Kitty Little (7 page)

‘I’m afraid so. But there’s worse I’m afraid.’

Esme, ashamed of her initial reaction, felt strangely detached from reality, as if she were standing outside herself, calmly watching the conversation rather as an observer might. Part of her speculated on what could possibly be worse than death, while the rest worried over why she felt no grief. But then Father insisted that death was no more than the opening of a door. The older woman’s cheeks, she noticed, had gone unusually pink, quite at odds with the paleness bad news was reputed to bring.

‘Tell me. Whatever it is, I can bear it.’

‘I reckon you’ll have to.’ Ida Phillips leaned forward and gripped Esme’s hand with astonishing power. There were unshed tears in her faded eyes. ‘It’s the nature of his death which is going to make tongues wag, love.’

‘Oh?’ Esme suddenly didn’t want to hear, but the words poured over her just the same, and Mrs Phillips’s tiny frame seemed to shrivel like an empty string bag as she released them from her pinched mouth.

‘He died in Netta Riley’s bed. There now, that’s the truth of it. If I didn’t tell you someone else would, and with more pleasure. No better than she should be, that woman, though it’s happen wrong to speak ill of them wi’ less sense than yerself, I dare say.’

Esme stared at her friend unblinking, her mind a blank. ‘In her bed? Why? Was he ill? What on earth was he doing there?’

Ida looked at the girl and sighed. This conversation was clearly going to be even more difficult than she’d feared. ‘You might well ask,’ she said drily.

The funeral was over in no time and the church commissioners wasted even less in informing Esme that her tenancy of the vicarage was now terminated. Her father’s solicitor added to this stock of bad news by revealing that the Reverend Bield, not a material man in any sense of the word since he gave away most of the money he’d earned during his lifetime, had left what little worldly wealth remained, a sum of thirty guineas, to the Tapworth Street Mission. To his daughter, he left his best hunter watch and a single string of pearls which had belonged to her mother. The will stated that he knew she would not object to this decision, since she possessed a charitable heart and the ability to earn her own living through service, as he had done.

Charity was not an emotion high in Esme’s heart right at this moment, for she realised with a dreadful certainty that she had become, almost overnight, both penniless and homeless.

‘What shall I do? Where am I to go?’ she asked of anyone prepared to listen to her plight.

Miss Agnes clicked her tongue and sidled away, as if by engaging in conversation with the daughter of a parson who had died in a prostitute’s bed would somehow rub some of the scandal onto her. And to think she had played the organ for him for twenty years? Mrs Walsh, less easily shocked by the weaknesses of men and being of a more practical nature, offered temporary accommodation in her attic, in return for various mundane chores on her farm. But it was Ida who put her finger precisely on the reality of her situation. Albeit she was in her way trying to help by suggesting, not unkindly, that Esme’s best option as a single young woman with no visible means of support, was to become a paid companion or housekeeper to some kindly gentlewoman.

In that moment Esme had a clear vision of the life she faced. The Reverend Andrew Bield, her beloved parent, had been that worst of creatures, a hypocrite. No wonder they’d pitied her, those with the wit to notice what had been going on. Now, even their pity had seemed to evaporate. She was to become one of the army of unmarriageable spinsters. Invisible, unloved, unnoticed, a leftover remnant of the Victorian age, dependant upon charity and service to survive. She would be expected to exchange one life of service and duty for another, one that would go on for as long as she lived and breathed, without even the redeeming factor of his love, suffocating and confusing as that had undoubtedly been.

Kitty turned on to her back and stared up at the grimy ceiling with hot dry eyes. The smell of stale cabbage along with the ubiquitous kippers Myrtle had cooked for breakfast lingered on, mingling with the suffocating fustiness of too many people crowded into too small a space.

Through the thinness of attic walls she could hear gasps and small cries coming from Clara’s bedroom next door, and the usual creaks and twangs of the bed springs. Her mother, being a voluptuous woman with, as she termed it, a lively appetite for life, never seemed to go short of admirers. Leonard was her latest conquest. Clara loved his white beard and the way he quoted poetry the whole time. Kitty pulled the pillow over her head and tried to shut out the too-familiar sounds.

