A Snowfall of Silver

by Laura Wood

  “Lovely.” Viola smooths her dress, scoops up her bag and grabs her coat. “Wish me luck, won’t you?”

  “Good luck,” Nora and I chorus, as Viola sweeps out of the room, waving lightly to Russ as she goes.

  “Where’s she off to?” Russ asks, looking after her. “Dinner with another producer?” He snorts. “Ambitious little thing. She’d do better to make sure she’s at rehearsal on time. Didn’t even turn up on Tuesday, and the understudy had to go on. And then breezing in the next day like nothing had happened, not a word of apology…” He halts, as though realizing he sounds petulant and gives an embarrassed smile. “It’s just frustrating when there’s so little time before the tour starts. We shouldn’t be wasting it.”

  “Well, she is very good,” Nora points out. “Mr Cantwell likes her.”

  “Oh, yes, she’s good,” Russ agrees. “She wouldn’t get away with behaviour like that if she wasn’t. And I’ll admit her looks are a draw. She brings in the crowds, all right.”

  “She is beautiful,” I say, feeling a strange urge to defend Viola.

  “Mother was Indian or some such.” Russ shrugs. “Not that she advertises it, obviously.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  “Marco, is it, this time?” he asks then. Without waiting for a reply, he nods knowingly. “I heard he was sniffing around, promising her a part. Not that it’ll come to anything … he’s not the first to make her an offer, if you know what I mean.”

  I have no idea what he means, actually, but I school my face into what I hope is a worldly expression.

  “Come on, then,” Nora breaks in. “Now that you’ve made your grand entrance, you can take off that costume.”

  “Why, Nora, I had no idea you were so forward,” Russ murmurs, “But if you insist…”

  I blush, hating myself for it, but Nora smirks. “I’ve no taste for snot-nosed school boys, Russ.”

  “Twenty-four, Nora,” he objects mildly. “Hardly a school boy. Rather, shall we say … in the prime of my life.”

  “I’ll stop calling you a school boy when you stop acting like one,” Nora says. “You and Viola winding each other up all day long, it’s enough to drive a woman mad.”

  Ah, I think. So that’s it. Russ and Viola are warring lovers or some such. It makes sense; they presumably fight mostly over who is the prettiest. It must be why he’s so put out to hear about her being wined and dined by producers.

  Russ just laughs at Nora, and then turns to me. The sudden, full beam of his attention is overwhelming. “Now, are you going to introduce me to this young lady?” he asks. “New assistant, is it? What happened to the old one?”

  “You know perfectly well what happened to the old one,” Nora says tartly. “And I don’t want a repeat of that performance, thank you.”

  “Darling, you wound me,” he says. He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “I shall do the honours myself, then. Russell Whitmore.” He extends a hand, catching my fingers in his own. His hand is large and warm, pressed around mine.

  “Freya Trevelyan,” I say.

  “Charmed.” Russ executes a small bow over my hand, and I have to say that, with his dark hair falling over his brow and the gold buttons of his Hussar’s uniform gleaming, it’s all I can do not to swoon. “Now,” he murmurs wickedly, “which one of you is going to help me with all these buttons?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Taking part in Russ’s fitting is certainly a test of my professional resolve. For one thing, where I come from, handsome young men are not in the habit of disrobing in front of me. I concentrate very hard on appearing unfazed by the whole thing, and eventually it stops seeming quite so strange, particularly as Nora and Russ are so matter-of-fact. Still, it would be a lie to say I didn’t notice the muscles visible under his white vest – which might be what Russ had in mind.

  “For god’s sake, stop flexing like a bloody circus strongman!” Nora snaps. “How am I supposed to get these measurements right if you’re too busy putting on a show? Freya, pass me the linen shirt there.”

  The brisk command jars me from my observation of Russ’s biceps, and I grab the shirt in question, hurriedly turning it over to Nora’s waiting hands.

  “What do you think?” Russ asks, after slipping it over his head. His eye catches mine in the mirror, holding it for a moment longer than is necessary.

  “I don’t know,” I say, trying to keep my tone cool. “Perhaps it needs letting out a little?”

