good lady’s face that something was amiss.

‘What is it?’

‘I’ll tell you inside, love, so half the street don’t hear.’ Ida Phillips quickly closed the door behind her as she drew the now trembling girl back into the suffocating warmth of the kitchen. ‘Not that it won’t be all round the village by dinner time.’ She sat Esme back at the table, moved the porridge dish out of the way, then slid the kettle back on and looked about for the tea pot.

‘For pity’s sake, Mrs Phillips, tell me. What’s happened?’

Ida Phillips sat down rather suddenly, as if her legs could no longer support her. ‘It’s your father. He’s - well, there’s no easy way to say this, but he’s...’

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Esme heard the hollow echo of her own voice in the suddenly silent kitchen, even as she felt a huge surge of relief.

‘It was so like the dear girl to save me the embarrassment of having to say it,’ Ida would later confide to anyone prepared to listen. Esme Bield was, without doubt, a sensible lass but then she’d need every ounce of that good sense, to face what she had to face.