Page 21 of A Snowfall of Silver

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By the time the performance rolls around that evening, I feel as though an entire kaleidoscope of butterflies has taken up residence in my stomach. The build-up to the curtain rising is excruciating – and I’m not even going onstage. I feel like a jack-in-the-box, wound further and further, waiting to explode. I’m not the only one; the tension is a palpable thing. You can practically see the cloud of nervous energy wrapped around each person.

“Is it always like this?” I ask Nora through teeth that seem determined to chatter.

“Yes,” she says, with a grim smile. “Though the first night is by far the worst.”

It’s a relief, then, a blissful exhalation, when the curtain finally goes up, and – like a well-oiled-machine – we all fall into the roles we have practised over and over.

Standing in the wings I watch the scenes unfold between the frantic burst of the costume changes.

There is something deeply pleasurable about watching the cast win over the audience, who seem increasingly eager to be pleased as the night goes on.

The laughter begins almost straight away, but it builds and builds. There are so many clever lines, so many good jokes, and each one is given space to breathe and to shine.

The audience and I watch, delighted, as Algernon and Jack meet up, as Algernon reveals he has an imaginary friend called Bunbury who he uses to get out of things he doesn’t want to do, as Jack explains that he uses the name Ernest when in town so that he can get away with bad behaviour. We hang on every word as Jack reveals he is in love with Algernon’s cousin Gwendolyn – daughter of Lady Bracknell – and as Algernon falls for Jack’s ward, Cecily. We laugh and laugh at the increasingly complicated tangle as both women believe their beloved to be named Ernest.

Of course it’s Eileen who steals every scene she appears in. When she first walks onstage there’s a spontaneous burst of applause that halts the production for several minutes. Seeing her work up close is incredible, watching the play of expressions on her face – the twitch of an eyebrow, the flicker of a smile at her mouth – is like a lesson in itself. It’s all I can do not to start taking notes. I’ve still not spoken to her as Nora is in charge of all her costume requirements; she seems to me as unapproachable, as unknowable as God. For the first time, I understand what it means to be magnetic; you simply can’t take your eyes off her.

By the time Russ and Dan – the actor playing Jack – are arguing over a plate of muffins, the audience are approaching something like hysteria, and I’m finding it hard to smother my own giggles, spluttering as quietly as possible in my darkened corner. Across the stage from me, in the prompt corner, I see Alma clutching the script in trembling fingers and doing the same. Our eyes meet, and I see my own excitement reflecting in the dark, gleaming pools of her eyes.

“How you can sit there, calmly eating muffins when we are in this horrible trouble, I can’t make out,” Dan snaps. “You seem to me to be perfectly heartless.”

“Well, I can’t eat muffins in an agitated manner,” Russ counters swiftly, a charming sight in his linen suit. “The butter would probably get on my cuffs. One should always eat muffins quite calmly. It is the only way to eat them.” He fiddles for a moment with his shirt cuffs, the cuffs that I altered for him with my very own hands, which are now the source of such joy for the laughing crowd.

Russ is a good actor, I think. It makes me like him more, actually, seeing that he’s perhaps done something to earn his arrogance, though there’s a touch of that slickness that hangs about him onstage.

The whole scene is choreographed perfectly, and I see things in it I have never noticed before. The big-brother, little-brother dynamic, the bickering which hides the fact that both characters are miserable, but unable to seek any kind of solace from one another in sincerity – it has to be through these childish games.

It is a wonderful production and this, I see now, is down to Rhys Cantwell.

All through the last few days he has been invested in every single aspect of the performance – the way a prop is handled, the timing of a line, the fall of a gown. And tonight it all makes sense. The entire staging is beautiful. It’s like when you hear a beautiful piece of music – all the different parts coming together in harmony to create something truly special.

Viola appears to make her entrance and I smooth her skirts and adjust a lock of hair. Earlier, her face was pinched and her eyes looked even more enormous than usual, but when she steps on the stage it’s as though she’s a flower being revived by the spotlights.

I expected that Viola would be good – but instead, she is a revelation.

She has something of Eileen Taylor’s magnetism about her, I think, though not as well developed yet. She’s a much better actor than Russ or Dan or Daphne, for all their solid air of professionalism – seeing them onstage together makes it apparent. It’s hard to look away from Viola. With the smallest pause or change of expression she reduces the audience to gales of laughter, and she’s perfectly cast as Gwendolyn, effortlessly dispensing witty one-liners. She plays the part flawlessly, every gesture absolutely right.

I feel as though I might burst with a mixture of envy and admiration. I wonder why I haven’t heard of her before – I follow the theatre world as closely as possible, and Viola is the sort of talent who should be starring in a big London show. There should be girls in Cornwall with her picture on their walls.

When the performance ends and the cast go onstage to take their bows I stand to the side in the shadows with Nora and clap until my hands hurt. The roar of the crowd tells me that they enjoyed it as much as I did. The applause lasts an age and the cast do three curtain calls.

The hustle and bustle after the show is euphoric, riotous, and full of shrieks of laughter, and bouquets of roses and half-dressed cast members swigging from bottles of champagne. There are people everywhere. Only Nora remains focused.

“Fetch that hat before it’s crushed!” she exclaims, as we dart between bodies that seem to be moving in all directions. “And Viola is missing a shoe, last seen in Act One.”

I snatch up the hat in question, and go off in search of the missing shoe.

I find a crowd gathered in Russ’s dressing room. He is wrapped in a blue and silver robe, his dark hair damp with sweat, a half-moon white grin on his face. There are people patting him on the arm, telling him what a great job he did. He spots me and winks. I laugh, elated with it all, giddy on adrenaline, still clutching the feathered hat to my chest.

Mr Cantwell appears, looking very dashing in his evening wear, and he too claps Russ on the arm.

“Very good work, my boy,” he says, and I think despite his calm he looks pleased. “Very good work by all of you.”

I see Miss Meriden behind his shoulder, typically unmoved by all of the heightened emotions on display. Dan, Viola and Daphne join the crowd and a cheer goes up.

Mr Cantwell clears his throat. “You all worked extremely hard, and delivered an impressive opening night performance.” There’s another whoop of approval. “But there’s still work to do,” he goes on, his brows lowering impressively, “and I expect each performance to be better than the last.” He casts a lingering look around the room. “So make sure you rest well tonight. I will see you back here tomorrow to do it all over again.”