A Snowfall of Silver

by Laura Wood

“Well, Christopher,” she says to him, “what troubles have you brought to my door today?”

  “No troubles,” Kit replies. “We got the issue with the set pieces resolved as you suggested. He wasn’t totally happy, but then, when is he?”

  “He likes things the way he likes them.” Miss Meriden’s voice is firm. “And ours is not to question why.” Her keen brown eyes turn on me. “And who do we have here?”

  “This is Freya Trevelyan.”

  I hold out my hand and Miss Meriden shakes it. Even her handshake is brisk and efficient.

  “Mr Cantwell has just seen her audition piece.”

  Again, Miss Meriden gives me a slightly searching look. “Liked you, did he?”

  “I’m not sure, actually,” I admit. “He said I was bizarre.”

  “He must have liked you,” she says, “if he sent you to me. Now, have a seat.” She gestures to the chair in front of her desk. “And, Kit, I’m sure you have better things to be doing with your time. You may leave Miss Trevelyan safely with me.”

  “I’ll drop your coat at the front desk with your parcel,” Kit says, then he gives my arm a reassuring squeeze and leaves, while Miss Meriden takes a seat behind the desk and I drop into the chair across from her.

  “So, Freya… You don’t object to my calling you Freya?”

  “Yes, I mean, no.” I take a second to control myself. “I don’t object – Freya is fine. I’m sorry, I’m just a bit overwhelmed. I can’t really believe… I mean, I’ve been a fan of Mr Cantwell’s for a long time.”

  “I hope you told him so.” Miss Meriden sits back in her seat. “He may be an old curmudgeon but he’s absolutely not immune to flattery. Of course, he doesn’t get as much as he used to these days.”

  “I did think, when Kit mentioned him, that I hadn’t read about him for a while,” I say. “But the magazines I get back home in Penlyn are always at least two weeks out of date, and have to go through our neighbour Mrs Bastion first, because she’s absolutely mad for all the Hollywood gossip.”

  “Hmmm.” Miss Meriden makes a noise in the back of her throat. “Best not to mention Hollywood around Mr Cantwell.”

  I wonder briefly why, but Miss Meriden continues. “He has been off the radar for a while; this touring production is a little below his touch.” She sniffs here, as though it’s a little below hers as well. “But needs must, I suppose. And he managed to get Eileen to come on board, which makes it quite a different matter.”

  “Eileen?” I ask.

  “Eileen Turner. She’s playing Lady Bracknell.”

  My mouth drops open of its own accord. “Eileen Turner.” The words come out in a croak. “But she’s retired!”

  “Not for Mr Cantwell, she’s not.” The pride in Miss Meriden’s face is unmistakable. And rightly so. Rhys Cantwell may be a big name in directing, but Eileen Turner is a grand dame of the theatre, a true, bona fide star. Even in Penlyn her name is golden.

  “I can’t believe it.” I grip the sides of my chair. “Is she here, in the theatre? Now?” I feel dizzy.

  Miss Meriden shakes her head. “No, but she will be coming in later for another wardrobe fitting.”

  “Eileen Turner,” I say again, “will be here in this theatre, where I am sitting. It’s madness. How can I ever leave a place where things like this happen?”

  “Do I take it you are not planning on staying in London?” Miss Meriden asks.

  “I’m not sure.”

  It all comes out then. Growing up in Cornwall with a dream that felt so right and yet so different to everything I knew. How I ran away and came to London. How I can’t explain to my family that it is vital I stay.

  “When my sister Lou came to London it was different,” I say. “She took charge of it all – got herself a job in an office so that she could write in her spare time. Everyone just accepted it and then she started writing stories too, and now she works at the magazine, writing for them and doing editorial work. But I didn’t come to London with a sensible job waiting for me. Perhaps that was a mistake, but I’m here and I feel like now I need to at least try. What if I go home and then I don’t ever make it back again?”

  “So why not do what your sister did in the next two weeks?” Miss Meriden asks. “Why not get a job and take some acting classes alongside?”

