Page 18 of A Snowfall of Silver

I think about all the great parts I’ve been reading my whole life. Juliet, Hedda Gabler, Cleopatra! I’ve never experienced anything even close to that kind of passion. The whole love-at-first-sight thing is a mystery to me. How would I know if I was doing a good job at portraying it? I think about how I felt when I first saw Russ, the way he knocked the breath right out of me – I’m not sure it was precisely Shakespearean, but it was certainly dramatic.

“You may have a point,” I say slowly. “I suppose that Russ—”

“Oh, no,” Kit cuts in quickly, “I think you were quite right about Russ. I only meant you shouldn’t dismiss every possibility out of hand.”

“Perhaps,” I say thoughtfully. “It’s certainly something to consider.” I give myself a quick mental shake. “Whatever happens, I have a job. With a real theatre company. And an awful lot can happen in a few weeks, don’t you think?”

The smile Kit gives me is slow, like a gas lamp being turned up. “Given what you’ve achieved in less than two days,” he says, “I think the next six weeks are going to be quite the adventure.”

Part Two

Oxford

November, 1931

CHAPTER TEN

The following week I find myself squeezed into a van, seated between Nora and a large hat box, as we wind our way towards the first stop on the tour: Oxford.

Nora and I are travelling there together, along with the costumes. I met her at the theatre at the crack of dawn, and we carefully packed up the wardrobe department. Now I watch her, seated behind the wheel of the van, wearing oversized sunglasses despite the clouds and a loose silk dress covered in an abstract design. She nips in and out of the crowds of traffic with great confidence and several exotic expletives that I have never heard before, though I note them down for future use.

I’m not completely clear on how the rest of the cast and crew are travelling from place to place. Like everything about the tour, the transportation seems to be in a state of meticulously organized chaos. The woman with her hand on the reins – so to speak, there are as far as I know no actual horses involved – is Miss Meriden, and she is ruthlessly efficient, and can wield a clipboard like it’s a scary-looking medieval weapon. So, while I know we’re scattered about in various vehicles, I have no doubt we will all end up where we need to be. I do know that Kit is in one of the bigger trucks that is transporting the scenery, and that Mr Cantwell is driving Eileen Turner in his beautiful blue Rolls Royce.

We make quite the peculiar convoy as we leave the city, but as we wind our way further out on to the open roads we drift apart. Mr Cantwell’s car glides sedately away, while Russ whips past in a zippy little red car that roars like a territorial lion tribe. Nora and I bring up the rear, rattling along at a leisurely pace.

I tap my fingers, drumming them against my knees like rain on glass. Though it pains me to admit it, now that we are actually on our way, I am deeply nervous, terrified that somehow I will ruin such a spectacular opportunity. I am also excited. Or perhaps excited is not the right word… Giddy. Euphoric? Jubilant? It is a feeling too big to be contained inside a word.

Last night, Lou said she was relieved I was leaving (with Midge and Pa’s blessing) because I was rapidly becoming unbearable with all my theatre talk. Robert scolded her for raining on my parade, which I enjoyed very much, though his eyes did glaze over when I described for him again – in great detail – the differences between Gwendolyn’s gown in Act One and Act Three.

I have spent only two more days at the Queen Anne Theatre, and they were increasingly frantic, full of the hustle and bustle of fittings and alterations, and endless lists and packing up. It has been exhilarating work, done mostly in the company of Nora. The kinship I sensed between us when we first met was no fluke – I like her very much. She is funny and spiky, with dazzlingly good taste and an unnervingly fine eye for detail.

The only thing that has been missing from my new job is Eileen Turner. Despite my best efforts, Nora refused to ask her back in for one more fitting.

“Drag Eileen Turner in for an imaginary fitting, just so that you can gawp at her?” Nora shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“But it wouldn’t just be for gawping,” I explained. “It would be to triple-check everything, and then, who knows, maybe we get to talking, she warms to my undeniable charm, taking me under her wing, adopting me as her protégé…”

Nora’s perfectly arched brow stopped me in my tracks. I’ll admit it is possible I’ve been getting a little carried away, but when one is left alone for days to imagine the impending experience of meeting one’s idol, there’s sure to be the odd flight of fancy.

It could happen.

It feels like anything could happen at the moment.

After all, here I am, on my way to a city I have never been to before, part of the cast and crew of a touring production directed by Rhys Cantwell, and starring Eileen Turner. I think I might have to ask Nora to pinch me black and blue.

We have left the city behind now, and we twist and turn through the country roads, rain pattering against the window, the wipers wheezing feebly. It’s still so early that the sun has barely made it above the horizon, lost in a blanket of rain clouds.

Nora starts singing a Cole Porter song in a sweet husky voice, and I join in with enthusiasm, so that soon the windows on the van are trembling, and Nora is tapping the steering wheel like an enthusiastic percussionist. The rain stops, and misty sunbeams struggle to pierce through the thick bank of cloud. By the time we reach the outskirts of Oxford, it’s turned into one of those hazy autumn days, weak sunshine against a mist-grey sky.

Oxford seems quiet after London, though it is obviously still much bigger and more bustling than I’m used to. We turn through a maze of narrow winding streets that slither snake-like through buildings of honey-coloured stone. These walls seem radiant with knowledge. I can almost imagine there is something scholarly in the air, as if it is thick with whispered philosophy, crackling with poetry about dreaming spires and white rabbits.

“Oscar Wilde wasn’t much older than me when he came here,” I say to Nora. “Isn’t that funny? He walked around these streets as a young man, and now here we all are about to put on his play at the theatre. Do you think he imagined such a thing happening?”

“Oscar Wilde?” Nora says, taking an extremely sharp left turn in a casual manner that has me clinging to my seat. “I’d say he was certain of it.”

“Some people are very self-assured, aren’t they?” I ponder thoughtfully, propping my chin on my hand as I watch the world sail past my window.

“And aren’t you one of them?” Nora looks at me over her sunglasses.