Kitty Little (16 page)

‘I could sing a little ditty too, if you like,’ she offered.

Her voice was clear and pure, her small face a picture of impish delight. Charlotte sang
A Little of What You Fancy
, putting in actions and even dance steps, singing with such a flirtatious innuendo that despite herself Kitty found herself laughing. Whatever doubts she might have had over engaging Charlotte Gilpin, were quite dispelled. She was a natural. The applause from them all when the piece was over proved as much, and nothing either Kitty or Esme could say would avoid the inevitable. She was hired.

Chapter Nine

By the middle of October the actors arrived, one by one, as their previous engagements came to an end, and went straight into rehearsals. Kitty had devised an interesting programme. They were to open with
The Pedlar Woman,
a short play she’d written herself during those lazy summer weeks,
followed in the second act by scenes from
The Tempest.
In between would be a rousing folk song or two, an epic poem and a delightful number called
Daisy Bell
which involved Sam and Suzy singing a duet using Felicity’s trusty old bicycle.
 

They managed to collect two trunks full of costumes, which included various hats, canes, pairs of shoes and even a couple of wigs they’d found tucked away in the attic. In addition they gathered together acetylene lighting, a wind-up gramophone, a mirror, a window frame, and a fireplace which Jacob Warburton made out of cardboard.

It was agreed that while Kitty was to be the overall actor-manager, Archie would keep the accounts and Esme would act as secretary. It was her unenviable task to write scores of letters to schools, churches, the Y.M.C.A., branches of the Women’s Institute and other likely customers throughout the north. Fortunately actors did not expect to be paid during rehearsals but in this situation so many miles from town, they had to be given bed and board and if they didn’t start earning their keep soon, would be forced to find other employment. Time, therefore, was of the essence.

But everything was progressing smoothly and Kitty didn’t mind the hard work. In fact she revelled in it. This was her dream and she resolved to make it come true. All personal problems must now be put to one side. The play must come first. She threw herself into finding curtains for the stage and, with Archie’s permission, pestered Mrs Pips until that good lady agreed to take down the long red velvet drapes that hung in the library.

‘You’re stripping the house bare,’ she complained.

‘We’re shutting it up, Pips old thing, so what does it signify?’ Archie said, looking faintly sheepish.

The housekeeper looked startled, as well she might. She’d welcomed the return of her young master with joy, cherishing the hope his stay would be permanent. To see him going off on what she called “theatrical gallivanting” was a bitter blow. On the tip of her tongue hovered the desire to ask what his parents might have had to say about such a shocking state of affairs, but wisely managed not to.

Kitty, guessing how the older woman was feeling, sat her down amidst the chaos and asked her, point blank, to join them. Ida Phillips, for the first time in her life was struck dumb. When she did find her voice it was only to repeat what Kitty had said.

‘Come with you?’

Archie gave a whoop of joy. ‘What a splendid idea. Why don’t you, Pips? We’ll need someone to keep us in order.’

‘I dare say you will. But who’d look after the house while I was off gallivanting wi’ you lot?’

‘I could ask old Joe, who used to help out with the gardening, to act as caretaker and keep an eye on the place.’

‘Forgive me for asking,’ Kitty gently put in, ‘but is there a Mr Pips?’ Or any little pippins, she might like to have added. It appeared that there were not. The Phillips’s had never been so blessed. ‘There you are then. What is there to keep you here? Come with us and have an adventure.’

If Ida Phillips thought that at well past sixty she was perhaps a mite old for adventure, one glance at her beloved Archie’s pleading expression and all doubts melted like a snowball in sunshine. After all, she’d known him since he was a wee lad in short breeches, and felt responsible for him now his people were gone. Only one doubt remained. ‘Where would I be sleeping? I’m too old to do aught daft like sleep in a tent or suchlike.’

Kitty burst out laughing. ‘We’re expecting to be given hospitality in people’s houses. It’s part of the deal they must agree to, for us to come and perform.’ The only problem was that, to date, they hadn’t received a single reply to the scores of letters Esme had sent out, but Kitty refused to be downhearted. It was far too soon.

