Kitty Little (41 page)

And if only
she
didn’t still love
him
, Kitty thought, even now smiling through her tears. “Ah, there’s the rub.”

But did she? What of her feelings for Owen? What did they amount to? Had their brief affair simply been a celebration of life, in the midst of the terrifying and claustrophobic fear of death which had seemed to be closing in upon them in France. Or was there more to it than that?

And how could she ever trust a man enough to be sure?

Chapter Twenty-Four

So here they both were, in the Misses Frost’s overcrowded front parlour; a fitful ray of sunlight capturing the dust motes and glinting on two bent heads as fingers riffled idly through programmes, tickets, play books and other clutter of their once nomadic life, wallowing in nostalgia while eyes carefully avoided direct contact. It was the first time they’d been alone since Archie’s marriage and it seemed odd, even uncomfortable. He smoothed down the lapels of his flannel blazer, immaculate as ever, always a perfect judge of the correct attire, even when visiting with an old friend.

Kitty suddenly longed for others to be present; even Lad, the old dog, would have been a distraction, someone to help ward off this sensation of stepping back in time, except that the sturdy Miss Frost was, at this precise moment, striding over Loughrigg with the dog. Then again, she half expected Ma to pop in with a mug of beef tea or a list of chores for her to do, or for Archie to get out the old toasting fork and for them to indulge in a heart to heart over charred, over-buttered crumpets.

It was cold in the gloomy parlour and Kitty had lit a small fire, which burned fitfully in the iron grate. Now they both sat in contemplative silence, watching a thin spiral of smoke drift up the chimney.

Kitty concentrated on keeping her breathing even as she watched him push slender fingers through dark curls in that old familiar way she’d once known and loved. Another image instantly intruded - one with red hair; another hand - liberally splattered with pale freckles. It served only to magnify the sense of chaos and confusion in her head. She blinked it away.

 
The silence stretched endlessly between them and then, as they both started to talk at once, he gave a half laugh. Kitty was saying how pale and tired he looked. Archie said how much he admired her dress. ‘You look absolutely stunning, old thing. Blue suits you.’

It was a simple, linen, pleated day dress, quite fashionable before the war, now looking slightly dated and with a darn on the sleeve, showing the signs of wear exhibited on so many of Kitty's clothes. She gave an amused chuckle. ‘I seem to remember you telling me that once before, because I'm so tall and have such long, manly legs.’

He looked confused for a moment and then his face cleared and he laughed again, more naturally this time. ‘Oh, I remember.
Twelfth Night
wasn’t it?
I didn’t mean it quite as it sounded at the time. Knew I’d blundered, but didn’t know how to put it right.’

No, Kitty thought, you never did.
 

He leaned closer as he reached for a copy of the first poster they’d made to advertise the event and she caught the scent of his shaving soap. ‘Never ever meant that you actually did resemble a boy. You’re a fine looking woman Kitty. That doublet and hose made your lovely legs look the absolute tops. Very shapely.’

She considered thanking him for the compliment but somehow it all seemed too long ago, insignificant now. ‘I’m sure the outfit suited me a good deal better than a lavender gown,’ Kitty joked.

‘Did that dress ever miss a play?’

‘Not that I noticed. Do you remember Mrs Pips endlessly baking biscuits to sell in the interval?’

‘Dear old Pips.’

‘Remember the time you had a puncture in the Jowett.’

‘Heavens yes, and you giving me a pasting for getting squiffy on that home-made wine someone gave us. Felicity insisting that a bicycle was much more reliable.’

‘Old Jacob in those dreadful yellow waistcoats, telling us
“never listen to your own voice or you’ll lose touch with your character and forget your lines
.” He was right though. It’s true.‘

‘Lord, I remember. Is he still sneaking nips from that whisky flask?’

‘Of course. I think his liver must be thoroughly pickled by now.’ And they were both chortling with glee while recollecting treasured moments.

‘We had some good times with the LTP’s.’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘I miss you all, don’t you know?’

‘You could have come with us to France. You were invited.’

‘Charlotte wouldn’t have enjoyed it.’

