A Snowfall of Silver

by Laura Wood

  We walk a bit further, the grassy path twisting and turning alongside the water.

  “So, do you think Alma will be taking over from Daphne?” I ask after a moment.

  “I should think so. At the very least it’s a bad sprain. Daphne will have to go home.”

  “Poor Daphne,” I murmur.

  “She’ll be all right,” Kit says. “She’s good – and hopefully she’ll get a nice write-up in last night’s reviews, although I think most of the critics are coming tonight.” He pauses. “I wonder if Rhys will want to appoint a new understudy.”

  There it is. The sharp thud of my heart in my chest acknowledging how close I’ve been to wondering this too.

  “If he did,” I say carefully, “he’d probably choose someone with lots of experience.”

  “Maybe,” says Kit. “Or maybe he’d choose someone close to home.”

  And then, without another word he takes my hand in his for a moment and squeezes it lightly. With that, it’s as though he’s saying all the things he doesn’t want to say out loud. This is exciting for you, this could be good, this could be a big break. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’m pleased for you.

  I squeeze back, just for a second, just to let him know I understand, and then he drops my hand. We carry on walking, and Kit turns the conversation to home, asking me about my family. He laughs at my stories. Kit tells me about his sisters.

  “Three of them,” he grimaces. “And I’m the baby. You can imagine.”

  I can. “Are you close?” I ask.

  “Yes and no. They’re older – just a few years but it makes a difference growing up, doesn’t it? I was always off with my mates from school. I love my sisters, of course,” he adds quickly, as though I might not take that as a given.

  “I understand.” I look out over the river and rub my nose. “My sisters – Alice and Lou – they’re older than me, and it was always the two of them. I always felt like the odd one, the one that didn’t quite fit. It was like they had everything they needed in each other so I was by myself a lot.” I wrap my arms around my stomach. “It’s one of the reasons I got into acting. I got to try on different parts, I got to mess around with who I was, and,” I grin up at him, “I could force them all to pay attention to me while I did it. A captive audience.”

  For once Kit doesn’t smile back. Instead he looks a little sad, and I realize that he is sad for me. That makes me feel uncomfortable, as if I’ve peeled too much away, as if my words have shown him something too vulnerable. I rub my arms and clear my throat.

  “You know,” Kit says after a moment, “we’re almost at Binsey. We can go and see the treacle well.”

  “The treacle well?” I frown, remembering. “Like the story the dormouse tells in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?”

  “Yes. Apparently Lewis Carroll based it on the treacle well at Binsey.”

  “You can’t really think we’ll find a well full of treacle.”

  “We’ll never know if we don’t look,” says Kit. “This feels like just the sort of morning when we might.”

  “That’s true,” I agree. “All magical mists and trips through time.”

  We reach the outskirts of the village and Kit leads the way towards the church. The path winds between the old gravestones, which erupt from the grass like teeth forming a jagged grin. The ground is carpeted in fallen brown leaves that crunch as we walk.

  “There it is,” Kit gestures, and I’m surprised. I had expected a round structure above the ground. Instead, the stone well is a long rectangle cut into the earth, lined with white marble above light brick walls. It looks like one of the graves.

  “St Margaret’s Well,” I read the inscription on the stone at the top.

  “Patron saint of treacle, of course.”

  I clamber down so that the stone walls of the well rise around me. In front of me, and beneath the stone bearing the saintly inscription, is a triangular gap, and under that is a small round hole. I peer into the damp darkness there. “No treacle, as far as I can see,” I sigh.

  “Oh, well.” Kit reaches into his pockets. “We’ll have to make do with chocolate instead.” He breaks the bar in half and holds a piece out to me.

  “Even better.” I climb back up and take it from him, perching on the edge of the well. He sits beside me, and the sleeve of his coat brushes against mine. I have a sudden, strange urge to rest my head on his shoulder. It must be because I’m so tired. Instead, I lift my eyes to the sky. It’s brightened up now, the sun having summoned the energy to burn away the morning mist. It’s going to be a nice day.

