A Snowfall of Silver

by Laura Wood

  “It’s not that I’m scared of the work,” I say, leaning forward earnestly. “If I thought work would fix it then nothing would stop me, I’d work myself down to nothing.”

  “That would rather defeat the object.”

  “You know what I mean. I would do anything to get better. But up there onstage – I knew, then, that it was all wrong. It wasn’t like when I would put on things at home. It wasn’t like when I did that silly audition for Mr Cantwell. I couldn’t lose myself in it. There was no … joy.”

  Lou sips her tea, thinking that over. “And you think an actress needs to feel joy in performing?”

  “Of course she does. If there’s no joy in it, it’s not real – for you, for the audience.”

  “You seem to have a good understanding of it,” Lou says. “You clearly learned a lot on this tour.”

  “Yes. I suppose I did. About a lot of things.” I lean back and bite into another jam tart. “There’s a lot of world out there, it turns out. Outside of Penlyn.”

  “Yes, I know.” Lou smiles. “And somewhere in that big, wide world, is a future for you. One that fits, one that does bring you joy.”

  I shake my head gloomily. “I find that hard to imagine. Acting was all I wanted to do. There is nothing else for me.”

  “And I find that hard to imagine. Imagination has always been your greatest gift. Don’t give up on it now. You are bigger than this dream, Freya. You are still you, with or without the acting. And you are wonderful – clever, strong and brave. You made the last six weeks happen. You did. No one else. You took your destiny in your own hands and you built something. You can do that again.”

  I try to take in what Lou is saying, I try to share some small part of her confidence. And yet, where she describes a future wide and open, all I see is a blank space.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Days pass and I do very little except mope around Lou’s house and play sad songs on the record player. I sit in the yellow bedroom and watch the street through my window. The tree that was full of vibrant autumn leaves is a skeleton now, tapping its bony branches against the glass like it wants to be let inside.

  We’re only a few days out from Christmas, and there are lights up and down the road, twinkling like sequins. Robert arrives home from work one night, pink-cheeked and pleased with himself, dragging an enormous great tree that takes three people to carry it in, and which they then have to cut down by about a foot so that it will fit in the house.

  “I thought the ceiling was higher,” he mutters, bewildered.

  “This is exactly what you did last year,” Lou laughs, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

  He and Lou string the now battered tree with lights and ornaments and put a gaudy gold star on the top. They play Christmas carols on the record player and sing along. They hang stockings, including one with my name on.

  It makes me sick.

  “Come on, Freya,” Robert calls. “Help us with the tree.”

  “Bah, humbug,” I reply, shuffling off to my room with a tray full of their hot mulled cider and mince pies.

  There’s something so awful about being miserable when the world around you is turning into a joyful, festive, carol-filled wonderland, that being miserable almost becomes its own twisted version of pleasure. I understand Scrooge now, I think, pleased, and then I remember I never need to understand a character again because I will never play a part again, and I sink into an exquisite spell of melancholy that lasts the rest of the afternoon.

  When a group of carollers turn up at the door that evening I tug the pillow over my head and tell myself it would be very wrong to hurl projectiles out the window. As I listen to their cheerful voices harmonizing on “Deck the Halls”, I can’t help but feel they are placing an unnecessary emphasis on the fact that I am supposed to be jolly. I turn my mind again to my plans for the empty future gaping before me.

  It is during this period of reflection that I come to a decision. After Christmas, I will go home. It is the sensible thing to do now that my artistic dreams have gone up in flames. I will go back to a quiet life on the farm. Pa will always be glad of an extra pair of hands and perhaps while I am there I will come up with a plan for what to do next. Maybe a typing course, so that I can move to a bigger town or city and find work. That could be nice. Safe and sensible, and unlikely to leave me with a heart smashed to smithereens. I pen a quick missive to Midge, letting her know.

