Kitty Little

Kitty Little

Katherine, Charlotte and Esme. Three girls seeking escape. Each captivated by the idea of a travelling theatre. Each pretending to be someone she is not. All are in love with the same man . . .

Fleeing from a marriage her ambitious mother has arranged for her, Katherine Terry throws herself into an acting career. But a scandal threatens to wreck her own life and the happiness of those she loves. Charlotte Gilpin can have any man she wants, and she wants Archie - whoever is standing in her way.

The Travelling Players offer Esme Bield a striking contrast to the life of placid duty she has known as a parson's daughter; but can the quiet, trusting girl cope with the consequences?

Against the theatrical backdrop of the Lakes, a real-life drama is played out: One that threatens to destroy the very dream that brought the three girls together, and the close friendship they once enjoyed.

The girl standing in the theatre lobby seemed oblivious to the crowds milling and jostling about her. A young man inadvertently knocked her elbow and a stream of wine slopped over the rim of her glass to splash the extravagant silken folds of her new gown. But she didn’t notice. Nor did she pay any heed to her attentive young escort who took the offender to task on her behalf. She was far too concerned with examining the photographs that lined the panelled walls. A lively scene from Charley’s Aunt; the riotous comedy of She Stoops to Conquer recently performed at the Coronet Theatre; Vesta Tilley, Little Tich, Harry Lauder and other music hall favourites, and the aristocratic figure of Henry Irving playing Hamlet. She stood before them all, enthralled.
        In truth very few people noticed her either, or paid her the slightest attention. Too tall and ungainly to be considered a classic beauty, only the dress might have excited interest, and had certainly been purchased by her socially aspiring mother with that purpose in mind. It was meant to take the wearer without shame to any social event a busy diary might throw up, hopefully attracting attention in the right quarters.
        Undoubtedly exquisite, and of the purest silk, it was a wondrous example of the dressmaker’s skill and artifice. Encrusted with bugle beads and rows of tiny, non-functional buttons, the boned bodice sported a daringly low-cut neckline, and the multi-layers of the draped silk voile skirt, floated light as air against her legs. But shining forth above all this magnificence loomed the girl’s face.
        Quite bare of face powder or the current daring fashion for rouge, its healthy outdoor glow only added to its open, friendly aspect, which seemed quite at odds with the sophisticated image the dress presented. Some would consider the face to be that of a strong woman, one content with herself. A more shrewd observer might recognise that it revealed a flaw in an otherwise confident, practical nature; of a young woman who is afraid to make the best of herself in case she should inadvertently reveal her vulnerability.
        Though the hair was undoubtedly glossy and of a deep, dark brown, it was plainly styled in twin plaited coils which formed ear muffs nestling against the dome of each pink cheek. The eyes too might be a deep velvety brown and commendably alert and questioning, but the lashes were neither long nor curling, being rather short and functional. And beneath lay deep blue shadows and the faintest hint of fine lines, which should hardly be present on a face that had barely attained maturity, displaying evidence of many sleepless nights. It was, unquestionably, the face of someone who has known too early in life inordinate pain and the value of compromise.
        When Katherine had first seen the dress in the dressmaker’s private boudoir she’d refused, absolutely, to wear it.
        ‘But it’s a symphony of blues and lavender, girl,’ her mother had insisted, quoting the fanciful language of the dressmaker in the carefully enunciated tones she adopted whenever she felt outclassed. ‘You look a proper swank.’
        Clara Terry, whose real name was Smith but which she’d changed in honour of the famous actress, Ellen Terry, smoothed a hand over the shimmering silk and, completely ignoring the scowl on her daughter’s face, added, ‘I picked this design out special, ‘cause that’s what yer wears for half mourning, ain’t it?’
        ‘I shall feel dreadfully overdressed.'
        ‘Go on wiv yer. Draped skirts are all the rage this year.’
        ‘An excellent reason for me not to wear one then. Anyway, I don’t know that I even wish to go.’
        Clara had registered utter shock and disbelief at this remark. ‘Hark at ‘er? What a bleedin’ tale that is. Loves the theeaytre she does.’ She made no mention of having invested a small fortune in goodwill and hot dinners waiting for Frank Cussins to come up trumps and buy an engagement ring for her darling girl. The theatre tickets had been a part of her strategy of inducement, best seats in the stalls they were. Cost her a mint of money, not to mention all the rest.