Was this, she wondered, how she had come about? From one of her mother’s more ardent lovers whose name she couldn’t even remember? Clara herself firmly maintained she’d been properly and legally married and that her husband had deserted her the minute he saw he had two babies to support as well as a wife.

She would have dearly liked to learn more about her father, for, as things stood, Kitty had as much faith in the name Smith being her true name as she had in the more esoteric Terry. Clara never enlarged upon the tale. It wasn’t that she told lies exactly but simply preferred her life to appear dramatic. The role of deserted wife achieved that perfectly.

Later when breakfast was over Kitty stood at the sink, hands deep in suds as she went through the motions of washing up. Her eyes were fixed on the window as if seeking escape, for all there was nothing to see through it but the back yard wall. She was only vaguely aware of the activities going on around her: of Clara’s voice yelling in the stairwell, Myrtle’s sniffs and grumbles as she buttered bread, the kettle starting to whistle. It stopped abruptly, though somehow she knew that Myrtle hadn’t made a move towards it.

If her choice was between slaving in the kitchen of Hope View for the rest of her life tending to out-of-work actors and commercial travellers, her hopes and dreams of escape dead and buried with poor Raymond, then perhaps marriage with Frank in a new house in the garden suburbs didn’t seem so bad after all.

Plans for the wedding seemed to escalate with alarming speed. Only Archie supplied the one dissenting voice in the gathering excitement which was gripping Hope View
with the kind of fervour usually reserved for a Royal event. When it came to organising anything which resulted in a profit, Clara proved to be frighteningly efficient. A white lace gown had been purchased, wrapped in tissue paper and hung in Clara’s wardrobe with a lavender bag affixed to the hanger. The smell of it made Kitty feel slightly sick and she thought she would forever associate lavender with Frank. Mrs Capstick in middle back, lent her some satin shoes and Leonard produced a blue garter, for luck, though how he’d acquired it nobody dared ask.

Kitty couldn’t quite take it all in. Despite his promises not to rush her, Frank hadn’t even attempted to persuade her mother to postpone the wedding, had in fact cheerfully agreed on the third Saturday in July, which was now perilously close. He’d arranged it all directly with Clara as if Kitty had no opinion whatsoever which, her mother tartly informed her, was the way the nobs went about things. It didn’t seem at all the right way to Kitty, yet what could she do? She felt utterly powerless, couldn’t even seem to get her brain to resolve the matter. It seemed easier to stand back and let the roller coaster hurtle on. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to lose Hope View to the bailiffs. Not only would they then have no income but no home either.

‘You and me has to stick together, Duchess.’ Clara would say, over and over. ‘We’ve no family now save for each other, so must depend upon our own wit and ingenuity to get out of this hole.’

If Raymond were here, what would he have her do? Kitty repeatedly asked herself but came up with no answer. How could she? Her brother was dead.

Sometimes she felt as if she didn’t truly exist, as if she had neither past, nor future, save the one Clara had invented for her. Could Archie be right? He persistently begged her to think again, to wake up, to come to her senses; that she should learn to speak up for herself more. But how?

Yet perversely, throughout the hectic days of preparation, Kitty continued to defend Frank, pointing out his many strengths, even parroting her mother’s words.

‘He’s good and kind.’

‘Always ready for a laugh.’

‘Generous to a fault he is.’

And even, ‘He’ll go far will Frank Cussins. I’m sure one day I’ll be grateful for Ma’s foresight,’ till Archie would shout
piffle
, or something worse, and stamp off in high dudgeon.

Now, when his voice whispered against her ear, ‘It’s still not too late. You can stop this right here. Let your mother solve her own problems,’ she stared at the engagement ring as it lay winking at her from the window sill where she’d set it while she washed the dishes, and shuddered.

‘You have some other solution do you?’ Kitty tartly enquired, determined not to go over the why’s and wherefore’s since she’d done so countless times before, then perversely found herself doing so anyway. ‘Ma needs me. My father, whoever he was, let her down so badly by leaving her alone with two babies, she can’t even bear to talk about it. How can I risk doing the same? I’m all she’s got. I can’t see her thrown out on the streets. I must help.’