  I feel a certain sense of relief at this decision. At least it is done now and I can begin to put my childish fantasies behind me. Perhaps I will become a serious person, one who alphabetizes things. The sort of girl that even Aunt Irene will approve of. Yes, I think; now my life is devoid of all joy, who better to model myself upon? I wonder if she might like a companion? I too could dress in black and disapprove of everything. I wonder – for a startling moment – if Aunt Irene is the product of a broken dream.

  I practise in the mirror, looking at my pale, unhappy reflection. “Foolish girl,” I say in Aunt Irene’s voice. “Causing nothing but trouble and strife for everyone, running off with your head stuffed full of ridiculous nonsense. Well, look where all that dreaming has got you!”

  “Oh, shut up, Aunt Irene,” I mutter. “What do you know?”

  I flop back on to my bed.

  Now that the matter of my immediate future is sorted, I am able to unpick a previously unexamined thread from the general tapestry of my misery. I glance over at the parcel Nora gave me, still unopened in the corner of the room.

  I miss my friends.

  I miss all of the people I spent the last six weeks with. Well, maybe not all of them – I don’t mind if I never see Russ again. But I miss Nora and her keen intelligence and glamour, the flash of her red nails as she wields a needle. I miss sharing a room with Alma, whispering late into the night, laughing over silly stories, her quick understanding. I miss Dan and his sharp tongue and ability to gossip anywhere, with anyone. I miss watching Viola on the stage, her charm and vanity, her brilliance and her steel.

  I miss Kit.

  I think about him – I would estimate – perhaps a hundred times a day. I want to talk to him about every thought that passes through my brain. I want to lay my troubles at his feet. But I can’t. He is a talent, like Viola. Not a failure like me. And I spent the last few days of the tour, and all the time since then, completely ignoring him. He must feel like I don’t care about him at all.

  Maybe he’s given up on me altogether by now, realized that I don’t belong in his world any more.

  Finally, fed up with doing nothing, I decide to write him a postcard. It has a picture of a flaming Christmas pudding on the front, and when Robert is next going into town I ask him to leave it at the theatre. I assume Kit will be dropping in for his final meetings with Mr Cantwell and Miss Meriden. No doubt they’re already talking about the next production.

  On the back of the postcard I write:

  “I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.”

  Merry Christmas,

  Love

  Freya

  It is nothing really. A line from The Importance of Being Earnest, a smoke signal, a way of reminding him that I am here. In case he is thinking of me too.

  Two days pass and my moping only gets worse. Perhaps I shouldn’t have sent the postcard after all. Would he think it was odd? I think about that night in the theatre when we were playing sardines. I think he would have kissed me if Viola hadn’t arrived. I think I would have liked him to.

  I am checking the hall table for post for the hundredth time when I run into Lou, who is just back from visiting a friend. Her cheeks are pink from the cold.

  “For goodness’ sake, Freya,” she says, tugging her hat off her curly head. “It’s like having the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come in the house. I know you’ve had a setback, but can’t you try for a little merriment?”

  “It’s not that. I’ve decided to turn my back on my career and that’s the end of it.” I sigh. �
��If you must know, I am having a dilemma of the heart.”

  “Well, that’s a different thing altogether.” She strips her gloves from her hands. “Come and tell me all about it.”

  We sit together on the sofa, the tea tray at the ready. “The thing is,” I say, after I pour everything out over several cups of tea and three mince pies, including the almost-kiss during a game of sardines this time, “I don’t really understand how I feel or what I want.”

  “It sounds like you’re very fond of him,” Lou points out.

  “Oh, I am!” I say. “I feel comfortable with him. Sometimes we can have whole conversations without saying a word. And now, I miss him so much, it’s like an ache.”

  “It sounds,” Lou pauses delicately, “as though you might be in love with him.”

  “In love with him!” I clutch at my skirts. “No! It’s not that. It can’t be. He’s never made me want to miss a single meal. He’s never made me cry or feel sick and faint with longing.”

  Lou laughs. “But being in love isn’t all weeping and wailing.”

  “Isn’t it?” I ask doubtfully.