  “I told you it was going to be too tight,” Nora sighs.

  There’s a knock at the door. It’s Kit.

  “Hello!” I greet him with enthusiasm. I can’t wait to tell him everything that’s happened since he left me.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Russ says dismissively.

  “Yes, it’s me,” Kit replies easily. “Came to see how the newest recruit was getting on. I see you’ve put her straight to work, Nora, but I need to steal her away. Miss Meriden needs her to fill out some paperwork.”

  Nora nods. “Yes, yes, take her. She’s done more than enough. There’s only Eileen left today anyway.”

  “Oh, but—” I start to protest.

  Nora laughs at my crestfallen expression. “Don’t worry, you’ll meet her another time. You’re going to be seeing plenty of this lot.”

  “A pleasure I am particularly looking forward to,” Russ says. His voice is warm honey, and the look he gives me is mischievous, designed, I think, to rile Nora. I wonder what happened to the old assistant.

  “Thank you for today,” I say to Nora, ignoring Russ. She waves me away, already absorbed in fitting a jacket. I quickly tidy away the sewing kit I’ve been using and follow Kit out.

  “Kit!” His name bursts from me, once we’re away from the others and walking down the corridor. “Can you believe it? I’m coming on tour with the company, and it’s all down to you.” I give a little skip. “I can never, never thank you enough.”

  Kit shakes his head. “All I did was make the introduction. You’re the one who won over Mr Cantwell, and Miss Meriden, and Nora. No small feat for half a day’s work.”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to meet Eileen Turner,” I murmur. “I’ve had a photograph of her as Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream up on my wall for years.”

  In the picture, Eileen Turner must only be about Nora’s age, with long, pale hair tumbling almost down to her knees and threaded through with flowers. I used to hold whole conversations with this picture, about my dreams, and the theatre, and the adventures I would have – but the Eileen Turner on my wall, she was my Eileen Turner. Now, though it still seems absurd to contemplate, I am going to meet the real star herself.

  “It’s quite the coup that Mr Cantwell managed to get her out of retirement,” Kit says, breaking into my daydreams. “She’s extraordinary onstage.”

  “I suppose if anyone could do it, he could.” I lower my voice. “Miss Meriden says Mr Cantwell hasn’t worked much lately.”

  Kit rubs the back of his neck. “Yes, he went over to America for a while, to give it a shot in Hollywood, but I don’t think things went as well as he’d hoped. He doesn’t talk about it.”

  I wonder what it must be like to be so stunningly successful and then to fail at something when all eyes are on you. Not nice, I expect.

  “I met Viola and Russ,” I say, changing the subject.

  “Oh, yes, those two,” he says absently.

  He glances at me and his face suddenly becomes more serious.

  “Freya,” he says a little awkwardly. “About Russ… I think I should… I mean, I think someone should – well, warn you…”

  “That he’s a tremendous womanizer and I should be careful?” I finish for him.

  Kit laughs, looking relieved. “Yes.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that,” I say reassuringly. “Of course he’s wildly good-looking, but I have no intention of falling for his well-oiled charms. I don’t have any intention of falling in love at all.”

 
; “You don’t?” Kit asks, coming to a stop in the hallway.

  “Of course not. My focus is on my career. One must dedicate one’s whole self to the craft!”

  He looks as though he’s thinking this over. “I see,” he says finally. “But don’t you think – as an actress, I mean – that experiencing all sorts of emotions can only enrich your performances?”

  I stare at him, struck by this observation. Penlyn is hardly a seething hotbed of romantic opportunities, but I never went about with the local boys like Alice and Lou did when they were my age. To be honest, if anyone ever invited me to the pictures it certainly wasn’t hand holding that I was interested in, it was whatever was happening up there on the screen. I prefer to go to the pictures alone. That way, there are no distractions.

  But now, I wonder. Would a love affair improve my acting? I think of Viola. She must have had plenty of love affairs; why, she’d implied that Marco the producer she was out with right now was head over ears in love with her. How could you act falling in love if you never had?

