A Snowfall of Silver

by Laura Wood

  The inside is dark and cool, with crowded shelves everywhere I look. I browse, running my fingers over spines, gently leafing through pages, enjoying the feel of the paper, the quiet of the room. Then I make my way slowly up the staircase, my fingers hovering lightly over the bannister, breathing in the lovely smell that only comes from books – a smell that’s something like smoke and the way the earth smells after it rains.

  I find the drama section and am thrilled to spot The Importance of Being Earnest, bound in pale green, with the title picked out in swirling gold. I practically skip downstairs to buy it, gleefully convinced that it must be a sign. The copy that I have at home is so old and well read that it is almost falling apart. It’s a story about two men – Algernon and Jack – who have both created fictional personas that they can use to avoid doing things they don’t like. Everything goes well until they fall in love, and the women they’re in love with think they’re both called Ernest – that’s when things get complicated and really, really funny. I’ve never seen it performed onstage before, and it’s another reason I’m excited to find out what’s going on in Kit’s world. Perhaps I’ll be able to sneak a peek at some of the performance if they’re rehearsing.

  Thankfully, it is not a long walk from the bookshop to the theatre. The theatre itself is tucked down a rather unassuming alley, and I think I must be growing immune to all the spectacle around me because it’s only after I look at it for a moment that I realize how lovely it is.

  The front is stone, painted a creamy white, complete with pillars that look vaguely classical. On the first floor, the marquee is not lit and the white sign where the name of the play currently being performed would stand is empty. The floor above has three tall Georgian-looking windows, nestled between the pillars, and several ornate stone wreaths. The top floor stretches up into a peak, giving the whole place the feeling of a modern acropolis.

  I’m here, my heart sings. I’ve arrived. This is it.

  I push eagerly against the gold-rimmed doors, but they’re locked. Undeterred, I walk down the side of the building and around to the back where a shabby and unassuming door stands propped open.

  The stage door.

  I hesitate only for a second, my heart pounding in my chest, and then, lifting my chin and taking a deep breath, I push my way through.

  It’s a bit of an anticlimax to find myself standing in a dimly lit corridor with doors coming off either side. I’m not exactly sure what I had been expecting – something gilded and imposing, perhaps. Rousing orchestral music at least.

  “Can I help you, miss?” a voice comes from my left. I swing around to find myself looking into a sort of booth and at a man who I guess must be at least ninety years old. He is small, and largely hidden by a desk that reaches up to his chest. His face has the look of a wizened apple that has collapsed in on itself, his eyes are like two dark currants and a wisp of white hair sits on top of a mostly bald pate. He smiles at me politely, and his smile is full of large, very white teeth, the effect of which is slightly startling.

  I hesitate. “I’m looking for Kit. He told me I could call around.”

  “Mr Kit, is it?” The old man’s toothy smile grows wider. “Always seems to know the prettiest girls, that one.”

  He turns away and from the wall beside him he lifts something that looks like an old-fashioned telephone receiver and speaks into it.

  “Kit to the stage door, please. Kit to the stage door.”

  Faintly, in the distance, and behind the closed doors I hear the words ringing back with a light crackle.

  “He’ll be up in no time, miss,” the man says.

  He is right; it is scarcely three or four minutes later when Kit’s already familiar face appears. He looks at me for a second in confusion, and then his face clears.

  “Freya,” he exclaims. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the pantaloons.” The dimples flash. “Joe, this is the girl I met on the train – the one I said was going to come and have a look round. Freya, this is Joe, a living legend. He’s been the porter here at the Queen Anne for over sixty years.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say politely.

  “So you’re the little actress.” Joe casts a look of appraisal over me. “Yes, I see.”

  I’m not sure what he sees exactly, but I smile hesitantly. “Being a porter at a theatre like this must be very exciting.”

  Joe laughs, a wheezing sound, like the slow compressing of an accordion. “Exciting’s one word for it, miss.”

