Page 59 of A Snowfall of Silver

“Here you are.” The acid voice of Viola makes us spring apart. The clothes are pushed unceremoniously to one side. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Part Four

Durham

December, 1931

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Two days later we arrive in Durham.

We never did get to perform at the little theatre in Runleigh, and we miss our first night in Durham too, before the snow thaws enough to let us leave. There is still snow on the ground as we reach the city, our penultimate stop on the tour, but it is only a light, picturesque dusting.

Durham is a lovely place, dressed for Christmas, with lights strung up in the winding cobbled streets and shop windows full of plum cakes and piles of beautifully wrapped gifts.

Relations between the group have become strained. The morning after the party, Russ sought me out, and mumbled something about having had too much to drink, and worrying he’d not been “quite the thing”. In the interests of the production and an easy life I told him that it was fine, that we were fine. But I have avoided him since.

Russ and Kit are also avoiding each other, and I get the sense that this is because Kit had some strong words to say about what happened. Then I too am avoiding Kit because I find the sight of him extremely confusing. Did we really almost kiss in the costume cupboard? Or did I imagine it? Viola seems to be avoiding me and spending as much time with Kit as possible. Dan appears bemused, while I think Alma has it all worked out, and Eileen and Mr Cantwell are either oblivious or hoping to ignore us all.

Needless to say, this made sharing the small, cramped dressing rooms rather testing. Nora was, at first, quietly amused, but her nerves – like everyone else’s – have begun to fray, and at one point she asked quite forcefully if we could all “stop leaping in and out of rooms away from each other like bloody jack-in-the-boxes”.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but it is a relief to finally leave the tiny chocolate box of a theatre and head into new surroundings. When we pull into our accommodation in Durham and Miss Meriden steps out of the door, her neat little tweed suit completely smooth, every strand of her hair in place, a clipboard in her hand from which she starts issuing instructions, I feel that I could throw myself into her arms and weep.

It seems that Mr Cantwell feels the same, because he goes so far as to clap Miss Meriden’s shoulders and press a loud kiss on each of her cheeks. “Thank god you’re here, Meriden,” he booms when she emerges from his embrace. “It’s been one bloody disaster after another with you gone.” As though Miss Meriden could have prevented the blizzard that kept us all stranded, or erected a five-star hotel with her bare hands.

“Well, you’re here now,” Miss Meriden says soothingly. “And I have rooms booked for you and Eileen down the road at the Grand.”

“Bliss.” Eileen briefly closes her eyes. “Not that Hubert wasn’t an absolute angel putting us up, but it was rather cramped for the three of us and I’m longing to spend several hours in a hot bath.”

Our new digs on the other hand are a cold and draughty boarding house. A long corridor full of small, cell-like rooms containing two narrow beds each. After the peculiar magic of the theatre the rooms seem even meaner, but the relative privacy is a relief. Thank goodness for Alma, who at least is behaving normally. In this dingy room I look forward to the best night’s sleep I’ve had in three days.

Once we’ve unpacked our meagre belongings it’s straight over to the theatre for rehearsal. It feels good to sink back into the familiar routine, everyone playing the parts they are meant to play – both onstage and off. Nora and I are busy unpacking and steaming and mending and helping with the quick changes between scenes. I fly from place to place, my fingers always busy, demands ringing in my ears.

The performance that night is, I think, the best one yet. It’s as if the energy has been building up in all of us for days, waiting for an outlet. The play runs thirty minutes longer because of the breaks we take for laughter and applause. The audience are readily swept up into the giddiness of the performance, hooting and cheering and falling about in their seats.

Out of everyone, Viola stands out as truly extraordinary. From the wings I watch with admiration as she blazes across the stage, holding the audience in the palm of her hand. She has never looked better, never performed better, and when she takes her bows, she glitters with the knowledge of it. Even Alma – good as she is – is a pale shadow in comparison.

I watch her carefully, but I can’t put my finger on what it is that makes Viola so good. She works hard, true, harder than any other member of the company when it comes to rehearsals. I’ve never seen her shirk her responsibilities, whatever Russ has said in the past. I have seen her ask to do something over, and over until it was right. But it’s more than that. It’s as though no one else could play the part once she has made it hers.

It takes Nora and I ages to pack away the costumes and props, and we are the last ones to leave the theatre.

“I’m exhausted,” I groan, when we finally leave the building. “I’m going back to my room. I just want to curl up with my book and fall asleep.”

“Oh, no, you’re not.” Nora takes my arm. “That was the best performance of the whole run, and you can’t avoid everyone for ever.”

“I’m not avoiding everyone,” I mutter. “Just a few people.”

I allow her to tug me towards the pub where the sounds of celebration are spilling out into the street every time someone opens the swing door. I am used to pubs like this now – the kind of bar with a late-night license that doesn’t mind a group of noisy thespians and their various hangers-on. Hot and friendly, with worn leather bar stools, and floors slightly sticky with spilled beer. We make our way inside, and there are the calls of welcome, the jokes, the drinks thrust sloppily into our hands that I have missed these last few days.

It’s nice to have the whole huge, noisy family back together again. Lindsey catches me by the arm and tugs me towards her group, begging for news of our snowbound escapades.

“I heard you had a masked ball!” she says. “Tell us everything!”

“Not quite,” I laugh. “But we did manage a dinner party.”

A voice I recognize, raised above the hubbub of voices, catches my attention. Lindsey rolls her eyes. “Oh Lord,” she says under her breath. “Here we go again.”

“Who is it?” I say.