by Laura Wood
Alma is asleep, but at the sound of my entrance she stirs.
“Well?” she says, lifting herself up on her elbows. “How was it? Did he sweep you away with talk of your radiant beauty?” She shifts into a perfect imitation of Russ’s smirk at the end of this, and I chuckle.
“It was nice,” I shrug.
“Not Romeo and Juliet?” Alma’s blue eyes are full of sleepy laughter.
“No,” I sigh, stepping out of the golden dress. “Not that.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
8th December
Dear Lou,
Told Russ I didn’t think things were going to work out between us romantically – fairly sure I just beat him to it, but he still managed to look crestfallen, which I thought was very nicely done of him. I despair, though, what does a girl have to do around here to be swept off her feet? It was all so perfect on paper, but when he kissed me I just felt rather flat and like I was pretending. Anyway, I worried it would be awkward, but if anything Russ is being nicer and more attentive than ever. Boys are strange.
Freya xx
10th December
Dear Midge,
Thank you, thank you, thank you for the saffron cake and the jam which was waiting at the theatre in Sheffield! I can’t believe you thought to send it there. It was such a lovely taste of home, and I could almost imagine I was there with you sitting around the kitchen table. Particularly as I was surrounded by noisy actors fighting over the last slice. (As if I would share the last slice with anyone, the fools!)
Still, you should know that your baking has garnered much praise, and Russ would like me to convey a proposal of marriage, should you find yourself at a loose end. I tried to tell him he could never “win the hand of the fair maiden” (as he put it) from Pa, but he insists his stage combat training would come in useful. Kit says to pass on his special thanks for the ginger biscuits – he was surprised I had told you they were his favourite, and even more surprised that you remembered. He was so pleased, Midge, his cheeks turned all pink.
All my love,
Freya xx
10th December
Dear Tom,
No, you absolutely cannot keep your newts in my wardrobe. My costumes are in there, and I don’t want you in there AT ALL. I don’t care if you have named one of the newts Rhys Cantwell, it is still an insult to my art.
Freya
13th December
Dear Lou,
The company runs like clockwork these days, moving from town to town. I barely know where I am, but I seem to always know where I’m going. The play continues to draw a big crowd. We were sold out in Leeds last night, and the audience were laughing themselves into the aisles. I can’t tell you how tired I am, or how happy. Every night is different, every performance a clean slate. It’s exhilarating.
Reasonable digs here, warm enough to leave off the thermals indoors at least! Alma swears she heard a ghost on the stairs last night, but I didn’t hear a sound, I was fast asleep. So upsetting to miss a possible spectre, but then I daresay it was just Russ sneaking another girl into his room.
That’s not true, actually, he’s been on his very best behaviour, and I can’t help suspecting he might be trying to win me around. I don’t know what to think about that, having very little experience in the matter. What was your first kiss with Robert like? Was it a bit flat?
Freya xx
POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS
Time handed in: 14.37
Office of origin: Westminster
Words:5
NO IT WAS NOT
ROBERT
From Nottingham we continue north to Sheffield, Leeds and York. We have fallen into a routine now, and while the hours are punishing, the thrill of the performance continues to hold its spell over me. I’ve never worked so hard, or been so tired, or felt so fulfilled and exhilarated as I do in those weeks. My own rehearsals – squeezed into our busy schedule – have improved, and I feel a general sense of achievement.
The temperature continues to plummet, and by the time we head into the last week of the tour it has started to snow. We are driving towards the Yorkshire coast when this becomes a problem. The increasingly narrow roads we are driving down are banked with snow. The wheels of the van skid a couple of times, and I learn some more colourful swear words from Nora. I thought I had heard them all by now.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Nora murmurs as we creep carefully forward in the van. “Thank goodness we left early and there’s nothing else on the roads. Have you seen anything that looks like it might be the town yet?”
“I think we’re almost there,” I say, projecting more confidence than I feel. I frown over the map, trying to trace the exact route we should be taking, with very little idea of where we actually are.
The snow is falling thick and fast now, a flurry of fat flakes that splat audibly against the windscreen. The wipers are going full force but we can barely see a few feet in front of us.
“Look!” I exclaim. “Civilization!” I see a snow-covered sign and realize with relief that we have reached the outskirts of Runleigh, the small town that is to be our next stop. It’s such a small town that I’m not entirely sure why it’s on the tour. When I asked Nora she said that Mr Cantwell had a special affection for the theatre here, which piqued my interest.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” Nora mutters under her breath as we crawl along the road, shadowy buildings looming up alongside us.
“Here,” I say. “This is the boarding house, I think. Just there on the left.”
We pull bumpily off the road. I see that Kit and Mr Cantwell have already arrived. Mr Cantwell’s car is still humming, and through the snow-covered window I can see Eileen Turner all wrapped up in her fur coat. We abandon the van and slip and slide across the driveway towards the two men. It begins to dawn on me that neither of them look at all happy. They are having a conversation with a third man that involves much angry gesticulating.
“What’s going on?” Nora asks when we finally reach them.
“They haven’t got room for us,” Kit says. The man they’ve been talking to takes this opportunity to slink unobtrusively away and back towards the boarding house.
