A Snowfall of Silver

by Laura Wood

  I reach the doors as the train finally comes to a juddering halt and I’m out and down on the platform before the carriages have finished swaying drunkenly into place.

  The roof of the station is enormous, arching up above me like a cathedral, with weak morning sunlight streaming through, and for a fraction of a second I gawp up at it, dazzled. Then, in the next moment, there are people everywhere. A wave of people. A sea of people. And they’re rushing past me, full of purpose, conveying an intimidating sense of certainty that they know exactly what they are doing, not only now, but for ever and with the rest of their lives.

  I am swept forward, along with the crowd, heading unerringly up the platform like salmon streaming upriver. I grip my bag tightly and glance wildly around. “Kit!” I call out.

  “There you are!” a voice says at my elbow, and I look up to find the already familiar face of my new friend smiling down at me. I notice he is smiling from quite a long way up, now that he has unfolded himself from the train carriage. He must be several inches over six feet tall – a beanpole, Midge would call him, though he’s a fairly sturdy and reassuring one with broad shoulders and strong arms. That must be what comes from dragging all that scenery about.

  My spirits lift at the sight of him and I feel foolish for my panic. I’m meant to be on the run, getting by with nothing but my own wits. A very poor job I’m making of that, I think – already relying on someone else when my feet have barely touched London soil.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say firmly, and Kit nods. He touches my elbow very lightly, so lightly that I hardly realize he’s guiding me in the right direction and we’re through the crowd and past the waiting room and out on the street before I know it.

  “We did it,” I puff, breathless and giddy, drinking in gulps of the cold morning air. It might be early but London doesn’t seem a bit sleepy. There are still so many people around. In fact, there are so many new sights and sounds and even smells assaulting my senses instantly and with such ferocity that for a moment it’s hard to untangle the car horns and the shouting and the bright woollen scarves and the tall red buses and the buildings that seem to loom into the heavens. They hit me all at once like an abstract painting, and I think I understand modern art now, which is a rather pleasing development.

  “It’s wonderful,” I breathe, looking around me, and brushing back the stray lock of hair that has come loose from my hat.

  Kit looks around, surprised, at what is, presumably, a rather ordinary bit of London street. But then he’s not from a tiny Cornish fishing village with an entire population that is smaller than the number of people currently waiting outside the station.

  “If you like this, then you really do have a lot to look forward to,” he says diplomatically. “Now, on to more practical concerns. Do you know where you’re going? And how to get there?”

  “Of course,” I say. “I’ve been plotting this for weeks.” I pull a slip of paper from my pocket. “I’ve written down Lou’s address, and I have the correct change for a taxi fare. I found out how much it would be from Mrs Bastion. She’s quite a glamorous lady from the village, you see, and she prides herself on travelling up to London once a year and drinking a cup of tea at Fortnum and Mason’s. She loves to show off how knowledgeable she is about the metropolis, as she calls it, so once I got my hands on a map and worked out the mileage it seemed like I would be able to calculate the cost of the journey fairly precisely.”

  Kit holds out his hand. “May I?” I place the slip of paper in it. His eyebrows raise and he lets out a low whistle. “That’s a nice part of town,” he says.

  “It’s not my sister’s house,” I say. “Lou lives there and looks after it because her friend Caitlin – who actually owns it – lives in Paris.” I lower my voice. “Caitlin and her brother used to be very well off, but then their father died and … I’m not really sure what happened exactly, but they had to sell their big house in Penlyn – they came to the village for the summer, that’s how we met them – and they had some great old heap in London that went too, but they kept this place. It all worked out very nicely for Lou.” I try to keep the sting of bitterness out of my voice, but I’m not sure I succeed. Lou made leaving Penlyn behind for a dazzling life in London look very easy.

  I glance up at Kit a little shamefacedly. “I don’t really begrudge her happiness,” I explain. “I’m happy that she’s happy, but sometimes the jealousy, that she’s working as a writer, doing what she wants to do, and that she’s doing it here … it just swamps me.” I have never said that aloud to another person before and I feel a bit nervous that Kit will think I am despicable.