        Clara had liked young Frank from the start, for all he was a bit pasty-faced. She’d let him have the best room in her Ealing lodging house, second floor front with a view over the common. And the minute she’d sized up the solid state of his insurance business she’d made sure Katherine was always the one to take up his tea or his hot shaving water. He’d taken quite a shine to the girl as a result. Took her up town quite regular, though he was close with his money and would as soon settle for a walk by the river or a cream tea at the Lyons Corner House, if left to his own devices. But men were like that. No imagination.
        It had been Clara’s idea to celebrate the engagement with an evening at the theatre, knowing how much Katherine would love it. Not that she’d any intention of revealing this fact, better Katherine thought it her fiancè’s idea and so Clara had adopted her most cajoling tones. ‘Course you must go, cherub. Frank has got tickets specially, ain’t he? And it’s Hullo Ragtime, what that American chap wrote, Irving Brussels.’
        ‘Berlin. Irving Berlin.’
        ‘There y’are then. Yer knows all about it, so yer wouldn’t want to miss it, would yer? Not when everyone says it’s a hit. And you look a real duchess in that frock. Besides,’ Clara persisted, ‘You can’t hide yourself away. Raymond wouldn’t want you to. Life goes on.’
        'To die so young is too cruel, Ma. So unfair.’
        ‘Who said life was fair, and don’t call me Ma, dearie. You know ‘ow I detest it,’ Clara hissed under her breath before smoothly lifting her voice and continuing, ‘we can’t bring him back, now can we? Nor be in mourning for ever. Life must...’
        ‘Don’t say it must go on, not again. I can’t bear it. How can we go on? I’m not in the mood for high jinks and parties. I can’t flirt and jazz, drink cocktails and act as if everything is fine, because everything isn’t fine. Raymond is dead.’ Katherine revealed in every sigh, every gesture, every irritable pluck of her fingertips upon the silk fabric, her desperate unhappiness.
        ‘T’aint a party, dearie, it’s the theeayter. I thought you liked the theeaytor?’
        Katherine hadn’t been near a theatre for over a year. Not since before the motor accident which had robbed her of a loving brother, when together they’d gone to see Charley’s Aunt with Raymond’s best friend, dear Archie. The beautiful eyes filled with tears. ‘I can’t do it. It’s obscene! Insensitive.’
        Clara watched sadly as the protective shields went up, knowing that once her daughter had a bee in her bonnet, nothing would stop it buzzing. For all Clara regretted the death of her only son and had done her share of grieving these last months, she’d no intention of making it her life’s work, as Katherine seemed set on doing. But then the poor girl couldn’t help being soft as marsh mallow inside, disguise it as she may, and the two had been especially close, them being twins and all.
        Tears were rolling down Katherine’s cheeks and she was sweeping them angrily away. ‘I don’t deserve to enjoy myself, or to see new American musicals. It would be like a betrayal. And how dare I even think to buy a new dress?’
        As if coming to a decision, she’d begun to prise open loosely stitched buttons and scatter pins in every direction, sending the dressmaker scurrying about the room, picking them up as best she might. Clara, to her credit, had simply shook her head in sorrow.
        ‘I won’t go and that’s that.’ But in the end Kitty had allowed herself to be persuaded, and wasn’t she glad? It had been the most wonderful experience of her life. Now the show was over and people were streaming out onto a wet London street and she couldn’t bear to drag herself away.
        The performance had been stunning, the costumes dazzling, the music foot-tapping and heart-lifting, in particular Alexander’s Ragtime Band which she could hardly stop humming. Though she’d been keenly aware of herself, sitting up very straight and proper in the elegant gown in the orchestra stalls, she’d felt too as if she were up there with the actors on that stage, living each scene with them. The whole ambience of the theatre had filled her with an unexpected and thrilling excitement. Simply to experience row upon row of delighted, happy people laughing, applauding and singing, entirely caught up in the scenes enacted before them, had set her mind spinning. To Katherine, it felt as if for the first time ever, she was vividly and stupendously alive.
           She even bestowed a dazzling smile upon the ever-patient Frank in his shiny suit and stiff collar, who’d somehow managed to irritate her beyond endurance all evening by attempting to anticipate her every need. She felt suffused with guilt suddenly since it was their engagement night after all. For a fleeting second the smile transformed her, making the fine lines vanish, winging the eyebrows upwards and seeming to lengthen the laughing eyes into a delightful almond shape, endowing the face with a radiant and unusual beauty.
        'Wasn’t it all wonderful?’
        ‘Of course, my dear. Don’t I always know what is best for you?’ Frank concluded in self-satisfied tones, and while he collected coats and capes and hailed a cab, Katherine experienced the slightest of chill winds cross her shoulder blades.

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