  Kit groans. “Don’t get him started, Freya; trust me, he’s got enough stories to keep you here for a week.”

  “Oh, but I do want to hear those stories.”

  The accordion laugh again. “Don’t you worry, miss. I’m not going anywhere any time soon. Maybe young Kit here will bring you for a cup of tea in the porter’s office some time.”

  “I will.” Kit takes the parcel with my book and hands it through the window to Joe. “Look after this, will you, Joe?” Then, with a flourish, he holds out his arm to me. “Shall we go? I must say I didn’t expect you so soon – you are keen.”

  I place my hand on Kit’s arm and we walk down the corridor. As soon as we are out of earshot of Joe, I tug at his arm, pulling him to a halt.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, frowning.

  “Oh, Kit,” I say in a low voice. I find I am actually wringing my hands together, a phenomenon I wasn’t sure actually happened in real life. “I’ve got myself into the most awful muddle!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Let me see if I understand,” Kit says. “You told your sister that you have an audition here today. And if you don’t get the part you think they’re going to send you home?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” I say miserably, pulling my knees up to my chest. We’re in a little room off the corridor, no more than a cupboard, full of racks of costumes. I am sitting with my back against the wall, surrounded on one side by a cloud of blue taffeta, and on the other a military uniform.

  Kit is sitting on the opposite side of the room, seemingly unbothered by the long feathered gown that he has to keep brushing away from his cheek. “I understand that your sister got you all riled up – sisters have a way of doing that.” His mouth lifts here in a way that lets me know he himself is familiar with the despotic ways of sisters. Then, like a cloud flitting across a clear sky, the frown appears again, puckering between his grey eyes. “But what was your plan in coming to London? I mean, please don’t rip up at me for asking – but how did you think you would get into acting?”

  “Oh, the usual way,” I say. “Thousands of auditions until I got my lucky break, and I was hoping to be able to take some classes – after all, the only training I’ve had has been very amateur. I’m not such a fool as Lou seems to think me and I knew I could make it happen eventually. Only then Lou said I could stay for two weeks – and that isn’t nearly enough time to get things done!” I take a deep breath. “It was obvious she wasn’t going to listen to the truth. I needed her to think I had something lined up, a good reason to stay. Before I knew it the lie was coming out of my mouth, and then Lou was so surprised. It was suddenly like she was taking me seriously and…” I trail off miserably.

  Kit nods. “I want to help, Freya, but I don’t think I can. I’m not involved in auditions or any of that. And all the parts for the tour have been cast for a while now.”

  I slump dejectedly, then force a smile. “Of course. I’m sorry for laying all my woes on you like this – it’s my own fault that I’m in this mess.”

  There’s a brief silence. “I could maybe get you in to see Mr Cantwell,” Kit says finally, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. “He might be able to make some introductions for you. Though I must warn you, he’s not the most … approachable man.”

  “Mr Cantwell,” I say, and then the words slowly sink in. “Not Rhys Cantwell?”

  “Yes. He’s directing the production.”

  I stare at Kit for a moment. My lun
gs feel squeezed of air. Rhys Cantwell is an absolutely legendary theatre director and has been for longer than I’ve been alive. He’s won every award going, worked with all the stars. His name peppers many of the newspaper and magazine cuttings in my scrapbooks. In my wildest dreams I have imagined him calling me his muse as we stage magnificent productions together. Although, now that I think about it, I haven’t heard much about him recently. I suppose I thought he had retired.

  “Rhys Cantwell is here?” I manage. “The Rhys Cantwell?”

  Kit laughs. “In the flesh.”

  “And you’d introduce me to him?”

  “That I can do. The rest would be up to you.”

  I feel suddenly as though the clouds have parted and great beams of sunlight are washing over me. Once again I am pulled back from the brink of despair. Destiny, surely, has led me here; to my big break. I get to my feet. “What are we waiting for?”