  “That’s understandable,” Kit says instead. “But I’m sure it will come in extremely useful when you’re playing in a Shakespearean tragedy.”

  I perk up at that, an aspect of my contemptible emotions that I had not previously considered.

  “I suppose this is goodbye, then,” he continues. “Are you certain you have enough money for the cab?”

  “Absolutely certain. It’s the money that my Aunt Irene gave me for my birthday last year. She’s a Victorian horror who dresses like a vampire bat and loves to disapprove of everything. It’s perfect that she’s funding this particular adventure.”

  Kit laughs, that warm, sun-bright laugh, and lifts up his hand to hail a taxi.

  “All right,” he says, as I clamber into the back of the car. “I hope the rest of your adventure runs smoothly. And maybe I’ll see you at the theatre one afternoon? The Queen Anne, don’t forget.”

  “You may depend upon it,” I say gravely.

  As the taxi pulls away from the station Kit stands with his hands in his pockets, watching me go. I snatch my hat from my head and wave it wildly through the back window.

  I see him raise his hand in return just before we turn a corner, then, with a sigh of contentment I sit back in the seat and turn my face to the window beside me. I don’t want to miss a single thing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  By the time the cab winds through the crisscross of traffic-clogged streets and approaches Lou’s road, I am so dizzy with all the sights, I begin to worry about swooning away. We’re in Mayfair now, and the streets open up a little. The imposing buildings give off a quiet sheen of old money, as though nothing bad could happen here. It’s quieter. We skirt around the edge of Berkeley Square, and the elegant old trees there show off their autumn finery, all dressed up in rippling amber. I think about all the things those trees have seen, the way the city must always be changing around them.

  The cab driver must be a mind-reader, because he suddenly nods at a large, sandy-coloured building ahead that looks faintly Georgian.

  “They’re pulling more of them down,” he says. “Won’t be happy until all the old buildings are gone and they’ve built more roads, more flats, more offices. Can’t keep up with it. It’s like the past doesn’t matter at all.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. It’s hard to think about the past when I’m so excited to be in the present. Fortunately, the driver doesn’t seem to want a response.

  He turns sharply down a small side street. Here, the frantic energy of the city drops away even further. There are more trees lining the street, their leaves a bonfire flame of red and gold as the sun filters through them. The sound of traffic is muted enough that you can hear the birds singing, and the car glides to a stop in front of an elegant mews house with a gleaming black front door. I recognize it from my last visit and feel a surge of triumph that I have arrived at my destination, navigating the city alone and unscathed.

  I pay the driver, pleased to note that the fare is exactly what I expected, and slide from the taxi, slinging the duffle bag over my shoulder.

  I stand for a moment, looking up at the house. The sun is shining brighter now, but the air is still chilly. It’s going to be one of those golden autumn days, like Keats wrote about.

  “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” I say, my voice sending his words ringing through t
he still air. “Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless.” I’m really warming up now, and I lift my voice further. “With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees—”

  “Freya?” A head pokes out of one of the windows on the second floor, and I see a mop of tousled, conker-brown hair and a pair of squinting grey eyes. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” I say, spreading my hands at my side. “It is I.”

  I’m too far away to actually hear her sigh, but I see the movement of it through her body.

  “Of course it’s you,” Lou says. “Who else would be standing in the middle of the road reciting Shelley?”

  “You know perfectly well it’s Keats,” I hiss, but her head has already disappeared back inside and a moment later the smart black door opens.

  “Come in, then,” my sister says, and she doesn’t sound surprised to see me, only resigned and a little amused. That’s sisters for you, though, all over.

  I try to retain a sense of dignity as I sweep past her and into the hallway, but this is difficult to do when you have a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, a cap sliding off your head and a rather voluminous pair of pantaloons to deal with.