  “I don’t have an awful lot of accomplishments that may be helpful in acquiring a job,” I admit, making a clean breast of it. “I’m absolutely hopeless at typing which might throw a spanner in the works – Lou can type about a thousand words a minute. I don’t know shorthand. I’m useless at anything involving numbers. I could learn, I suppose, over time … but I don’t want to waste my life learning things I don’t care a bit about. And I want to move to London now.”

  “Do you have any other skills?” Miss Meriden says.

  I shake my head. “I help out on the farm. I read, and I make costumes. That’s it.”

  “Costumes?” Miss Meriden tilts her head like a sparrow.

  “I love sewing,” I say. “And I’m handy with a needle, which is lucky because no one else in the family is, except Pa. Anyway I’ve always made the costumes for myself and any kind of amateur production I’ve been able to be part of, and I love it. I can imagine what the character will wear and how I’ll feel when I’m wearing it, how it will look onstage, against the scenery.”

  Miss Meriden places her elbows on the desk in front of her and steeples her fingers, regarding me with a steady, searching sort of gaze that makes me want to wriggle in my seat. “Perhaps there is something I can do to help. Our wardrobe mistress Nora Felton needs an assistant – someone to help with the costumes, but also to act as a dresser, for the quick changes and so on during the performance. Is that something that might interest you?”

  I press my hand to my chest. “A job – here?”

  “Well, not here,” Miss Meriden says. “On the tour. It’s six weeks, almost right up until Christmas, and it starts next week. I know it’s not acting work, but if Mr Cantwell has seen something in you that he likes, he may be able to offer you some advice, a little polish. I couldn’t make any promises, mind.”

  “I’d get to go on the tour?” I ask, her words sinking in. “To help with the costumes? I’d work with Mr Cantwell and Eileen Turner? In real theatres?”

  It’s possible a hint of amusement flashes briefly in that cool stare, but it’s so quick I could be wrong. “You don’t need me to sell you on it at all, do you?” she asks drily.

  “Of course not!” I jump to my feet. “I think I should pinch myself. This must be a dream.”

  Miss Meriden holds up a hand. “You’ll have to meet Nora, of course; she’ll have the final say. And she’ll expect you to put in the work.”

  “No one will ever have worked harder on anything.” My voice trembles with fervency. “I swear it to you, on my life. I’ll swear it to Nora Felton too.”

  “That won’t be necessary, and frankly, I think Nora would find it alarming. Let’s go along now and meet her.” Miss Meriden gets to her feet and dusts off her skirt. Then, she adds, with the faintest edge of a smile in her voice, “Who knows? Perhaps she’ll have some Herculean labour she can lay before you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The first thing that strikes me about Nora Felton is how young she is. She must be around thirty, fat and pretty with a round face and a fashionably shingled dark bob, a blunt fridge cut across her forehead. She is wearing a sort of black silk kimono, elaborately embroidered and dripping with pink fringe, and a pair of oversized jet earrings.

  The room in which she’s working is down the corridor from Miss Meriden’s office and, though it is not much bigger, she has managed to squeeze a workbench with a sewing machine along one wall. Above it dozens of sketches are taped, which I assume must be the costumes for the production.

  Despite the chill of the day, the window is open, and Nora is perched up on the high window sill, leaning out of it and smoking a cigarette.

  “Sorry, I know it�
��s freezing in here, but I don’t like to smoke with it shut,” she says, stubbing out the cigarette and tossing the butt out of the window before leaping nimbly down. “Otherwise I feel like I’m turning into a smoked kipper myself. These rooms really are wretched little cells, don’t you think?”

  The question is directed at me, I realize. Startled, I mumble something about how beautiful the theatre is.

  “Of course,” Nora nods, “but still, we’re all squeezed in on top of each other, like sardines in a tin.” She wrinkles her nose. “And I think that’s enough fish metaphors for one conversation.”

  “This is Freya Trevelyan, Nora,” Miss Meriden says. “I thought she might be a good fit for your assistant. Why don’t I leave you two to talk for a while?”

  She does so without a backwards glance, her curt movements indicating she’s got much more important things to do than worry about me. I’m beginning to feel a bit like a parcel passed from person to person. Ever since I arrived at the theatre it has felt as though I am being swept along, into a chain of events that are unfolding so rapidly they make my head spin.

