Page 11 of A Snowfall of Silver

“And you’d introduce me to him?”

“That I can do. The rest would be up to you.”

I feel suddenly as though the clouds have parted and great beams of sunlight are washing over me. Once again I am pulled back from the brink of despair. Destiny, surely, has led me here; to my big break. I get to my feet. “What are we waiting for?”

Kit takes me through to the back of the theatre, pointing things out to me as we sail past. “That’s the men’s dressing room down there, women’s is the other side. There’s the costume department, this is where the scenery is stored and there’s a larger workshop down there on the right. It’s all in a bit of a state at the moment, because we’re getting everything ready for the tour.” I scramble to keep up with his long strides. Kit seems different here, I think. His quiet air of self-possession and confidence is mingled with something else, an excitement that seems to simmer just under the surface. There is a brisk energy to his movements.

Finally, we emerge in the wings of the stage. Stage right, to be exact. The adrenaline that has been racing through me begins to hammer even harder in my veins. I feel like I might be sick. Or faint. Or fly. Everything here feels so big. I look up and see, above the stage, the rigging system – it seems unbelievably high, a mess of ropes, waiting to lower in scenery. Kit walks out on to the stage, and I hesitate for a moment, before following him.

Time slows down.

I’m onstage. A proper London stage. Stretching out in front of me are hundreds of empty red velvet seats. The theatre is tiered like a beautiful wedding cake, all cream and swirling, ornate gold. It is somehow both bigger and smaller than I imagined it would be and exactly how a theatre should look.

I am so overwhelmed that it takes me a moment to realize that the lights on the stage have dimmed, and that Kit is talking to someone, out where the audience should be.

“…If you could spare just a few moments, sir,” I hear Kit say. Squinting, my eyes finally settle on the man sitting several rows back, a sheaf of papers in his hands and a pair of spectacles balanced on his nose.

Rhys Cantwell.

He is a stern-looking man with steel grey hair that stands disordered around a craggy face. He looks like he’s been carved out of stone, ice blue eyes above a beaky, Roman-looking nose. He is wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, which are too small for him, perched on the end of his nose, and attached to a delicate gold chain. They are completely at odds with the rest of his intimidating face and he manages to wear them with an air of disdain.

“Mr Cantwell,” I manage to murmur. “Sir!” And then, without thinking about it, I drop into an incredibly low and supplicatory curtsey, one hand gracefully extended, like a prima ballerina making her final bow onstage in a sea of flowers.

I hear Kit gurgle beside me, the sound of a laugh, quickly stifled, and I freeze there near the ground, wondering what on earth has possessed me. With as much dignity as I can manage, I rise slowly back to my feet.

“Kit!” Mr Cantwell snaps. “Who on earth is this? And why is she acting like she’s just been presented to Queen bloody Victoria?”

“This is a friend of mine, sir. She’s here because she wants to be an actress.”

“Don’t they all?” His voice is as cold as those eyes. “What has this got to do with me?”

I decide it’s time to take my fate into my own hands. There’s no sense standing here like a particularly slow-witted goldfish.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Cantwell. It’s not Kit’s fault, I absolutely begged him to introduce me. I’m such a tremendous fan of your work. Of course I’ve never actually seen any of it,” I add candidly. “We don’t get to see much of anything in Cornwall, but I’ve read every single review of your plays, every single article about you. I loved what you said about – about bringing a measure of honesty to the work, of finding the personal connection to the material – I stuck that in my scrapbook. I have a photograph of you in there as well, though my brother Tom drew a moustache on you in blue ink. He said he thought it made you look more distinguished, and in a strange way, you know, I think he was right.”

There’s a silence after this, one that is so thick I can almost feel it brushing against my neck alongside the faux fur.

“Who are you?” Mr Cantwell asks finally.

“My name is Freya Trevelyan, Mr Cantwell,” I say. “And I want to be an actress. It’s not even just that I want to act exactly, more a sense that I have to do it as much as I have to keep on breathing. And I’ve spent my whole life so far, buried away in Cornwall, and now I’m finally here and – oh, please, let me at least show you what I can do. I’ll never, ever bother you again.”

“Won’t you let her, sir?” Kit asks, his voice firm and serious.

I flash him a look of intense gratitude and clasp my trembling hands together. Mr Cantwell glares at me for another moment.

“Fine,” he says shortly. “You may have three minutes. Go on.”

“Three minutes?” I repeat blankly. “What would you like to see?”

“Something worth seeing, I suppose,” is all he says.

I don’t hesitate. I walk across the stage, unbutton my coat and fling it at Kit who catches it with deft hands. My fingers trembling, I smooth my hair, and twitch the skirts on my dress. I turn so that my back is to Mr Cantwell, and close my eyes for the briefest second, offering up a prayer to Saint Genesius, the patron saint of actors.

Then I turn and step full into the light.

I don’t know why, but the scene I decide to perform is Act One, Scene Five of Hamlet, where he meets the ghost, and I play both parts, using the space on the stage. As soon as I start I feel the real world melt away as always, lost in the words and the feelings that they stir in me. I think about nothing except the pain, the loss, the sense of betrayal that pours into me as water filling a vase. That’s how it feels sometimes; as though saying the lines are an act of obliteration, as though I am emptied of myself and someone else has taken over.

When I finally finish, I stand, dazed, hardly able to recollect any of the things I have just said and done but faintly aware that I must have said and done them. My ears ring.