“I don’t understand it,” Mr Cantwell murmurs darkly. “Meriden has never let us down before but the blasted man says he hasn’t got any record of us coming and that he’s completely full.”
“Miss Meriden will know what to do, won’t she?” I say.
“She’s not coming,” Kit says. “She sent a wire to the boarding house, not that the manager had a clue who it was for at the time. The roads were too bad. Most of the company turned round and headed back to York. Apparently we missed the worst of it by the skin of our teeth.”
“Not coming?” Nora says blankly. “Miss Meriden?” And I agree, it seems impossible that that capable woman should be thwarted by anything as mundane as the weather.
“What are we going to do?” I ask, shivering.
We’re interrupted by a screeching sound as Russ’s car suddenly swings into the road, coming to a precarious stop almost on top of us.
Viola emerges almost instantly. “My god, Russ, you could have killed us all!” she shrieks. Russ steps, laughing from the car, and Alma and Dan emerge from the back seat, pale and shaken.
“Things got a little hairy,” Dan murmurs, coming to stand beside me. “Between Russ’s driving and Viola’s banshee impression, I began to think it possible I’d died and been sent straight to the abode of the damned.”
“Well, you were wrong.” Alma smiles weakly. She too looks a little green-tinged around the edges. “We all survived, and anyway, you’re an angel and you’re going straight to heaven.”
“Sweet of you, darling, but I’m afraid heaven sounds dreadfully dull.”
The situation is swiftly explained to them and then we all stand, undecided what to do next. At last, Kit suggests we go to the theatre.
“We can’t just stand around here all day,” he says reasonably. “I don
’t think anyone else is coming. Perhaps the manager there will have some suggestions.”
This is met with a chorus of agreement.
“I am not getting back in a car with that madman behind the wheel,” Viola insists.
“We can leave the cars here and walk,” I suggest. “It’s just around the corner. I saw it on the map.”
We make a funny kind of procession, slipping and sliding along the road, forging our way through the very air around us which has turned white and freezing. My eyes are watering, and my cheeks sting. I barely take in the outside of the theatre once we reach it, I am so relieved simply to be there. When Kit pushes at the door and it swings open underneath his hand I am not the only one to let out a weak cheer.
We tumble into the welcoming warmth of the building like a litter of overeager puppies. Even Mr Cantwell and Eileen seem to have lost their usual dignified air, bedraggled as the rest of us, with pink noses and windswept hair.
“Mr Cantwell!” a voice exclaims in tones of deepest horror. “What on earth are you doing here?”
The voice belongs to a small, anxious-looking man with a bald head, round gold spectacles, and a nervous habit of twisting his hands. “I’m Hubert Pennington, the theatre manager.” His eyes lock on to Eileen and widen comically. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he says, almost to himself. “I thought for certain that you would have turned back in this weather.”
“We missed the worst of it,” says Mr Cantwell.
“But – but we can’t hold a performance here tonight!” Mr Pennington exclaims, and I realize he looks exactly how I imagine Mole in The Wind in the Willows.
“Don’t worry about that,” says Mr Cantwell wearily. “Most of the cast are trapped in York anyway. We just need a place to stay – the boarding house has no room for us.”
I had not thought it possible for the man before me to look more anxious, but at this he turns positively grey. He shakes his head. “There isn’t anywhere else,” he says sadly. “Nowhere with any room, and of course because of the snow no one is leaving and…”
“We’ll have to go somewhere else,” Mr Cantwell says.
“I don’t see how,” Kit points out. “It’s going to be hell trying to get out of here in this weather.”
The theatre manager nods eagerly. “The main road always gets blocked off just up the hill when it snows like this,” he says. “I’m surprised you managed to make it through. I really didn’t expect…”
“He’s quite right,” Dan says. “We shouldn’t have come through ourselves, only Russ drives like an absolute demon. I thought we were going to be swallowed up in some sort of avalanche.”
“But if we can’t stay, and we can’t go, what are we supposed to do?” I ask.
There’s a silence then.
“We could stay here,” Kit says finally. “If that was all right with you, Mr Pennington?”
“Here?” Mr Cantwell, the theatre manager and Viola all exclaim in equal tones of horror.
“It couldn’t really be worse than most of the places we’ve been staying,” Kit says. “It’s warm and dry, at least. There’s a bathroom…” He turns to the manager. “Do you have any camp beds we could set up in the dressing rooms?”
Mr Pennington nods. “I’m sure we could cobble something together,” he says uncertainly.
“No worse than where we’ve been staying,” Nora says, “but those two are used to finer things.” She nods at Mr Cantwell and Eileen, who are looking rather apprehensive at the talk of camp beds.
“Oh!” the little manager squeaks. “But it would be my pleasure, indeed, my honour, to host you both at my home.” He looks as though he’s about to fall and genuflect at Eileen’s feet.
“It would be most kind of you,” Eileen says in her beautiful, stately voice. She inclines her head by the merest fraction of an inch. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.” Mr Pennington turns bright pink.
“I only wish I had room for all of you,” he adds weakly.
“Oh, the rest of us will be all right,” Nora says briskly, though Viola’s pursed lips tell a different story.