  Nora has turned away and busied herself making us drinks. Given her sheen of glamour and the cigarettes I am more than half-expecting her to pull out a cocktail shaker, but instead she begins fumbling with a battered electric kettle, copper and standing on three slightly wonky legs. The tin of tea she pulls down is battered too, though it is stamped from Fortnum and Mason.

  “I’m sure I’ve got some biscuits in here somewhere,” she murmurs, pushing a bolt of bright pink fabric aside.

  My stomach growls and I grimace. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m an absolute gannet, always hungry.”

  Nora smiles, and I see that her eyes are a warm brown and ringed in smudgy kohl. “Me too, and if I don’t eat I get increasingly furious. Quite a handy reputation to have, though; the cast often drop in with sweets for fear they’ll get put in something puce and covered in ruffles.”

  I laugh, and as with Kit I feel an instant ease, as though I’ve known Nora for ages.

  “So.” She hands me a chipped blue teacup full of steaming tea, and gestures towards a seat, half-buried under bits of costume. “Tell me about yourself.”

  Again, I tell the story. It’s starting to feel more and more like a part that I’m playing. My words are becoming lines in a script. Naive young girl from the country, come to seek fame and fortune in the big city. It’s not even original.

  When I finish, Nora doesn’t ask me about my plans for the future; she asks me about Penlyn and my family, my siblings and the plays I used to put on for them. She asks me about the first costume I made, and how I researched Queen Elizabeth’s ruff. She unearths a tin of shortbread biscuits from beneath a half-fashioned corset and we talk and talk.

  Eventually, we both fall silent.

  “So,” I say nervously. “Do you think I might be all right for the job?”

  “I should think so.” Nora stretches out like a cat. “But I have to warn you that it’s hard work, and the pay is an actual pittance, though you’ll get room and board on the tour. There will be lots of alterations and repairs, and most importantly, I need a dresser. There are several quick changes between scenes and some of the ladies’ dresses are particularly fiddly.”

  “I can work hard,” I say. “And I don’t mind about the money. Just to be able to go on the tour and see how it all works up close … it’s a dream.”

  “We’ll see if you still think that when you meet the rest of the cast.” Nora stands. “Now, you grab that bag and we’ll get going.” She gestures to one side of the room, where a worn carpet bag sits.

  I pick up the bag. “We’re starting now?”

  “No time like the present.”

  And just like that, I am hired. I follow Nora out of her small studio and down the corridor.

  “I’ll never learn my way around this place,” I mutter.

  “You will,” Nora reassures me, “but you hardly need to – we’re going to be leaving soon and then it’s a dozen new theatres, all with their own peculiar layouts to learn.”

  She pushes open a door and we’re in a room with two long rails of costumes on either side. In the middle of the room is a block in front of a mirror, and a chair and a small table sit off to one side.

  “Welcome to the wardrobe department,” Nora says briskly. “Today we’re doing final fittings for Viola and Russ. Viola is playing Gwendolyn, he’s Algernon. Her costumes are here.” She gestures to one rail. “His are there.” She gestures to the other. “On each hanger you’ll find a label with the scene and various notes on – they should be fairly self-explanatory. All right?”

  “All right,” I nod, trying to present a very capable picture.

  There’s a knock at the door, and a pleasant, slightly husky voice calls, “Nora, are you in here?”

  “Come in, Viola,” Nora calls back, and the door opens to reveal a very beautiful young woman. She is petite, with glossy ink-black hair cut short with a natural curl, and enormous dark eyes in a delicately pointed face. She moves with an easy grace, and her skin under the hard lights of the dressing room is a light, golden brown. Those beautiful eyes instantly catch on me, and I’m subjected to a long, assessing stare. It feels strangely territorial, like the way Mrs Fowler’s tabby eyes up any stray cat that might wander into her garden. Languorously, she drops her bag to the ground and shrugs off her coat.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  “I’m Freya Trevelyan.” I give her a tentative smile. “Nora’s new assistant.”