  Kit takes me through to the back of the theatre, pointing things out to me as we sail past. “That’s the men’s dressing room down there, women’s is the other side. There’s the costume department, this is where the scenery is stored and there’s a larger workshop down there on the right. It’s all in a bit of a state at the moment, because we’re getting everything ready for the tour.” I scramble to keep up with his long strides. Kit seems different here, I think. His quiet air of self-possession and confidence is mingled with something else, an excitement that seems to simmer just under the surface. There is a brisk energy to his movements.

  Finally, we emerge in the wings of the stage. Stage right, to be exact. The adrenaline that has been racing through me begins to hammer even harder in my veins. I feel like I might be sick. Or faint. Or fly. Everything here feels so big. I look up and see, above the stage, the rigging system – it seems unbelievably high, a mess of ropes, waiting to lower in scenery. Kit walks out on to the stage, and I hesitate for a moment, before following him.

  Time slows down.

  I’m onstage. A proper London stage. Stretching out in front of me are hundreds of empty red velvet seats. The theatre is tiered like a beautiful wedding cake, all cream and swirling, ornate gold. It is somehow both bigger and smaller than I imagined it would be and exactly how a theatre should look.

  I am so overwhelmed that it takes me a moment to realize that the lights on the stage have dimmed, and that Kit is talking to someone, out where the audience should be.

  “…If you could spare just a few moments, sir,” I hear Kit say. Squinting, my eyes finally settle on the man sitting several rows back, a sheaf of papers in his hands and a pair of spectacles balanced on his nose.

  Rhys Cantwell.

  He is a stern-looking man with steel grey hair that stands disordered around a craggy face. He looks like he’s been carved out of stone, ice blue eyes above a beaky, Roman-looking nose. He is wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, which are too small for him, perched on the end of his nose, and attached to a delicate gold chain. They are completely at odds with the rest of his intimidating face and he manages to wear them with an air of disdain.

  “Mr Cantwell,” I manage to murmur. “Sir!” And then, without thinking about it, I drop into an incredibly low and supplicatory curtsey, one hand gracefully extended, like a prima ballerina making her final bow onstage in a sea of flowers.

  I hear Kit gurgle beside me, the sound of a laugh, quickly stifled, and I freeze there near the ground, wondering what on earth has possessed me. With as much dignity as I can manage, I rise slowly back to my feet.

  “Kit!” Mr Cantwell snaps. “Who on earth is this? And why is she acting like she’s just been presented to Queen bloody Victoria?”

  “This is a friend of mine, sir. She’s here because she wants to be an actress.”

  “Don’t they all?” His voice is as cold as those eyes. “What has this got to do with me?”

  I decide it’s time to take my fate into my own hands. There’s no sense standing here like a particularly slow-witted goldfish.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Cantwell. It’s not Kit’s fault, I absolutely begged him to introduce me. I’m such a tremendous fan of your work. Of course I’ve never actually seen any of it,” I add candidly. “We don’t get to see much of anything in Cornwall, but I’ve read every single review of your plays, every single article about you. I loved what you said about – about bringing a measure of honesty to the work, of finding the personal connection to the material – I stuck that in my scrapbook. I have a photograph of you in there as well, though my brother Tom drew a moustache on you in blue ink. He said he thought it made you look more distinguished, and in a strange way, you know, I think he was right.”

  There’s a silence after this, one that is so thick I can almost feel it brushing against my neck alongside the faux fur.

  “Who are you?” Mr Cantwell asks finally.

  “My name is Freya Trevelyan, Mr Cantwell,” I say. “And I want to be an actress. It’s not even just that I want to act exactly, more a sense that I have to do it as much as I have to keep on breathing. And I’ve spent my whole life so far, buried away in Cornwall, and now I’m finally here and – oh, please, let me at least show you what I can do. I’ll never, ever bother you again.”

  “Won’t you let her, sir?” Kit asks, his voice firm and serious.