  “Tell me about your writing,” I say. “When we met, on the train, you said you wanted to be a writer.”

  Kit nods. “I do. I’ve been working on something for a while. I think it’s almost done.” He frowns. “Although it’s hard to know.”

  “Have you shown it to anyone?”

  “No. I keep thinking there will be a moment when I put a final piece of punctuation in place and then I can, you know, lay down my pen, finally satisfied … but that never seems to come. I think I could probably fool about with it for ever.”

  “I don’t think you can wait for something to be perfect before you do something with it.” I chew thoughtfully on my chocolate. “It’s like a performance. You need the rehearsals to refine it.”

  “When did you get to be so wise?” Kit asks, laughter rippling through his voice.

  “Must be the magic properties of the treacle well.”

  He smiles. “Must be.” A clock strikes in the distance, and I jump to my feet. “It’s eight o’clock! Nora wanted me today for Alma’s fitting.”

  “Don’t worry,” Kit says, standing and stretching. “She’ll still be sound asleep.”

  But I am already hurrying back down the path. “Come on!” I call over my shoulder. “We’ve got work to do!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When we arrive back at Del’s house the place is no longer in slumber. In fact, it is wide awake and buzzing with activity. The delicious smell of sizzling bacon fills the air and there’s a great deal of clattering coming from the kitchen. This must be Del’s famous fry-up. My stomach growls happily. Man cannot live by bread and honey alone, and Kit’s chocolate has done little to dull the edge of my appetite.

  “Where have you two been?” Viola appears in the hallway. I don’t remember seeing her at all last night, but I suppose she must have been at the party. Her face is a little pale, but other than that she looks no worse for wear. In fact, she looks charming, in a very stylish sapphire blue dress, her dark hair artfully mussed.

  “Out for a walk,” Kit says.

  “We saw the treacle well.” My voice is muffled as I unwind the scarf from my neck. “Sadly, treacle free.”

  “You have mud on your coat,” Viola says and for a second I think she’s talking to me but then I realize her attention is focused on Kit. Somehow, from her, the words sound seductive. She puts out a delicate hand and brushes the lapels of his coat.

  If I wasn’t so utterly stunned, I’d be impressed. Making mud sound suggestive is, after all, an impressive feat; I doubt even Greta Garbo could have done more with the subject matter.

  Kit moves away slightly and shrugs his coat off. “That’s what coats are for,” he says easily.

  Viola laughs softly and steps closer to him, their arms almost touching. Next to Kit she looks even smaller and daintier than usual. “You didn’t come and find me last night,” she says in a low voice, though not low enough to keep me from hearing.

  I take a quick step back. “I’d better go and see if Nora’s up,” I say, and I hurry down the corridor, only now realizing with dismay that I am also moving further away from the kitchen and the delicious food smells.

  I stick my head in the sitting room. The only person in there is Russ, sprawled out on one of the sofas, wearing a pair of dark glasses despite the gloominess of the room. I wrinkle my nose. The curtains are pulled closed and the air smells musty. There
are empty bottles everywhere.

  “Ah, Freya, my love,” he says, pulling the glasses down his nose and looking at me over the top. His eyes are slightly red, and he hasn’t shaved.

  “You look thoroughly seedy,” I tell him.

  “Too much gin,” Russ agrees wearily, his head lolling back against the cushions. “Come in here and keep me company for a moment. The others are all running around in a flap over Daphne.”

  I step cautiously into the room. “Shouldn’t I be running around in a flap over Daphne?”

  “What in the world are you going to do about her? Got a secret medical degree I don’t know about?”

  “I need to find Nora—”

  “Nora has still not appeared after last night’s festivities. And incidentally neither has that delicious brunette she was with, what’s her name – Sandra or Sarah or Sally or something.”

  “Gosh,” I manage, dropping into the seat across from him. I suppose I’m really seeing the world now.