  “I see you’ve come in costume,” Lou says drily, lifting the bag from my shoulder and dropping it on the black-and-white tiled floor, next to an umbrella stand that, alongside a single umbrella, also holds a number of rolled-up magazines and newspapers, a silver-handled cane with a black silk top hat balanced on top of it, and an upside down, empty champagne bottle.

  I take a moment to look at my sister. She looks different from how I always picture her, as though she’s grown into herself somehow. Even in the few months since I last saw her she seems to have changed. Her curly brown hair is cut into a short bob and she’s wearing the most wonderful wide black trousers and a slouchy bottle-green jumper that doesn’t look anything like one of Midge’s lumpen home-made disasters. She looks prettier, I realize, and older too, elegant, grown up. Suddenly, I feel like I’m looking at a stranger and a curious panic squeezes at my heart.

  Then she smiles her familiar, scrunched-up smile, and I notice the freckles across her nose which certainly belong to my sister and not an elegant London socialite.

  She pulls me into a hug and I lean into her with relief.

  “What’s that delicious smell?” I ask, my nose buried in her shoulder.

  “Bluebells,” she answers. “My perfume. Now come inside and tell me what’s going on.”

  I think how nice it must be to live in London and smell of bluebells.

  She ushers me through the hallway and into a sitting room. There are stacks of books everywhere, and a little upright piano with a jam jar full of sweet violet pansies on top of it. The walls are papered in something pale gold and expensive-looking and covered in framed charcoal sketches of Cornwall.

  Sprawled on a worn green silk sofa is the artist himself: Robert Cardew, Caitlin’s brother and Lou’s … well, I never know quite what to call him actually. He and Lou are not married, but we all know that they live together – even if everyone pretends they don’t. He’s reading the newspaper and drinking coffee and looking very much at home here. He doesn’t immediately look up as we enter the room.

  “Look who I found outside pretending to be a Romantic poet,” Lou says.

  Robert lowers the paper and his eyes widen.

  “Freya?” he says. A smile spreads across his face. My goodness, it’s so easy to see why Lou fell head over heels for him. Even after two years, his handsomeness still hits me like a little electric shock. He’s all cheekbones and jawline and mossy green eyes and careless dark hair. He places the coffee cup down on the table beside him, next to a plate of toast smeared with marmalade, then gets to his feet and plants a brief kiss on my cheek. The gorgeous smell of him makes my knees a bit weak.

  I glance at Lou and her laughing eyes tell me she’s well aware of how devastating he can be.

  “What are you doing here?” Robert asks me.

  “I’ve run away, of course,” I say, twitching a slice of toast from Robert’s plate and flopping down into a nearby armchair.

  Lou groans. “Of course you have.”

  “Run away?” Robert’s brows draw together in concern. “Why?” He seems to look at me properly for the first time. “And what on earth are you wearing?”

  “It’s her running-away costume,” Lou says.

  “Good, isn’t it?” I ask, around a mouthful of toast. “Gosh, this is excellent marmalade. Almost as good as Midge’s.”

  “Robert made it.” Lou’s mouth curls into a smile. “Midge sent him the recipe.”

  “Did she?” I ask, surprised and not a little impressed. Midge doesn’t share her recipes with just anyone.

  Robert nods, distracted. “I don’t understand, Freya. Why have you run away? Is something wrong at home?”

  “I should imagine,” Lou says, resting her chin on her hand, “that Freya has run away to seek fame and fortune.”

  I’d forgotten Lou’s annoying habit of knowing just what one is thinking. It comes of being a writer, I suppose. She’s so watchful and she always says I’m an open book. As a young woman trying to cultivate a certain air of mystery, that’s pretty galling to hear.

  “Well, yes, I have actually,” I say, a little sulkily. “How did you know?”

  “Because you look exactly like a runaway, come to the big city in search of fame and fortune, of course.”

  “Oh,” I say, torn between annoyance at how transparent I am, and satisfaction that my performance was so convincing. I suppose I only have myself to blame.