  “Maybe on the stage it is,” Lou says, “or in novels, though I’d never put that sort of nonsense in mine. And I don’t act like that around Robert, I never did. I eat very well when he’s around, and you can’t tell me you don’t think we’re in love.” Her cheeks go pink. “Because we are, quite desperately, actually.”

  I think about this. It’s true that Lou and Robert have seemed always very comfortable together. I remember this when we first met Robert and he came to visit the farm. They seemed relaxed around each other.

  “And Alice and Jack are the same,” Lou goes on. “They’ve always just … fit. Love doesn’t have to be a great thunderclap and choirs of angels. Love can start as friendship. You don’t want to be with someone who breaks your heart or treats you badly or tries to control you – you want someone kind, steady, thoughtful. Someone who really sees you. It might not sound glamorous, but it feels wonderful when you find someone like that. It’s bigger than just passion, that kind of love – it’s a gift. Passion alone burns out when it becomes miserable.”

  “I suppose,” I say.

  “Imagine living inside Wuthering Heights.” Lou shudders. “What a nightmare Heathcliff would be. Only think how miserable.”

  “I was thinking more Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Well, either way, everyone dies. I don’t call that romantic.”

  “I guess not.” I think this over. For a novelist, my sister can be very practical. “Do you really think I’m in love with Kit?”

  Lou laughs. “It’s not for me to say, Freya. I think you know yourself, one way or the other. Don’t you?”

  I’m left to mull that question over for a while. In search of a distraction I settle on Nora’s parcel. After she gave it to me I left it languishing in the corner of my room, too heartsore to look at it. I didn’t want to be reminded of Nora; I didn’t want to think about any of it.

  Taking a deep breath, I pull the brown paper open. Inside is a dress. It’s a simple day dress in a warm, mossy green fabric. There’s a note on top of it in Nora’s hand.

  You deserve a dress made just for you.

  N x

  I unfold the dress, shaking out the creases. It’s lovely. I try it on immediately, and it fits like a glove. It wraps around at the top across my bust, and the neckline is wide, sitting on my shoulders, cut into a V shape that is deep enough to be just the right side of scandalous. The skirt hugs my hips and flares out around my calves. I look in the mirror and smile, because I understand what Nora has done. She’s made a dress for me. The colour, the fit, the style, they’re all mine. It’s not one of my sisters’ hand-me-downs, it’s not Lou’s London wardrobe, or a golden dress for a romantic heroine, it’s not an amethyst gown or a Victorian street urchin costume. It’s me. Freya.

  Just then, the front doorbell rings.

  “Freya,” Lou’s voice calls through from the hallway. “It’s for you.”

  “For me?” I clatter down the stairs and make my way through to the front door. Lou steps back, past me and away, a smile playing around her lips, and there, standing at the bottom of the front steps, with my postcard in his hand, is Kit.

  I look at him wordlessly for a moment. His face is impassive, his grey eyes serious, searching.

  “Oh!” I say. “You’re here.”

  “I’m here.”

  And then he smiles.

  The smile is slow, it lights his eyes, his dimples deepen, and suddenly I know, with my whole heart, that every word Lou said was right.

  I walk out of the door and straight into his arms.

  It’s as easy as that.

  I lift my chin, his lips come down on mine, and the whole world disappears. Kit cradles my face in his hands, and his mouth is soft and warm. His thumb strokes my cheek. My knees tremble, and I lean against him, his arm moving to wrap around my waist and pull me closer. My fingers slip inside the dark wool coat he wears, and I feel his heart hammering madly in his chest.

  Finally, we break apart, and he rests his forehead against my own while we both catch our breath. Slowly, I open my eyes, and see that his are still closed, long golden lashes against his cheek.

  I smile. His eyes open, pupils wildly dilated.

  “Thank you for the postcard,” he says huskily.

  “I missed you.”

  “The feeling was mutual.”