  “I hope she’s not all fingers and thumbs like that last girl, Nora. I felt like a human pin cushion.” These words, addressed directly to Nora, effectively cut me out of the conversation altogether. I glance nervously at Nora, and she rolls her eyes in sympathy. Viola is too busy looking at herself in the mirror to notice.

  “What do you think of this dress?” She fusses with the purple crepe she’s wearing, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle.

  “The colour is nice,” Nora says, but she lifts a critical eyebrow. “You should have it half an inch shorter. And I’m afraid it will crush dreadfully.”

  Viola pouts, then smiles winningly at Nora, the expressions skipping across her face like clouds across the sky. “You’re always right, Nora. You’ll hem it for me, won’t you, darling? You’ll make such quick work of it, I know.”

  “I’ve got more important things to do.” Nora turns towards the clothing rail. “You can ask Freya. Now, step up on the block, and let’s get you in to this.”

  Viola treats me to a charming smile, warm and entreating, very different to the cool appraisal she favoured me with at first. “Will you, Freya?” she asks. “I’m supposed to be wearing this out for dinner tonight with Marco – he’s a producer friend of mine, and I want it to be perfect. He claims to be mad about me, but I still need to look just right.”

  “Of course,” I say. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping up, I’ll just pin it now.”

  We achieve this quickly enough, and all the time Viola is standing on the block, she keeps up a stream of entertaining chatter that makes Nora and I laugh. She slips out of the purple dress, and I sit in the chair and sew, trying to keep my stitches as tiny as possible, while Nora helps her into various different costumes. Occasionally, Nora will call out a measurement and I’ll make a note.

  “Do you think the hat needs something?” she says, standing back and looking at it on top of Viola’s pretty head. The hat is broad-rimmed, cream, trimmed with silk, and it looks charming; I’m convinced Viola could single-handedly bring this very Victorian creation back into style.

  “A feather would be nice,” I say tentatively. “Ostrich, along the brim there.”

  “And then curling down a little,” Nora nods. “Make a note.”

  When they are finished, I hand the purple dress back to Viola, and she checks it quickly, then exclaims in delight. “Well, look at that, Nora. These stitches are so tiny it looks practically fairy made.”

&
nbsp; She slips back into her dress, just as there is another tap on the door.

  “That’ll be Russ,” Nora says, glancing up at the clock on the wall.

  The door opens, and, honestly, it’s a good job I’m sitting down because the man standing framed in the doorway is without a doubt the most handsome man I have ever seen. His skin is tanned as if he spends a lot of time outdoors, his teeth a flash of white in an easy smile. Dark hair falls carelessly across his forehead, and there’s just a hint of stubble on his face. His jaw is distinctly square. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a jaw with actual corners before.

  I think I must make some kind of sound of astonishment, because Nora and Viola both turn to look at me.

  “Russ!” says Viola, turning back to him. Her voice is vaguely exasperated. “Making an entrance, as usual, I see. Why on earth are you wearing that?”

  It’s a testament to the beauty of the man’s face that I genuinely hadn’t noticed his costume until Viola pointed it out. He is wearing an old-fashioned Hussar uniform, deep navy with gold braid and frogging, a scarlet collar, and even a small cape draped over one shoulder. On anyone else such a get-up might look ridiculous, but it looks magnificent on him, as though a soldier has stepped out of the past and into this little room. A room which feels airless, suddenly.

  Russ saunters through the door and as he does so he glances at me curiously, a long, lingering look from eyes so dark that they appear almost black, framed with outrageously thick lashes.

  “Don’t you like it?” he asks, and he has a proper actor’s voice, smooth and velvety. “Nora lent it to me for an audition. I thought it would be a lark to wear it back, but I suppose I must look a bit of a fool.” His gaze rests on me.

  “I don’t think you look a fool,” I manage, my mouth dry.

  He chuckles. This time it’s Viola’s turn to roll her eyes. I wonder if this means you do eventually become immune to his handsomeness. At the moment it is too much like looking directly at the sun for my brain to function properly.

  “Right,” Nora says briskly. “That’s you done for today, Viola.”