  I think about all the great parts I’ve been reading my whole life. Juliet, Hedda Gabler, Cleopatra! I’ve never experienced anything even close to that kind of passion. The whole love-at-first-sight thing is a mystery to me. How would I know if I was doing a good job at portraying it? I think about how I felt when I first saw Russ, the way he knocked the breath right out of me – I’m not sure it was precisely Shakespearean, but it was certainly dramatic.

  “You may have a point,” I say slowly. “I suppose that Russ—”

  “Oh, no,” Kit cuts in quickly, “I think you were quite right about Russ. I only meant you shouldn’t dismiss every possibility out of hand.”

  “Perhaps,” I say thoughtfully. “It’s certainly something to consider.” I give myself a quick mental shake. “Whatever happens, I have a job. With a real theatre company. And an awful lot can happen in a few weeks, don’t you think?”

  The smile Kit gives me is slow, like a gas lamp being turned up. “Given what you’ve achieved in less than two days,” he says, “I think the next six weeks are going to be quite the adventure.”

  Part Two

  Oxford

  November, 1931

  CHAPTER TEN

  The following week I find myself squeezed into a van, seated between Nora and a large hat box, as we wind our way towards the first stop on the tour: Oxford.

  Nora and I are travelling there together, along with the costumes. I met her at the theatre at the crack of dawn, and we carefully packed up the wardrobe department. Now I watch her, seated behind the wheel of the van, wearing oversized sunglasses despite the clouds and a loose silk dress covered in an abstract design. She nips in and out of the crowds of traffic with great confidence and several exotic expletives that I have never heard before, though I note them down for future use.

  I’m not completely clear on how the rest of the cast and crew are travelling from place to place. Like everything about the tour, the transportation seems to be in a state of meticulously organized chaos. The woman with her hand on the reins – so to speak, there are as far as I know no actual horses involved – is Miss Meriden, and she is ruthlessly efficient, and can wield a clipboard like it’s a scary-looking medieval weapon. So, while I know we’re scattered about in various vehicles, I have no doubt we will all end up where we need to be. I do know that Kit is in one of the bigger trucks that is transporting the scenery, and that Mr Cantwell is driving Eileen Turner in his beautiful blue Rolls Royce.

  We make quite the peculiar convoy as we leave the city, but as we wind our way further out on to the open roads we drift apart. Mr Cantwell’s car glides sedately away, while Russ whips past in a zippy little red car that roars like a territorial lion tribe. Nora and I bring up the rear, rattling along at a leisurely pace.

  I tap my fingers, drumming them against my knees like rain on glass. Though it pains me to admit it, now that we are actually on our way, I am deeply nervous, terrified that somehow I will ruin such a spectacular opportunity. I am also excited. Or perhaps excited is not the right word… Giddy. Euphoric? Jubilant? It is a feeling too big to be contained inside a word.

  Last night, Lou said she was relieved I was leaving (with Midge and Pa’s blessing) because I was rapidly becoming unbearable with all my theatre talk. Robert scolded her for raining on my parade, which I enjoyed very much, though his eyes did glaze over when I described for him again – in great detail – the differences between Gwendolyn’s gown in Act One and Act Three.

  I have spent only two more days at the Queen Anne Theatre, and they were increasingly frantic, full of the hustle and bustle of fittings and alterations, and endless lists and packing up. It has been exhilarating work, done mostly in the company of Nora. The kinship I sensed between us when we first met was no fluke – I like her very much. She is funny and spiky, with dazzlingly good taste and an unnervingly fine eye for detail.

  The only thing that has been missing from my new job is Eileen Turner. Despite my best efforts, Nora refused to ask her back in for one more fitting.

  “Drag Eileen Turner in for an imaginary fitting, just so that you can gawp at her?” Nora shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  “But it wouldn’t just be for gawping,” I explained. “It would be to triple-check everything, and then, who knows, maybe we get to talking, she warms to my undeniable charm, taking me under her wing, adopting me as her protégé…”

  Nora’s perfectly arched brow stopped me in my tracks. I’ll admit it is possible I’ve been getting a little carried away, but when one is left alone for days to imagine the impending experience of meeting one’s idol, there’s sure to be the odd flight of fancy.

