Page 33 of A Snowfall of Silver

Eileen Turner is here. In this room. And unless I am much mistaken I am going to have to speak to her. A feat that will prove complicated if I cannot formulate coherent thoughts, let alone translate them into coherent words.

Eileen Turner walks down the aisle of the theatre towards the stage and Mr Cantwell meets her. She is magnificent, regal in an enormous fur coat. Her eyes are flinty, assessing. I think I’m going to faint.

Eileen Turner, my brain says. EileenTurnerEileen-TurnerEileenTurner.

She and Mr Cantwell confer in low voices, and then she turns to me.

“Miss Turner,” I say, and, unthinking, I fall into another one of those awful supplicatory curtseys, like some sort of dying swan.

There is a moment of silence.

“She does that,” Mr Cantwell says. “I don’t know why.”

“Call me Eileen,” is what Eileen Turner says in that beautiful voice of hers, her grey eyes resting on me for a long, measuring moment.

“Eileen,” I croak, lifting myself from my prone position. Of course I’ll call Eileen Turner, Eileen, I think. For some reason my teeth are chattering as though it is cold, and I have a desperate urge to laugh, which I am trying very hard to keep from doing lest I look like more of a maniac than I do already.

“I shall just go and dispose of my coat,” Eileen says, managing to imbue these words with the kind of imperial coolness with which a queen might announce she was going to dispose of several of her more annoying subjects. “And then I’ll be ready for you.”

“Wonderful,” I say airily. After she’s disappeared I turn to Mr Cantwell. “What does she mean, ready for me?” I hiss.

His shaggy eyebrows rise. “She’s going to do some scene work with you.”

“Oh god,” I murmur.

“Yes, well, get used to it. Heaven forfend lightning does strike twice and you do have to be onstage with the woman. You can’t spend the whole time gawping at her like she’s a bloody zoo animal.”

“Go onstage?” I gasp. “You mean – you mean you’re going to let me understudy?”

“There’s not a lot of choice at this point. And you’ll do. You need work, of course, a lot of work. But I think we could make you passable. In a pinch. I’d rather not cancel a performance unless we absolutely had to.”

I am too thrilled to care how lukewarm he sounds. “I’m an understudy!” I squeal, and I do a little jig on the stage.

“Hmmmm.” Mr Cantwell’s mouth turns down in a way that gives him the appearance of an angry turtle. I cease my jig at once, folding my hands and schooling my face into an expression of mild obedience that always seems to go down well with Aunt Irene.

“I mean, thank you, sir, for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

He smiles faintly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Miss Trevelyan.”

“Well, then; I promise to try my best not to let you down and to work very, very hard.”

“I suppose,” he says, “that will have to do. Now, let’s go back to the beginning of the last scene and take it again, shall we? And this time do try not to flap your hands around; you’re supposed to be drinking tea, not conducting an orchestra.”

Part Three

On Tour

December, 1931

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

4th December, 1931

Dear Lou,

I know I owe you a good long letter because I haven’t written since Birmingham. Well, here we are in Nottingham. Do you remember when we used to play Robin Hood? You and Alice were Robin Hood and Maid Marian and I was the Sheriff of Nottingham. I always did like playing the villains best, so much more interesting.

I persuaded Kit to drive me out to Sherwood Forest this morning and a whole bunch of the others came too. Alma, of course, and Viola because she never seems to like Kit and I going off together. Russ and Dan came too, and I must say we made quite the band of Merry Men. The forest was just like I had imagined, and I longed to scramble up the trees and stage a daring ambush, but I couldn’t in front of all the sophisticated theatre types. Only think how disappointed Tom would be in me!