‘No. Of course not.’

Perhaps it was the recollection of Charlotte, and what might-have-been, which caused them both to fall silent again. With remarkably steady hands, considering the tumult of emotion she felt within, Kitty pulled out a folder. Programmes and newspaper cuttings about the LTP’s scattered haphazardly over the table but she could see nothing for a blur of tears suddenly blocking her vision. So many memories, so much happiness, so much pain. Surreptitiously, she brushed them away and began to rub her hands up and down her arms as if warding off a chill of despair, or perhaps because she was afraid they may reach out to him as they had done so often in the past.
 

Did she want Archie still? Or was she in fact cured yet still nostalgically trapped by their shared experiences, still striving to see the best in him, when really he didn’t deserve it?

His voice broke into her thoughts. ‘You asked me if I was happy, Kitty. I shall ask you the same thing. Are you?’

‘You mean as a single woman, an unmarried mother, a woman of loose morals, isn’t that how everyone sees me? Perhaps I’ll end up like the Misses Frost, like Ma, running a boarding house for theatricals.’ Kitty spoke with a pseudo-brightness, struggling to find a way out of the quagmire of self-pity she’d landed herself in, but somehow unable to do so.

‘Marriage was never high on your agenda though, was it? Not your thing nor mine.’

Not quite knowing how to respond to this, Kitty reminded him that she’d had no example of married bliss, not with Clara as a mother. ‘I’m glad you at least found it - married bliss I mean - with Charlotte.’ Since they both knew this not to be the case, the awkwardness descended again and they sat for a long while watching the glowing remnants of coal turn to ash in the grate.

‘What about Frank? Is he still around?’ Archie asked at last.

‘Oh yes.’ Kitty tried to make a joke of it. ‘The ever present burr in my side.’

‘Why didn’t you marry him? At least he was prepared to
do the decent thing.’

Kitty stared at Archie in complete disbelief as seconds ticked by, then the question simply popped out, of its own volition. ‘Would you - have
done the decent thing
- if you’d known Dixie was yours?’

‘But I didn’t know, did I? I mean, I didn’t think any the less of you for getting into such a pickle. I remember thinking that no decent gel would come to a chap as you did to me that night, if she were untouched. A virgin. Shows a slackness of morals, don’t you know. So naturally I thought the child was Frank’s.’

Kitty’s cheeks grew hot, though whether with shame or anger, she couldn’t quite have said, not just then. ‘Yet it was all right for me to have been with Frank in that way?’

‘Well, you were engaged old thing. Bit different eh? As your fiancé, he was entitled to a few more - favours, as it were. Naturally you were piqued when he behaved like a cad with your ma. Still, he did regret the slip afterwards and tried to put the matter right. Though if you’d been honest about Dixie, told me what was what in the first place, that she was mine and all that, I dare say I would’ve married you, not Charlotte. Everything would have been different then. Funny old world, eh?’

Somehow, his casual nonchalance at the way life had turned out, jangled Kitty’s over-stretched nerves almost to bursting point. He’d been a willing enough participant in those pleasurable moments which had resulted in their child, yet only too happy later to deny all responsibility for her. Now he dared accuse Kitty of “slack morals”.

It came to her in a moment of rare clarity that all Archie really cared about - was Archie. While experiencing this new glimpse of enlightenment into his character, she also realised that for all his declared intention of coming to see Dixie, he hadn’t even enquired how she was, let alone that she be allowed to join them in the parlour. ‘Perhaps I thought that expecting you to
do the decent thing
wasn’t a particularly good reason for matrimony.’

‘You should have settled for Frank then,’ he said, quite matter-of-factly, as if it were of no real moment. ‘He’d’ve made young Dixie a better Pa than I ever would. ’

Kitty bridled. ‘You think that’s all I was looking for, a father for Dixie? Anyway, it isn’t true. Frank would have made a dreadful father.’

‘So would I, old sport. So would I. Still a child myself, don’t you know.’

