Page 14 of A Snowfall of Silver

“I’d get to go on the tour?” I ask, her words sinking in. “To help with the costumes? I’d work with Mr Cantwell and Eileen Turner? In real theatres?”

It’s possible a hint of amusement flashes briefly in that cool stare, but it’s so quick I could be wrong. “You don’t need me to sell you on it at all, do you?” she asks drily.

“Of course not!” I jump to my feet. “I think I should pinch myself. This must be a dream.”

Miss Meriden holds up a hand. “You’ll have to meet Nora, of course; she’ll have the final say. And she’ll expect you to put in the work.”

“No one will ever have worked harder on anything.” My voice trembles with fervency. “I swear it to you, on my life. I’ll swear it to Nora Felton too.”

“That won’t be necessary, and frankly, I think Nora would find it alarming. Let’s go along now and meet her.” Miss Meriden gets to her feet and dusts off her skirt. Then, she adds, with the faintest edge of a smile in her voice, “Who knows? Perhaps she’ll have some Herculean labour she can lay before you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The first thing that strikes me about Nora Felton is how young she is. She must be around thirty, fat and pretty with a round face and a fashionably shingled dark bob, a blunt fridge cut across her forehead. She is wearing a sort of black silk kimono, elaborately embroidered and dripping with pink fringe, and a pair of oversized jet earrings.

The room in which she’s working is down the corridor from Miss Meriden’s office and, though it is not much bigger, she has managed to squeeze a workbench with a sewing machine along one wall. Above it dozens of sketches are taped, which I assume must be the costumes for the production.

Despite the chill of the day, the window is open, and Nora is perched up on the high window sill, leaning out of it and smoking a cigarette.

“Sorry, I know it’s freezing in here, but I don’t like to smoke with it shut,” she says, stubbing out the cigarette and tossing the butt out of the window before leaping nimbly down. “Otherwise I feel like I’m turning into a smoked kipper myself. These rooms really are wretched little cells, don’t you think?”

The question is directed at me, I realize. Startled, I mumble something about how beautiful the theatre is.

“Of course,” Nora nods, “but still, we’re all squeezed in on top of each other, like sardines in a tin.” She wrinkles her nose. “And I think that’s enough fish metaphors for one conversation.”

“This is Freya Trevelyan, Nora,” Miss Meriden says. “I thought she might be a good fit for your assistant. Why don’t I leave you two to talk for a while?”

She does so without a backwards glance, her curt movements indicating she’s got much more important things to do than worry about me. I’m beginning to feel a bit like a parcel passed from person to person. Ever since I arrived at the theatre it has felt as though I am being swept along, into a chain of events that are unfolding so rapidly they make my head spin.

Nora has turned away and busied herself making us drinks. Given her sheen of glamour and the cigarettes I am more than half-expecting her to pull out a cocktail shaker, but instead she begins fumbling with a battered electric kettle, copper and standing on three slightly wonky legs. The tin of tea she pulls down is battered too, though it is stamped from Fortnum and Mason.

“I’m sure I’ve got some biscuits in here somewhere,” she murmurs, pushing a bolt of bright pink fabric aside.

My stomach growls and I grimace. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m an absolute gannet, always hungry.”

Nora smiles, and I see that her eyes are a warm brown and ringed in smudgy kohl. “Me too, and if I don’t eat I get increasingly furious. Quite a handy reputation to have, though; the cast often drop in with sweets for fear they’ll get put in something puce and covered in ruffles.”

I laugh, and as with Kit I feel an instant ease, as though I’ve known Nora for ages.

“So.” She hands me a chipped blue teacup full of steaming tea, and gestures towards a seat, half-buried under bits of costume. “Tell me about yourself.”

Again, I tell the story. It’s starting to feel more and more like a part that I’m playing. My words are becoming lines in a script. Naive young girl from the country, come to seek fame and fortune in the big city. It’s not even original.

When I finish, Nora doesn’t ask me about my plans for the future; she asks me about Penlyn and my family, my siblings and the plays I used to put on for them. She asks me about the first costume I made, and how I researched Queen Elizabeth’s ruff. She unearths a tin of shortbread biscuits from beneath a half-fashioned corset and we talk and talk.

Eventually, we both fall silent.

“So,” I say nervously. “Do you think I might be all right for the job?”

“I should think so.” Nora stretches out like a cat. “But I have to warn you that it’s hard work, and the pay is an actual pittance, though you’ll get room and board on the tour. There will be lots of alterations and repairs, and most importantly, I need a dresser. There are several quick changes between scenes and some of the ladies’ dresses are particularly fiddly.”

“I can work hard,” I say. “And I don’t mind about the money. Just to be able to go on the tour and see how it all works up close … it’s a dream.”

“We’ll see if you still think that when you meet the rest of the cast.” Nora stands. “Now, you grab that bag and we’ll get going.” She gestures to one side of the room, where a worn carpet bag sits.

I pick up the bag. “We’re starting now?”

“No time like the present.”