‘And could you manage to give one or two of these old dresses long trains do you think?’ Kitty pleaded. ‘For the Shakespeare.’

‘What have I let meself in for?’ Mrs Pips moaned, but at once began picking through for likely candidates. The matter seemed to be settled.

On their way out of the kitchen Kitty casually remarked how they never seemed to have a minute alone these days and Archie laughingly agreed.

‘Actually, there is something I’d like to discuss with you,’ Kitty began when, as if on cue, Charlotte appeared through the open conservatory door. Archie flew to her aid and Kitty noticed how she leaned her voluptuous body tantalisingly close as she heaped a pile of kindling into his outstretched arms. He was laughing down into her lovely face, instantly forgetting Kitty’s request and utterly oblivious of the chaos of the other actors dashing hither and thither about their various chores.

‘Archie, my saviour. I can’t carry these dreadful logs another minute.’

Kitty bit down hard on her lower lip and went back upstairs.

Over the next few days she couldn’t help noticing the lingering glances that passed between them, and that whatever task Charlotte was given she always managed to secure Archie’s assistance. Whether it was a pile of dresses or simply a single hat box, within seconds he’d be carrying the whole caboodle for her. Kitty even discovered them peeling potatoes together one morning when it was Charlotte’s turn to do kitchen duties, and she was perfectly certain that Archie had never peeled a potato in his life before.

Esme too had evidently been keeping a close eye on events and shared her reservations. ‘Did you see the little minx sidling off with him? Just as if there weren’t a million and one jobs waiting to be done. They spent hours in the attics the other day and only brought down a wicker chair, would you believe?’

‘And a lovely fur cape, which will come in very useful.’

Esme sniffed her disapproval. Acutely aware she was sounding very like an old maid, she drily commented that she believed Charlotte Gilpin to be no better than she should be, exactly as Miss Agnes and Mrs Walsh, her late father’s parishioners might have said.

Kitty looked thoughtful. ‘You may be right but everyone likes her, she’s undoubtedly talented as well as beautiful and charming. And she can be quite sweet and funny.’

‘But she isn’t pulling her weight, Kitty. You should ask her to leave.’

‘I can’t do that,’ watching with sadness as her friend strode away, chin high, aware how deeply it hurt Esme to see Archie so enraptured. What would her reaction be if she learned the truth about her own intimate moments with Archie?
 

Dear Lord, what should she do? She couldn’t ignore this problem for much longer.

And so it went on, day after day, and the pain of watching them together grew. She watched them sharing secrets, teasing, feeding each other tidbits. Unable to bear it, Kitty would squirrel herself away for hours in the small sitting room on the pretext of checking costs or revising her play when in fact she would be gazing bleakly out of the window. She strived to beat back the uncharitable thoughts, yet still they remained. Was Charlotte paying so much attention to Archie because he owned this magnificent if faded old manor house?

And their increasing closeness meant it was even more difficult for Kitty to find a moment alone with him herself.

In fact, the need to speak to Archie was becoming quite urgent, though if she ever did find the opportunity, Kitty hadn’t the first idea what to say. She’d discovered the tenderness about her breasts some weeks ago and had at first ignored it. Filled with a mixture of fear and excitement, she smoothed her hand over her still flat stomach. It felt different somehow. Firmer, slightly swollen, and she spread her fingers as if cradling the child in her womb. A baby, a human life forming within her, she was certain of it. A small person who surely deserved the best in life, even if she or he hadn’t been planned.
 

She felt an unexpected thrill at the prospect of becoming Archie’s wife, for surely he would be only too delighted to marry her, once he knew.

But then Kitty realised that she couldn’t tell him at all, since he might feel trapped. Hadn’t he told her how he would hate to be responsible for another person’s happiness; how marriage wouldn’t suit him in the least? Archie loved to tease and flirt, to enjoy life and have fun. But he disliked anything in the least unpleasant, and neither during their night of shared intimacy, or since, had he once spoken of love.

