Page 10 of A Snowfall of Silver

He turns away and from the wall beside him he lifts something that looks like an old-fashioned telephone receiver and speaks into it.

“Kit to the stage door, please. Kit to the stage door.”

Faintly, in the distance, and behind the closed doors I hear the words ringing back with a light crackle.

“He’ll be up in no time, miss,” the man says.

He is right; it is scarcely three or four minutes later when Kit’s already familiar face appears. He looks at me for a second in confusion, and then his face clears.

“Freya,” he exclaims. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the pantaloons.” The dimples flash. “Joe, this is the girl I met on the train – the one I said was going to come and have a look round. Freya, this is Joe, a living legend. He’s been the porter here at the Queen Anne for over sixty years.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say politely.

“So you’re the little actress.” Joe casts a look of appraisal over me. “Yes, I see.”

I’m not sure what he sees exactly, but I smile hesitantly. “Being a porter at a theatre like this must be very exciting.”

Joe laughs, a wheezing sound, like the slow compressing of an accordion. “Exciting’s one word for it, miss.”

Kit groans. “Don’t get him started, Freya; trust me, he’s got enough stories to keep you here for a week.”

“Oh, but I do want to hear those stories.”

The accordion laugh again. “Don’t you worry, miss. I’m not going anywhere any time soon. Maybe young Kit here will bring you for a cup of tea in the porter’s office some time.”

“I will.” Kit takes the parcel with my book and hands it through the window to Joe. “Look after this, will you, Joe?” Then, with a flourish, he holds out his arm to me. “Shall we go? I must say I didn’t expect you so soon – you are keen.”

I place my hand on Kit’s arm and we walk down the corridor. As soon as we are out of earshot of Joe, I tug at his arm, pulling him to a halt.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, frowning.

“Oh, Kit,” I say in a low voice. I find I am actually wringing my hands together, a phenomenon I wasn’t sure actually happened in real life. “I’ve got myself into the most awful muddle!”

CHAPTER SIX

“Let me see if I understand,” Kit says. “You told your sister that you have an audition here today. And if you don’t get the part you think they’re going to send you home?”

“That’s about the size of it,” I say miserably, pulling my knees up to my chest. We’re in a little room off the corridor, no more than a cupboard, full of racks of costumes. I am sitting with my back against the wall, surrounded on one side by a cloud of blue taffeta, and on the other a military uniform.

Kit is sitting on the opposite side of the room, seemingly unbothered by the long feathered gown that he has to keep brushing away from his cheek. “I understand that your sister got you all riled up – sisters have a way of doing that.” His mouth lifts here in a way that lets me know he himself is familiar with the despotic ways of sisters. Then, like a cloud flitting across a clear sky, the frown appears again, puckering between his grey eyes. “But what was your plan in coming to London? I mean, please don’t rip up at me for asking – but how did you think you would get into acting?”

“Oh, the usual way,” I say. “Thousands of auditions until I got my lucky break, and I was hoping to be able to take some classes – after all, the only training I’ve had has been very amateur. I’m not such a fool as Lou seems to think me and I knew I could make it happen eventually. Only then Lou said I could stay for two weeks – and that isn’t nearly enough time to get things done!” I take a deep breath. “It was obvious she wasn’t going to listen to the truth. I needed her to think I had something lined up, a good reason to stay. Before I knew it the lie was coming out of my mouth, and then Lou was so surprised. It was suddenly like she was taking me seriously and…” I trail off miserably.

Kit nods. “I want to help, Freya, but I don’t think I can. I’m not involved in auditions or any of that. And all the parts for the tour have been cast for a while now.”

I slump dejectedly, then force a smile. “Of course. I’m sorry for laying all my woes on you like this – it’s my own fault that I’m in this mess.”

There’s a brief silence. “I could maybe get you in to see Mr Cantwell,” Kit says finally, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. “He might be able to make some introductions for you. Though I must warn you, he’s not the most … approachable man.”

“Mr Cantwell,” I say, and then the words slowly sink in. “Not Rhys Cantwell?”

“Yes. He’s directing the production.”

I stare at Kit for a moment. My lungs feel squeezed of air. Rhys Cantwell is an absolutely legendary theatre director and has been for longer than I’ve been alive. He’s won every award going, worked with all the stars. His name peppers many of the newspaper and magazine cuttings in my scrapbooks. In my wildest dreams I have imagined him calling me his muse as we stage magnificent productions together. Although, now that I think about it, I haven’t heard much about him recently. I suppose I thought he had retired.

“Rhys Cantwell is here?” I manage. “The Rhys Cantwell?”

Kit laughs. “In the flesh.”