‘Not by playing the sacrificial lamb. There must be another solution.’

Kitty could feel the familiar swell of panic tighten in her breast. ‘What can I do? I’ve already promised.’

‘Frank Cussins won’t make you happy. Don’t trust the blighter, Kitty-Cat. He’s as slippery as an eel.’

‘You marry me then and pay off Ma’s debts.’

‘Told you, old thing. Marriage and me is like a sour cocktail. We don’t mix. And I don’t have the dosh. But I’d consider any other suggestions you might have. We could always run off together, as we once dreamed of doing.’

She felt angry suddenly for his flippancy. Why couldn’t he see that she’d no alternative? ‘This isn’t the moment for jokes, Archie. This is real life, not fantasy land.’ She slapped a soapy cup down on the draining board with such force it was a wonder it didn’t crack.

Archie picked up a tea towel and began to dry it with painstaking care. ‘Don’t do this to yourself, Kitty. Tell Clara to live her own life and let you live yours.’

Kitty couldn’t even see the window now. Too much steam or moisture blotting her vision for some reason. Taking her hands from the water she turned and ran from the kitchen and left Archie to finish the washing up by himself.

In only one respect did she win a small victory: Kitty refused, absolutely, to marry in church. She insisted her mother abandon plans for hiring a twenty-strong choir complete with organist that she couldn’t, in any case, afford; adamant in her belief that it would be a sacrilege to say her vows in such a setting to a man she could never truly love.

But if Kitty had hoped to put Frank off by this obstinacy, she was mistaken. ‘Just as well,’ he said, firmly supporting her decision, ‘or we might end up in Westminster Abbey being married by the Bishop of London.’

It was agreed that the marriage would take place, very quietly, at the nearest registry office. Frank’s brother would be best man and they wouldn’t bother with a bridesmaid.

‘But you’ll be taken in a motor, Duchess. Only the best for my girl,’ Frank grandly informed her.

‘Please don’t call be by that name. Clara calls me that, and I don’t care for it. It implies that I’m above everyone, toffee-nosed, or something.’

‘Right you are, darlin’.’ She didn’t care for that any better.

As if anxious to prove himself aware of his good fortune, Frank went out of his way to be agreeable in the days following; helping her to buy clothes for a trousseau, taking her to see the new house and carefully explaining that there was no requirement for her to work, that all she would need do was to spend her days keeping it spick and span for the two of them. ‘Like a pair of love birds we’ll be. You can leave everything safely to me. I’ll look after you.’

Kitty would thank him, while doing her best to suppress a shudder whenever he came near. Although his lingering glances revealed his increasing anticipation for the coming wedding night, she made absolutely certain that he had no opportunity for an untimely approach. Should he lightly kiss her cheek, tuck back a stray curl or put a comforting arm about her waist to draw her close, Kitty always managed to wriggle free and find something of great urgency to attend to elsewhere.

‘Don’t you worry Duchess,’ he would say, smiling fondly. ‘I can wait,’ and she could almost sense his mouth watering. If the whole thing took on a dreamlike quality, leaving her suffering from a strong sense of unreality, Kitty put this down to the speed of events.

She did not for a moment doubt that he was sincere.

The night before the wedding, Frank offered to take everyone out to the pub for a drink, except for Kitty of course who, as the bride, was expected to get an early night. In theory the outing was meant only for the men and even Archie was coerced into joining the party but she noticed that her mother considered herself included, without even being asked. In a way Kitty was thankful. Such residents as were left in the boarding house were female and content to remain in their own rooms. Kitty welcomed the prospect of time alone like a drowning man might gasp for air.

The moment they’d gone, on a swirl of finding hats and scarves and much ribald laughter, Kitty flew upstairs, two at a time, ran a deep hot bath and sank her cold, tense body into it. She lay back, telling herself that the moistness on her cheeks was caused by steam. Then dressed in her comfortable old check dressing gown, she sat on the edge of her bed, brushing her damp hair as she gazed at the familiar chimney-pots.