Despite these reservations Kitty remained resolutely optimistic. Archie was kind and caring. They were good friends, and she felt certain he would stand by her. She just had to find the right moment to tell him, when he wasn’t being swamped by Charlotte. And it could surely wait a little longer, till they had everything properly organised.

The most difficult problem was transport. One evening after rehearsal they were all sitting gloomily in the drawing room worrying over which of them was capable of repairing the old Jowett motor that was quietly rusting away in the barn, when fate took a hand. There came a terrified scream from the kitchen and, bursting in upon the assembled company, Mrs Pips declared that there was ‘some devil lurking out t’back.’

All the men snatched up some tool or other, Jacob grabbing the fire irons while Mrs Pips herself wielded a wooden rolling pin. They all followed the trail of soap suds she’d left, back to the kitchen and Archie flung open the door to find a sorry looking creature standing on the doorstep. Stocky, not an inch over five foot five, with rain dripping from the flat cap pulled down over his ears, a wide mouth grinned cheerily back at them from beneath a nose blue with cold.

‘Strike me down with a feather if it isn’t Reg Bright, who I last saw years ago when we were caught scrumping apples together. Come in man. You’re soaking wet through. Take off your coat. Fetch him a cup of tea, Pips. No, better make that a double whisky. I’ll get it myself.’

It turned out that Reg’s parents had both used to work on the estate years ago and he and Archie had been pals when they were boys, though where he’d been these last several years he wasn’t saying and nobody liked to ask.

Mrs Pips produced a plate brimming with shepherd’s pie left over from their supper, having recovered from the shock of his leering grin through the kitchen window. Esme brought him a mug of hot chocolate which she considered far more suitable than whisky. Reg looked into her sunny, smiling face and was instantly certain that he’d landed on his feet good and proper, if not in heaven itself. As he ate, he listened with rapt attention to Archie’s descriptions of the Lakeland Players, and how they were needing a handyman to help with scenery and transport;

‘I’m your man,’ he said through a forkful of Mrs Pip’s excellent pie.

Reg did indeed prove to be a valuable asset. Esme spent most of the next morning handing him spanners and oil rags as Reg lay on his back under the Jowett, worriedly enquiring if he was quite safe under there.

‘Aye lass. It’s going well. We’ll have this motor running in no time, now I’ve got meself a canny mechanic’s mate to help me, like.’

Esme laughed, never having thought of herself as such before but it sounded rather modern and unfussy to be smeared with oil; not at all how a parson’s daughter would be expected to behave. ‘It’s time you had a brew. I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

‘Eeh,’ said the invisible voice from beneath the car, ‘thee’ll make a right good wife for some lucky bloke. What a little treasure.’

Esme hurried away to fetch a mug of tea and a steaming pasty she’d made earlier, wondering if she wanted to be anyone’s little treasure, except perhaps Archie’s. But any hope she’d had in that direction seemed to be quickly fading.

Reg also built a large box called a rostrum, under Kitty’s careful direction. It measured six foot by three and could, she said, be used as a boat, shop or railway carriage, indicate a separate room on stage, or even the balcony for Romeo and Juliet. Turned upside down and with two pairs of wheels attached, it became a trailer. This was somewhat precariously hooked onto the back of the repaired motor where it could be filled with many of the group’s properties.

It seemed they were very nearly ready although Reg loved to fiddle with his spanners under the Jowett while Archie hovered, offering advice and perfunctory assistance. Except that there were still no bookings, and rehearsals were fizzling out through lack of optimism.

Frantic for the company to at least make a start, as well as to justify her place in the group, Esme set about writing yet another score of letters. Felicity Fanshaw volunteered to ride around on her bicycle distributing leaflets. Tessa Crump, the pianist, said she couldn’t cycle to save her life but she’d be happy to deliver them by hand, if they thought it would do any good. Not that she could walk
very
far, she warned them, due to her bad back. In the end she caught any number of buses into Keswick, Kendal, Penrith and several towns and villages in between and did in fact walk for miles posting leaflets through dozens of letter boxes. Rod and Sam went along to help and make sure she didn’t get lost.