  I flash him a look of intense gratitude and clasp my trembling hands together. Mr Cantwell glares at me for another moment.

  “Fine,” he says shortly. “You may have three minutes. Go on.”

  “Three minutes?” I repeat blankly. “What would you like to see?”

  “Something worth seeing, I suppose,” is all he says.

  I don’t hesitate. I walk across the stage, unbutton my coat and fling it at Kit who catches it with deft hands. My fingers trembling, I smooth my hair, and twitch the skirts on my dress. I turn so that my back is to Mr Cantwell, and close my eyes for the briefest second, offering up a prayer to Saint Genesius, the patron saint of actors.

  Then I turn and step full into the light.

  I don’t know why, but the scene I decide to perform is Act One, Scene Five of Hamlet, where he meets the ghost, and I play both parts, using the space on the stage. As soon as I start I feel the real world melt away as always, lost in the words and the feelings that they stir in me. I think about nothing except the pain, the loss, the sense of betrayal that pours into me as water filling a vase. That’s how it feels sometimes; as though saying the lines are an act of obliteration, as though I am emptied of myself and someone else has taken over.

  When I finally finish, I stand, dazed, hardly able to recollect any of the things I have just said and done but faintly aware that I must have said and done them. My ears ring.

  I look down, and Mr Cantwell is leaning forward, his elbows on the back of the chair in front of him. His expression is completely inscrutable.

  “A very unusual scene choice,” he says at last. “Why did you choose it?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “Strange not to do a monologue.”

  I feel heat rising in my cheeks. “I didn’t think,” I manage weakly. “At home I often play all the parts. I suppose it was a little…”

  “Bizarre,” says Mr Cantwell.

  “Oh.”

  There is a pause. “It was … interesting,” he says at last, delivering this most lukewarm praise grudgingly. “You are obviously untrained, but it’s possible you have an instinct. There’s a certain … watchable quality.”

  “A watchable quality,” I repeat, excitement rising in me. The words sound so beautiful ringing in my ears. Rhys Cantwell thinks I have a watchable quality.

  Again, he gives me a long, cold look, and then he returns his attention to the sheaf of papers, shifting the pages in his hands.

  “Take her to see Miss Meriden,” he says, without lifting his eyes. “She may be able to help. And while you’re there, tell her I want to know when my thrice-blasted spectacles will be fixed so that she can have these monstrosities ba
ck.”

  It seems these words are directed at Kit because he reappears from the side of the stage where – to be completely honest – I had forgotten all about him. He is still carrying Lou’s good coat over one arm and he quickly shepherds me off the stage and back into the cool, waiting darkness of the wings.

  “Oh,” I gasp, the word coming out almost a sob. “Oh, oh, oh. Did that actually happen?”

  “D’you mean, did you just perform in front of Rhys Cantwell and live to tell the tale?” Kit lifts a brow. “Yes, you did.”

  “Was it… Was I…” I trail off uncertainly.

  “You were good,” Kit says. “It was certainly something, seeing you switch between characters like that.” He grins at my worried face. “Honestly, it was good. He would have told you if it wasn’t. You can count on that.”

  “He said it was bizarre.”

  Kit chuckles. “It was a bit, but it caught his attention. Trust me, he liked you. Why else would he tell me to take you to Miss Meriden?”

  “Who is Miss Meriden?” I ask.

  “She’s his assistant.” Kit is guiding me back through the warren of the back of the theatre. We come to a stop in front of one of the doors, and Kit knocks lightly.

  “Come in,” a voice calls.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My first impression of Miss Meriden is one of particular neatness. Her face, her features, her clothes are all as neat as the room we are standing in.

  The room is a very tiny and beautifully organized office with a desk, a couple of chairs, and several tall filing cabinets. She is, I would guess, in her middle fifties, with dark hair pulled back into a severe knot and a grey tweed skirt and jacket worn over a silk blouse the colour of milky coffee. She looks up, and seeing Kit, her eyebrows rise.