Page 4 of A Snowfall of Silver

“You may depend upon it,” I say gravely.

As the taxi pulls away from the station Kit stands with his hands in his pockets, watching me go. I snatch my hat from my head and wave it wildly through the back window.

I see him raise his hand in return just before we turn a corner, then, with a sigh of contentment I sit back in the seat and turn my face to the window beside me. I don’t want to miss a single thing.

CHAPTER THREE

By the time the cab winds through the crisscross of traffic-clogged streets and approaches Lou’s road, I am so dizzy with all the sights, I begin to worry about swooning away. We’re in Mayfair now, and the streets open up a little. The imposing buildings give off a quiet sheen of old money, as though nothing bad could happen here. It’s quieter. We skirt around the edge of Berkeley Square, and the elegant old trees there show off their autumn finery, all dressed up in rippling amber. I think about all the things those trees have seen, the way the city must always be changing around them.

The cab driver must be a mind-reader, because he suddenly nods at a large, sandy-coloured building ahead that looks faintly Georgian.

“They’re pulling more of them down,” he says. “Won’t be happy until all the old buildings are gone and they’ve built more roads, more flats, more offices. Can’t keep up with it. It’s like the past doesn’t matter at all.”

I don’t know what to say to that. It’s hard to think about the past when I’m so excited to be in the present. Fortunately, the driver doesn’t seem to want a response.

He turns sharply down a small side street. Here, the frantic energy of the city drops away even further. There are more trees lining the street, their leaves a bonfire flame of red and gold as the sun filters through them. The sound of traffic is muted enough that you can hear the birds singing, and the car glides to a stop in front of an elegant mews house with a gleaming black front door. I recognize it from my last visit and feel a surge of triumph that I have arrived at my destination, navigating the city alone and unscathed.

I pay the driver, pleased to note that the fare is exactly what I expected, and slide from the taxi, slinging the duffle bag over my shoulder.

I stand for a moment, looking up at the house. The sun is shining brighter now, but the air is still chilly. It’s going to be one of those golden autumn days, like Keats wrote about.

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” I say, my voice sending his words ringing through the still air. “Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless.” I’m really warming up now, and I lift my voice further. “With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees—”

“Freya?” A head pokes out of one of the windows on the second floor, and I see a mop of tousled, conker-brown hair and a pair of squinting grey eyes. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” I say, spreading my hands at my side. “It is I.”

I’m too far away to actually hear her sigh, but I see the movement of it through her body.

“Of course it’s you,” Lou says. “Who else would be standing in the middle of the road reciting Shelley?”

“You know perfectly well it’s Keats,” I hiss, but her head has already disappeared back inside and a moment later the smart black door opens.

“Come in, then,” my sister says, and she doesn’t sound surprised to see me, only resigned and a little amused. That’s sisters for you, though, all over.

I try to retain a sense of dignity as I sweep past her and into the hallway, but this is difficult to do when you have a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, a cap sliding off your head and a rather voluminous pair of pantaloons to deal with.

“I see you’ve come in costume,” Lou says drily, lifting the bag from my shoulder and dropping it on the black-and-white tiled floor, next to an umbrella stand that, alongside a single umbrella, also holds a number of rolled-up magazines and newspapers, a silver-handled cane with a black silk top hat balanced on top of it, and an upside down, empty champagne bottle.

I take a moment to look at my sister. She looks different from how I always picture her, as though she’s grown into herself somehow. Even in the few months since I last saw her she seems to have changed. Her curly brown hair is cut into a short bob and she’s wearing the most wonderful wide black trousers and a slouchy bottle-green jumper that doesn’t look anything like one of Midge’s lumpen home-made disasters. She looks prettier, I realize, and older too, elegant, grown up. Suddenly, I feel like I’m looking at a stranger and a curious panic squeezes at my heart.

Then she smiles her familiar, scrunched-up smile, and I notice the freckles across her nose which certainly belong to my sister and not an elegant London socialite.

She pulls me into a hug and I lean into her with relief.

“What’s that delicious smell?” I ask, my nose buried in her shoulder.

“Bluebells,” she answers. “My perfume. Now come inside and tell me what’s going on.”

I think how nice it must be to live in London and smell of bluebells.

She ushers me through the hallway and into a sitting room. There are stacks of books everywhere, and a little upright piano with a jam jar full of sweet violet pansies on top of it. The walls are papered in something pale gold and expensive-looking and covered in framed charcoal sketches of Cornwall.

Sprawled on a worn green silk sofa is the artist himself: Robert Cardew, Caitlin’s brother and Lou’s … well, I never know quite what to call him actually. He and Lou are not married, but we all know that they live together – even if everyone pretends they don’t. He’s reading the newspaper and drinking coffee and looking very much at home here. He doesn’t immediately look up as we enter the room.

“Look who I found outside pretending to be a Romantic poet,” Lou says.

Robert lowers the paper and his eyes widen.