  It could happen.

  It feels like anything could happen at the moment.

  After all, here I am, on my way to a city I have never been to before, part of the cast and crew of a touring production directed by Rhys Cantwell, and starring Eileen Turner. I think I might have to ask Nora to pinch me black and blue.

  We have left the city behind now, and we twist and turn through the country roads, rain pattering against the window, the wipers wheezing feebly. It’s still so early that the sun has barely made it above the horizon, lost in a blanket of rain clouds.

  Nora starts singing a Cole Porter song in a sweet husky voice, and I join in with enthusiasm, so that soon the windows on the van are trembling, and Nora is tapping the steering wheel like an enthusiastic percussionist. The rain stops, and misty sunbeams struggle to pierce through the thick bank of cloud. By the time we reach the outskirts of Oxford, it’s turned into one of those hazy autumn days, weak sunshine against a mist-grey sky.

  Oxford seems quiet after London, though it is obviously still much bigger and more bustling than I’m used to. We turn through a maze of narrow winding streets that slither snake-like through buildings of honey-coloured stone. These walls seem radiant with knowledge. I can almost imagine there is something scholarly in the air, as if it is thick with whispered philosophy, crackling with poetry about dreaming spires and white rabbits.

  “Oscar Wilde wasn’t much older than me when he came here,” I say to Nora. “Isn’t that funny? He walked around these streets as a young man, and now here we all are about to put on his play at the theatre. Do you think he imagined such a thing happening?”

  “Oscar Wilde?” Nora says, taking an extremely sharp left turn in a casual manner that has me clinging to my seat. “I’d say he was certain of it.”

  “Some people are very self-assured, aren’t they?” I ponder thoughtfully, propping my chin on my hand as I watch the world sail past my window.

  “And aren’t you one of them?” Nora looks at me over her sunglasses.

  “I suppose I am,” I agree finally, surprised by something I’ve never considered. “I’ve always known what I wanted to do, and it never occurs to me that I might fail – that’s being self-assured, isn’t it?”

  Nora laughs. “The dreams we have as children feel very certain.
I suppose if you hold on to a dream from childhood then it carries that same feeling of certainty.”

  I’m quiet at that. She’s right; being an actress is such a long-held dream, it has become a part of me, like my blonde hair or my dislike of licorice. I feel briefly uneasy for some reason, but then I shake it off. I am working in Rhys Cantwell’s production. All I have to do is prove myself to him, and the future will unfurl itself like a fat, beautiful peony. I’m sure of it.

  Finally, the car rounds another corner and pulls up in front of an old wrought-iron double gate.

  “Hop out and open that,” Nora says, and I do as I’m told. I pull the latches from the ground and open both sides of the gate. The van rattles past me, and I turn to take in the building behind me.

  I am standing in a small walled courtyard where a couple of cars are already parked. One of them is Russ’s shiny red car, and it’s no surprise that he beat us here. The crumbling stone walls are covered in tangled vines, already looking skeletal and wintery. The building at the back of the courtyard is tall and thin, with lots of windows, and a slightly lopsided front porch. It looks as though it has seen better days.

  Nora jumps down from the van, dusting her hands off, and comes to help me close the gates back up. “Here we are,” she says. “It doesn’t look like much, but they’re fairly decent digs. The woman who owns it used to be an opera singer and she takes us in for a bit of extra cash. She likes theatre types, so she doesn’t tend to mind if things get a little rowdy in the evenings, and she makes an excellent fry-up in the morning.”

  “Are the others here?” I ask.

  “Some of them, by the looks of things.” Nora starts shepherding me towards the front door. “Of course Rhys and Eileen won’t be staying here – they get put up in a hotel.” She reaches up and pulls at a bell, which I hear echoing beyond the door.

  The staccato clipping of footsteps across the floor follows shortly after, and the door swings open, revealing a large, smiling woman in her sixties, swathed in a long red gown and clutching a mostly empty cocktail glass.