Oh, how true, she thought. Suddenly weary of this dissection of her past life, Kitty got up and went to rest her forehead against the mantelpiece, momentarily closing her eyes as the remnants of her depleted energy drained from her. Would everything have been different if she’d told him the truth? Could they have been happy or would Archie indeed have felt trapped, as she’d always feared. It was so ironic. She’d left him free for Esme, only to have Charlotte snap him up. Desperately striving to keep her voice light, she turned back to him with a smile. ‘Why go over all of that now? I did what I thought was right at the time. So did you. I didn’t expect to - lose you - in quite that way.’

‘You haven’t lost me Kitty, old sport. You still have my...‘ He stopped, put out a hand to touch her. Startled, Kitty looked into his eyes and he into hers and there was no sound but the ticking of the clock, echoing the loud beat of her heart.

Kitty found her voice, barely above a whisper. ‘What? What do I still have?’

‘My friendship. Forever, my friendship.’ He seemed to have moved imperceptibly closer, letting out a deep sigh, and the echo of his sadness pierced her to the heart. ‘I’ve grieved for the loss of that special relationship we once enjoyed.’

‘Have you?’ Touched by this admission, Kitty felt drawn almost to tell him about Owen, to discuss the confusion of her emotions but Archie was still talking, marvelling at what a lucky chap he was for Charlotte to put up with him when he’d made such a muddle of things. ‘That’s what she calls me. A dear old muddle-head.’ Despite his words, his voice sounded hollow, even bleak, not at all that of a man celebrating his good fortune. ‘You look tired, Kitty. You’re the one in need of rest.’ He pushed back a wayward strand of hair and she jerked away, startled by the unexpected intimacy of his touch.

‘Don’t – don’t do that.’ What was it that she wanted? If only she knew.
 

‘Why not? I’ve been wanting to touch you for so long. There was a time when you’d hang onto my arm, kiss my cheek, even tuck scarves round my neck. You never do any of those things now.’

‘That was a long time ago. Before... You’re married now.’

‘We’re still friends though, aren’t we? I still want you, Kitty, still love you to bits, old thing. I could offer more than friendship, should you ever have need of it.’

Kitty felt herself start to shake. What did he mean? In what way did he love her? As a friend, surely he meant as a friend? She didn’t dare ask, couldn’t even bring herself to lift her head and look into his eyes. Then suddenly his lips were on hers and she wasn’t pushing him away.

He felt so dearly familiar. At least at first he did, but then the sensation subtly changed and the sensation of his hard body against hers began to feel entirely wrong, even strangely repulsive. Kitty found that she wasn’t responding to his caresses as she would have expected, in fact she desperately wanted him to stop. She felt herself stiffen, her hands coming up to his chest to push him away. Her mind seemed to be clearing, as if finally managing to assess what was going on in her head, and yet a part of it was still listening to what he was saying - something about Charlotte.

He was mumbling into her neck as he pressed kisses upon it. ‘We don’t have to tell her about this, do we old thing? A chap deserves the comforts of his old friends, eh?’

The scent of his hair cream seemed suddenly overpowering, making her long for another more woody scent, for the French countryside and the feel of another man’s arms about her. It came to Kitty then, if not as a blinding flash, then with a sure and certain knowledge that it was not Archie she wanted at all. It was Owen. It was Owen that she loved; Owen who she longed for, to hold her in his arms and speak of love. Yet Archie was growing more daring, pushing open her soft pink lips to probe the delights of her mouth with his tongue. She felt his hand at her skirt, pulling it up, his fingers sliding between her legs. And then she was thrusting him away, yelling at him to stop.

‘For God’s sake, Archie. What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re
married
! Is this all you ever think about,
your
comforts?
Your
needs. What about
mine
?’

 
Drawing in a shaky breath Kitty brusquely handed him his coat and hat. She could bear no more. How dare he make such a proposition to her, as if she’d come back just to see him, as if she had no other life, no feelings at all. For the first time, she came near to hating him but then he was mumbling apologies, begging her forgiveness, telling her he never meant to offend and just as quickly as it had come, her temper had drained away and she was scolding herself for overreacting.