  “I’m sorry,” Robert says, looking from me to Lou and back again. “I’m sure I’m being very slow, but … why run away, Freya? Why not arrange a visit? We could have met you at the train station.”

  “Oh, Robert!” Lou chides disapprovingly, at the same time as I exclaim, “Of all the silly questions! What sort of an adventure would that be?”

  Robert gives a surprised bark of laughter and holds up his hands in surrender. “Ah,” he says. “I see I’ve betrayed a horrible lack of imagination.” His eyes meet Lou’s and they look at each other for a second in a warm, lit-up way that makes my skin prickle. I lower my own gaze to stare doggedly down at my toast.

  “Right.” Robert clears his throat. “I’ll go and make you some tea, shall I? Then we can have the whole story.”

  “That would be lovely.” I eye him slyly. “How nice to have you around, Robert. And so early in the morning too.” Though he tries to look unmoved, a faint pink flush spreads across the top of Robert’s cheeks and he leaves without another word.

  “That was unnecessary,” Lou reprimands me.

  I shrug, petulant, already falling back into the role of little sister. “The two of you shouldn’t be living in sin, then.”

  Lou snorts. “Living in sin. You sound like Aunt Irene. Anyway,” she continues primly, “Robert doesn’t live here. He has a flat of his own.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so.” Lou looks at me from under her brows. “And you’re the one who’s not supposed to be here. I hope you at least told Midge and Pa where you were going.”

  “Of course I didn’t!” I exclaim. “What kind of a runaway tells her parents where she’s going?”

  For the first time Lou looks startled. “Freya! They’ll be so worried! You should have left a note.”

  I wave an airy hand. “Oh, I did that. I left a note telling them that I was running away to be an actress and that everything was fine and they have nothing to worry about. I just didn’t tell them where I was going.”

  Lou rubs her forehead. “We’ll have to telephone,” she says at last, looking at her watch. “I’ll phone through to the Kimbrells now and see if they can send Johnny up to the farm.”

  She disappears into the hall to make the phone call. The nearest telephone at home is in the village pub so they’ll have
to send someone to go and get Midge or Pa, and it will be a while before I have to speak to them. I feel a vague sense of annoyance at Lou’s attitude. First, refusing to be surprised by my daring flight from the family homestead, and then kicking up a fuss over my methods. She can’t have it both ways!

  I toss my cap on the table and shake out my long hair, combing my fingers through it to try and untangle some of the knots. I wonder idly if I should cut my hair short like Lou’s. It seems the sort of thing a modern adventuress would do.

  “You look so much like Alice.” Lou is back, leaning against the door frame and watching me. There’s a little pang of sadness in her voice. She misses our older sister. Alice and Lou were practically twins growing up. Joined at the hip.

  “Only not as beautiful,” I say. “You should see her these days, she glows so much she’s practically on fire. Her and Jack and little Rosy – they’re the perfect family.”

  “It hasn’t been that long since I saw her,” Lou says. “Only a month or so…”

  “Three,” I mutter. “But who’s counting?” I know my words strike a nerve; I can see the flare of guilt in her eyes. “Sorry.”

  Lou shakes her head. “No, no, you’re right. It’s been too long.” She gives me a slightly watery smile. “I’ve missed you all.”

  “Well, aren’t you lucky I took matters into my own hands, then?” I say cheerfully, just as the door opens and Robert appears with the tea tray. Thankfully, he’s also brought a plate of biscuits. I am absolutely starving, and the toast has barely touched the sides. I reach for one with eager hands.

  “Is that plum cake?” I ask, trying not to spray shortbread crumbs everywhere.

  “I forgot you were such a bottomless pit.” Lou cuts a chunk and hands me a plate. “I’m not sure we’ve got the supplies necessary to cope with you.”

  I glare at her. “I don’t know how you put up with her,” I say to Robert.

  “I have a reputation as a charitable man,” he smirks, and Lou chokes on her tea.