Page 34 of A Snowfall of Silver

The play has been very well received here, and Alma continues to perform so well it makes my teeth hurt. Yesterday, and quite out of the blue, Mr Cantwell actually complimented her. She and I just stared at each other in amazement and then, as soon as he left the room, we whooped around like a pair of banshees.

Both she and Viola are in excellent health, so I continue to see no reason that I will have to fill in – for which I think Mr Cantwell is mightily grateful. My own rehearsals have not gone smoothly – even Dan lost his temper a little when I stepped square on his foot for the third time – and Viola gets truly furious with me. She has a reputation for being flakey, missing rehearsals, but she seems an absolute tyrant to me, wanting everything completely perfect. Not that I mind, I quite agree with her, only it’s galling when the thing that isn’t perfect – or anywhere near it – is me. Still, Eileen (did I mention that Eileen Turner told me just to call her by her first name?!) said she thought I was “improving”. That is something, I suppose.

I can’t help wondering whether my lack of worldly experience is contributing to my inability to manage a scene. The more I see of the world outside Penlyn the more I realize I haven’t the first idea of anything much at all. It’s as though life has passed me by and I feel utterly dried-up and ancient. When I said this to Nora she told me that all eighteen-year-olds feel ancient, but I think she was being facetious. Still, you should hear the stories the company tell about the adventures they’ve had, the places they’ve travelled, the endless stream of lovers and rivals. It’s thrilling and outrageous and I have nothing to contribute. Maddening!!!

The digs here are absolutely the worst yet. Even worse than the ones in Leicester. I can’t tell you how cold it gets at night. The leading cast members like Viola and Russ get their own rooms – but Alma elected to stay with me and I’m so grateful. She and I have been sleeping in one bed with all our clothes piled on top of us, and this morning the water in the sink had frozen over! She had me in hysterics with her impression of the landlord when we raised the point with him. Alma’s the most wonderful mimic, I think it’s because she really sees people – just the way you do. She’s quiet, but she doesn’t miss anything. I hope you and Robert are well, and—

I am interrupted in my writing by a knock at the door. “Come in,” I call out.

It’s Kit. He takes in the sight of me wearing my coat, scarf and gloves while under a blanket and laughs.

“Come on, before you turn into an icicle. We’re going to the pub where it’s warm.”

“Hallelujah,” I exclaim, leaping to my feet and abandoning my letter without a second glance. “Lead on, Macduff! Did you know,” I say, following Kit out into the hallway and down the stairs, “that lead on, Macduff is a misquotation?”

“In fact, I did,” Kit grins, raising his voice dramatically above the clatter of our feet. “Lay on, Macduff, and damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”

“And then, we fight,” I say, wielding an imaginary sword.

“I’d rather we went and ate fish and chips instead.”

“Fish and chips? Heaven.”

We chatter happily along the road in the direction of the pub. This week it feels suddenly as though winter has struck in full force, and the wind blusters around us with icy determination, leaving us huddling further into our coats. The sun has set, though its ghost remains behind, warming the sky to a rich navy, rather than the star-strewn black velvet it will soon become.

“How did the writing go today?” I ask.

Kit huffs out a breath that forms a white cloud in front of him. In Kit speak that means, not well. He still hasn’t offered to let me read his work, and I have to admit it’s driving me mad.

It’s a Monday, our one night off from performing. We all needed a break. The work has been gruelling, the accommodation miserable, the conditions tough, and I’ve been enjoying every moment of it.

Nottingham is a nice city, bustling and cheerful without feeling overwhelming. I like it here. We round the corner towards the pub, which is nestled at the foot of a hill, the castle on top looming over us with a faint air of menace. I didn’t have much experience with pubs before this trip. It’s not precisely the thing for young women to visit them usually, but the rules don’t seem to apply to theatre troupes, which is just fine with me.

It is a very old pub, cosy and full of hidden corners, that stays open late, and it has been adopted by the cast and crew as a source of food, drink and warmth, thanks to the horrors of our current boarding house. I don’t think I had any idea how lucky we were staying first at Del’s place, as it’s certainly been all downhill from there. Nora seems resigned to our new surroundings. “Just be grateful for the lack of rats,” was her prosaic advice.

As we push through the door a wave of warm air hits us like a curled fist, along with the deafening roar of chatter. The pub is full of people, talking, eating, and clutching pint glasses full of frothy amber beer. That now familiar hoppy smell, mixed with sawdust makes me feel happy.

“Freya! Kit!” I hear Alma’s voice, and I spot her in the back. She has climbed up on to her seat to wave at us. Several others in the pub swing around to look at her appreciatively. With her long fair hair rippling down her back and her pink cheeks she looks angelic.

Kit and I weave through the crush of people, trying not to jostle arms or step on toes.

“Phew!” I exclaim, when we reach the table where Alma, Dan and Viola are waiting for us. “It’s even busier than usual.” I begin the process of unwinding my long scarf, and shedding my many layers.

“We don’t usually come until later,” Alma points out.

Russ appears then, parting the crowd like the Red Sea. In his hands is a tray full of heavy beer glasses, which he plonks on the table, sloshing the drinks over the edges.

“Here we are, friends,” he says. “The food’s on the way too, courtesy of the delightful landlady.”

I find I don’t mind Russ’s charm so much when I’m the one benefitting from it. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m starving.” I slide into a seat and take a sip of beer, the foam clinging to my top lip. I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

“You’re always starving,” Russ says, slipping into the seat beside me and leaning close to my ear. “Why don’t you let me take you out for that dinner one night?”

It’s not the first time Russ has asked me out, but I’ve always put him off. I don’t want to be just another one of his conquests; it feels too predictable, somehow. Now, though, I’m thinking about the letter I was writing to Lou. Here I am, languishing for some experience, while all the while experience, in the very nice-looking form of Russ, hammers on my door. This is my chance to get swept away in a passionate affair, to make some stories of my own.

“All right,” I say. “Why not?”

Russ looks startled and I wonder whether he only continued to ask out of habit. He corrects himself swiftly enough, turning his smile on me. “Wonderful,” he murmurs. “I know a charming little place. Tomorrow? After the show?”