  And then he kisses me again, slower, sweeter, taking his time, and I am dimly aware how funny it was that I ever thought he was just a friend, that I thought Russ with all his polish, and the girl in the golden dress could ever be the real deal. And then I’m not thinking of anything at all, except the feeling of his lips on my skin and his hand in mine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  After we have thoroughly scandalized Lou’s neighbours for several minutes, Kit notices that I am not wearing a coat.

  “You’re shivering!” he says.

  He takes off his blue scarf and wraps it around my neck. It is warm and it smells like him.

  “You should go back inside,” he says, though his arm remains wrapped quite tightly around me.

  “Not yet,” I reply. “I’ll get my coat. Perhaps we could go for a walk?”

  He pushes my hair back. “I’d like that.”

  “I’m going for a walk!” I call in to Lou as I snatch her coat off the hook.

  “Don’t take my—”

  “Byyyyye,” I call, closing the door.

  Kit laughs, and he pushes my frozen, fumbling fingers aside, buttoning the front of my coat. There are soft woollen gloves in the pockets and I pull them on. He takes my hand in his, and we set out.

  “It’s been snowing,” I say, finally noticing that a thin sheen of soft white has settled over the road.

  “All day. Didn’t you see it earlier?”

  “I’ve been avoiding the outside,” I say. “Much easier to mourn your broken dreams indoors.”

  He squeezes my hand. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asks. “Not that you have to,” he adds hurriedly. “It’s just… I’ve been worried about you. And so have the others.”

  “Have they?”

  He nods. “You weren’t yourself at all the last few days of the tour. I wondered if it was because you’d been onstage and then you had to go back to being the wardrobe assistant…” He trails off uncertainly. “But you seemed so unhappy, and so far away, I didn’t know how to help. Even Mr Cantwell was worried about you, said you’d seemed in a strange mood. I believe his exact words were, ‘disturbingly quiet and much less irritatingly buoyant than usual’.” He flashes a lopsided smile and lets out a long breath. “I thought you might not want to see me. You were so distant at the end. We didn’t even properly say goodbye.” My heart twists at the flash of unhappiness in his eyes. “And then Robert left your postcard at the stage door, and I thought, maybe you wouldn’t mind seeing me after all.”

  “Thank goo
dness for Robert.”

  “You can say that again. Apparently, he caused quite the stir at the theatre, by the way.”

  “I can imagine.”

  It’s early evening and it’s starting to get dark now. The lights strung above us in a looping zigzag shine white against a royal blue sky. We’re walking further into a residential bit of the city, and the windows in the tall houses glow, warm and welcoming. Some contain glimpses of decorated trees, of brightly coloured paper chains, and jewel-like glass ornaments.

  “It wasn’t that I wanted to be back onstage,” I say finally. “It was that I didn’t.”

  Kit frowns. “I don’t understand.”

  I take a deep breath. “All my life I’ve wanted to be an actress. It’s been my North Star, the thing I’ve thought about, worked towards for as long as I can remember. But when I was onstage that night I knew it wasn’t right. I wasn’t right.”

  “You were good,” Kit says. He sees me shake my head. “You were,” he insists. “You had hardly any rehearsal, you had no warning, and I don’t think anyone would have noticed.”

  “Maybe I was passable,” I say, “but that’s not enough. Not for me.”

  Eventually, he nods. “I can understand that.”

  I reach for his hand once more, tangling my fingers with his.

  “I feel all … untethered, as if I’ve lost a huge part of myself.”

  We walk on further, our bodies pressed close together, leaving matching pairs of footprints in the snow.

  “What are you going to do?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Go back home with my tail between my legs, I suppose.”

  “You can’t go back home!” he exclaims, horrified.

  “I don’t think there’s much choice,” I rub my nose. “I can’t just hang around Lou’s house for ever. I’m already feeling like the world’s biggest third wheel, one of those Penny Farthing type ones. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve walked in on Lou and Robert in a clinch. The two of them can’t keep their hands off each other, and all the mistletoe they’ve hung is the perfect excuse,” I finish with a grimace.