“Right,” the manager says, relief writ large across his face. “That’s a plan, then. I’ll have one of the lads dig out some camp beds and see about some other home comforts for you.”
“Come on, Russ, let’s get the bags,” says Kit.
“If we must,” says Russ, tugging up his scarf. I catch his eye and he smiles. “You know I live to serve you, darling.”
“Do stop fawning over Freya for a minute and see sense,” Viola says, at her most icy. “This is a ridiculous idea. Sleeping in a rundown old theatre.”
“It’ll be fun,” says Alma, her eyes shining. “An adventure.”
“I think you’ll find it all quite snug,” Mr Pennington says, eyeing Viola coldly. “The theatre is a very special little place. In fact, why don’t I give you a tour?”
He leads us through the foyer and deeper into the theatre, talking all the while.
Alma and I bring up the back of the group. “So?” she asks. “What do you think?”
“I agree with you.” I wriggle in excitement. “Camping out in a theatre. What an adventure!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
It turns out Mr Pennington is quite right; the theatre is special. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I had wondered what it was that was bringing us to this small coastal town, but as we begin to look around I find that now I understand Mr Cantwell’s affection for it completely.
The Theatre Royale is a tiny, perfect chocolate box of a theatre, built – Mr Pennington informs us – in the 1780s. The boxes that line the wall of the auditorium are painted a pale, mint green, and are embellished with golden scroll work. The seats in the stalls are opulent green velvet, and the walls are painted a blushing peach colour. The ceiling is covered in a painted fresco of a swirling sunrise, and suspended from the centre is an elaborate golden chandelier that shimmers with the promise of mellow morning light.
The stage is slightly smaller than we have worked on before, and surrounded by swagged green curtains. The complete impression is one of delicious folly, as though the whole theatre has been constructed on a whim, like an oversized dolls’ house for grown-ups to play in. Even Viola’s frown vanishes, and she looks as enchanted by it as I feel.
The backstage area is less interesting, but scrupulously neat and clean. The dressing rooms at the back, being near the boiler, are deliciously warm, and I think we will be quite snug and cosy here.
Several boys appear muffled in thick coats, obviously drafted in by Mr Pennington, dragging camp beds which we set up in the dressing rooms, laden with thick quilts and downy pillows, donated by various generous townspeople. It almost feels like a dormitory. Nora, Alma, Viola and I will be sleeping in one room, and the boys in the other.
Russ and Kit arrive with the last of our bags, windswept and cheerful, and we scatter to unpack and make things as comfortable as possible. I can hear Dan next door, singing an Al Bowlly tune in his rich baritone.
Hubert Pennington returns with supplies – candles, bread, jam, butter, a whole carefully wrapped fruit cake and a crate of gently clinking bottles that contain – according to the handwritten labels – home-made ginger beer and elderflower wine.
“We are going to have quite the midnight feast later,” I say, and Alma squeezes my hand.
Now that the cold has worn off, I’m not sure there could be anything nicer than being snowed in at this little theatre. I was never sent away to school, but this is always how I imagined it might be. There’s something about all this, the unexpectedness of it, the feeling of magic, that makes me feel like a young child.
“This is a first,” Nora says, sitting on her bed with her back against the wall. “I’ve done a lot of things, but I’ve never slept in a theatre before. This will be a story you can tell one day, Freya.”
I hug myself tight. “It does feel like being dropped into the middle of a story, doesn’t it?”
“How long do you think we are going to be stuck here in limbo?” Viola asks, plonking herself in front of one of the mirrors and fiddling with her hair.
Nora shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine. We can’t go anywhere until the road clears. We’re due to perform here for the next three nights – tonight is obviously cancelled, but who knows what we’ll wake up to? It could all be back to normal tomorrow.”
I hope not, I think.
The boys drift into our room. “Shall we investigate this wine, then?” says Russ.
I feel a light, familiar touch on my shoulder.
“Do you want to go and explore?” Kit asks.
“I’ve been waiting for you to turn up,” I say. “Let’s go.”
We slip out of the room, leaving Viola and Russ arguing over the bottles. I think Alma is the only one to notice us leave, but then she’s a noticing sort of person.
We leave the dressing rooms behind and step into the heavy silence of the theatre. It’s strange, this silence, in a place that would usually be filled with such noise and energy; it leaves us creeping quietly, talking only in hushed tones.
Behind one door we discover what must be the wardrobe department, filled with rails of costumes.
“Kit, look at these,” I exclaim, the excitement in my voice splintering the quiet, my hand trailing over the dresses. Some of them look a hundred years old. “Nora is going to be in heaven.”
There are dresses, tissue light, like something spun by fairy magic, rich velvets in jewel tones, rippling silks in every colour of the rainbow. There are gowns that flash, heavy with glass stones that weigh a ton, and elaborate frock coats made of swirling jacquard or severe black silk, delicately embroidered.
I reach out and stroke a stiff apricot silk gown shot through with gold, that looks like something Marie Antoinette would wear. “Viola would look so beautiful in this,” I say, without thinking, imagining how the simple neckline and elegant lines would suit her.