  Russ chuckles indulgently. “What a lovely, naive thing you are, Freya,” he says.

  “It’s difficult not to be naive when nothing has ever happened to you,” I say briskly. “And I may not have read The Well of Loneliness, but I have heard about it – we do get the papers, you know, even in darkest Cornwall. I think Nora’s business is Nora’s business, just like anyone else’s and I’m happy that she’s … having a nice time.”

  Russ grins at this slightly confused speech. “But I like your naivety, Freya. I find it deeply charming.”

  “Don’t get too attached to it,” I say. “I don’t imagine it will last long while I’m hanging about with you lot. I’m sure Nora’s not the only one who spent the night with someone else.” I treat him to a very level gaze.

  He chuckles, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. “A gentleman never tells.” His eyes twinkle. “And, darling, if you’d ever like to learn a little cynicism, you know just where to turn.”

  I eye him thoughtfully. I know that Russ is not a sincere person – he would flirt with a potted plant if it wore a skirt. But when he’s not trying so hard to be devastating, when he’s making fun of himself or really laughing, there’s something very appealing about him. I remember what Kit said to me about being open to all sorts of different experiences. And Russ is very good-looking. In fact, if I look at him hard enough, I can make my heart beat a little faster – surely a sign of infatuation. Perhaps we could have the kind of passionate affair people have onstage.

  “You’re making me feel nervous,” he says, looking at me uneasily. “May I ask why you are examining me like a prize-winning pig at the country fair?”

  “When have you ever been to a country fair?” I ask.

  He waves a hand airily. “One doesn’t have to go to a country fair to know precisely what a country fair is.”

  “Nonsense,” I murmur, but my mind is already on other things, particularly that little scene just now in the hallway. “Listen, there’s something I want to ask you. Are Kit and Viola … you know…”

  “At it again, are they?” Russ sighs. “She does seem to dig her claws in. Mind you, I thought she had moved on to pastures new and a producer with deep pockets. Were they off together last night? I noticed she did one of her disappearing acts.”

  “I thought there was something between you and Viola.”

  He makes a horrified, spluttering sound. “My god, no,” he says vehemently. “I mean, she’s nice to look at, but a complete harpy. And,” he adds, with surprising self-awareness, “we couldn’t both be the centre of attention all the time.”

  “I thought it was one of those passionate, sparky, enemies to lovers-type things.”

  Russ shakes his head. “Not everything is a play, darling. Sometimes people just don’t get on.”

  I laugh at that, though my mind is still reeling at the idea of Viola and Kit as a couple. I don’t like the idea of it one bit, though I’m not exactly sure why.

  Perhaps it’s that, yet again, I’m being left out. It seems that there are plenty of romantic entanglements already taking shape on this tour. My gaze flickers once more to Russ.

  He yawns. “Yet again, I feel like a prize pig,” he says. “What exactly does that look mean?”

  “I was assessing you for romantic potential,” I say, deciding not to be coy about it.

  Russ looks delighted. “Oh, were you now?” he says, his voice a self-satisfied purr. “Do let me know what you discover.”

  I am about to put him in his place when we are interrupted by the appearance of Nora, wrapped in a silk dressing gown covered in a swirling red and gold paisley pattern. Her hair is sticking out in all directions, but her red lipstick is perfectly applied.

  “What on earth possessed Daphne to jump off a wardrobe?” she asks with a groan, sinking down beside Russ.

  “It was a piano stool,” I say. “Is she badly hurt?”

  “Off her feet for at least four weeks, according to the gossipy youths in the kitchen,” Nora grimaces. “No more tour for her.”

  “How awful,” I say. I feel a pang of real sympathy, followed on shamefully swift wings by other, less altruistic, feelings. “What’s going to happen to her part?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.

  I’m obviously fooling no one. Nora arches an eyebrow and Russ snorts.

  “Alma will take over the part, I suppose,” Nora says, and she stretches her arms over her head, the sleeves of her dressing gown falling back to reveal dimpled elbows and what looks to be a telephone number written on her forearm in kohl eyeliner.

  “And … the understudy?” Despite my best intentions my voice squeaks on the question.

  Nora gives me a tolerant smile. “You’d better ask Miss Meriden. She was arriving as I came downstairs.”

  I leap to my feet, an action clearly too energetic for Nora and Russ who both groan loudly. Honestly, these theatrical types – always so dramatic.

  “We’ll need to go over to the theatre for Alma’s fitting in about half an hour, Freya,” Nora murmurs. “Make sure you’re ready.” She leans back, her eyes closing.

  “I will,” I say, hurrying off.

  I find Miss Meriden in the dining room, sitting at the long table and talking earnestly with Alma.

  “Hello,” I say cautiously. “I hope I’m not interrupting…”

  “No, no,” Miss Meriden replies. “We were about to look for you.”

  Del bustles in behind me with two plates in her hands.

  “There you are!” Del says to me. “Did you want some breakfast?”

  “I would love some,” I say, reaching out for the plate she offers which contains fried eggs, bacon and toast as well as two plump brown sausages. “Thank you,” I manage, already chewing on a piece of buttered toast.

  Del laughs. “At least sit down. You’ll give yourself indigestion.” I follow her down the table where she places the other breakfast plate in front of Alma. “There you go, darling, get that in you.”

  I perch in the seat beside Alma, putting my own plate in front of me and getting stuck right in.

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to eat a thing,” Alma says weakly, and then, in a burst she adds, “They’re going to put me on tonight!” The look on her face is one of mingled awe, excitement, and despair.

  “But that’s wonderful!” I exclaim, taking her hand in my own slightly buttery fingers and squeezing hard. I try to ignore the inevitable stab of jealousy and focus only on Alma. “It’s awful for Daphne, but such a lucky break for you. You’ll be wonderful. Mr Cantwell wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t believe that.”

  “Exactly what I said,” Miss Meriden agrees in her cool, impassive way.

  “I feel sick.” Alma, who is looking a bit pale, sways in her chair.

  “Don’t say that,” I chide, making inroads into the sausages. “You’ll feel much better if you eat. Midge always says one doesn’t go into battle on an empty stomach.”

  “Midge?” Alma asks.

  “My
mother. She’s always right.” I grin at Alma. “Now eat.”

  Like an encouraging mother hen, I cluck until Alma has eaten some toast and drunk some of the steaming coffee Del places before her. After a while she looks less green. Miss Meriden nods approvingly.

  “There,” I say, having cleaned my own plate and polished off one of Alma’s sausages. “Everything feels better after breakfast. It’s a law of nature. Besides, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be on the stage.”

  “Oh, it’s a dream come true. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the opportunity.” Alma plucks at the tablecloth. “I just didn’t think it would happen, at least not so soon. I’m not sure I’m ready…”

  “Of course you are,” I break in. “Why, you know the whole thing backwards by now.”

  “You’re right,” Alma nods. But she still looks as though she’s about to face the gallows. I decide she probably needs teasing out of her mood.

  “Oh, Alma, you look exactly like you’re about to be martyred at the stake. You should use it in a performance one day, perhaps Joan of Arc.”

  The martyred look dissolves into laughter, and she bats at my arm. “All right,” Alma says, “I’m being ungrateful.” She turns to Miss Meriden. “Thank you, Miss Meriden, I’ll go and get ready.”

  “I’ll wait and walk over to the theatre with you,” says Miss Meriden.

  Alma pushes away from the table and makes her way out of the dining room, throwing a tremulous smile over her shoulder at us.

  “You did very well with her,” Miss Meriden says, picking up her own cup of tea and looking at me over the top of it. She sounds a little bit surprised.

  I shrug. “I’m used to siblings. Dramatics don’t faze me. She’ll remember how much she wanted the opportunity once we’re at the theatre.”

  “And you?” Miss Meriden asks. “Do you want the opportunity?”