Page 24 of A Snowfall of Silver

I sit down at the stool and crack my knuckles, my fingers hovering over the keys. I am not a particularly brilliant pianist, but Midge always says that what I lack in talent I more than make up for with enthusiasm. I bring my fingers crashing down on the keys and launch into “I’m Sailing on a Sunbeam” by Des Tooley, shouting out my goodbyes to all my cares and sorrows.

The rest of them join in enthusiastically. Alma, I notice, has a particularly beautiful voice, and she and Dan begin harmonizing like a pair of songbirds.

Others join in. Someone produces a trumpet, from where I do not know, and starts playing along.

Daphne hops up on the stool beside me, an open bottle of champagne in her hands as she conducts the crowd, all joining in the chorus. We sing the song through three times, getting louder and rowdier and more pleased with ourselves on each pass at the chorus.

As I bring the song finally to a clattering halt, Daphne exclaims, teeters suddenly on the stool, rights herself briefly and then, in a fog of expletives, crashes to the ground.

“Daphne! Daphne!” I exclaim, crouching down, reaching out to touch her arm. “Are you all right?”

She looks up at me. “Well, that’s torn it,” she says, and then her eyes flutter closed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

November 12th

Dear Midge and Pa,

So, here I am in Oxford at the start of the tour. The place we’re staying in is very nice, and I’m told the lady who owns it makes a good breakfast, for which I’m very grateful as these theatre types don’t seem terribly worried about scheduling meals at proper times. Still, you mustn’t imagine I am fading away. For one thing Lou sent me off like a child to boarding school with a full tuckbox. I shall have to start having midnight feasts with my new friend Alma – she and I are sharing a room. I’m having so much fun already, I love it all. Our first performance last night was a triumph and everyone very pleased.

Will write again soon, love to you and all the babies,

Freya xx

Dear Lou,

Drank gin that was brewed in a bathtub. Danced until the early hours. Almost out of shortbread.

Don’t miss you one bit,

Freya xx

***

The next morning, I wake early. Alma is still asleep in her bed, her long hair tumbled across the white pillowcase. There is barely any light filtering through the gap in the curtains, and I snuggle under the blankets with my torch, careful not to wake my roommate as I write a couple of quick postcards.

There’s a restless kind of buzzing in my limbs and I dress as quietly as possible, bundling up in a thick and misshapen jumper, the product of Midge’s misguided belief that she can knit. The jumper is a soft russet colour, and when I press it to my nose I almost believe that I can smell the sea.

Slipping out of the room I tiptoe down the hallway, the floorboards creaking monstrously as I try to be wraith-like and silent. It’s no matter, though – I can hear snoring coming from one of the rooms off the hallway. The party went on extremely late – it was still going strong when I stumbled into bed around two-thirty. I’m much more used to early nights and early mornings, and it’s going to take me a while to adjust. I should think it will be ages before anyone else is up.

Downstairs, I pop my head into the kitchen. It’s freezing, and no one is there, but the mess from the party litters every surface. I head into the pantry in search of sustenance and find half a slightly sad-looking loaf of bread and a jar of honey, as well as fat, yellow butter in a butter dish shaped like a white cow. I pour water into a tin kettle and set it on the stove. I’m not sure there’s a finer feast on earth than tea with bread and honey. I eat hungrily, mulling over the details of the night before.

As soon as we helped Daphne up from the floor it became clear that she had badly hurt her ankle. Del hurried off to call the doctor, and several of the others spirited Daphne off to her room to lie down. In that moment I looked at Alma and saw that her eyes were wide. I knew just what she was thinking, and I knew that she didn’t like herself for it one bit, but there it was: if Daphne couldn’t perform, then Alma would. I suppose in this business you need a degree of self-interest. I remember what Russ said about Viola being an “ambitious little thing”.

My own sense of ambition is complicated. On the one hand I’ve known I wanted to act pretty much since I could talk, and I’m extremely determined to get there – if that’s not ambition then I don’t know what it is. On the other hand, I never thought much about how to get there.

Certainly I never imagined dining with producers like Viola does. I suppose I just thought one did a good job and was rewarded for it. But Viola, despite being undeniably talented, is not starring in a big theatre, and she’s chasing all the opportunities she can. There is clearly more to it than I imagined.

I lean back against the stove, my hands cradling my mug, the warmth seeping into my cold fingers. When I’ve finished I make a half-hearted attempt at tidying up a little. Then I decide I can’t stand it any more and I need to go out. I feel claustrophobic in this stuffy room, as though I’ve been too much inside, as though I need to feel the sting of cold, sharp air on my face. I have a sudden, searing longing to see the sea. I’ve never been so far from it before and for some reason it leaves me unsettled.

I am in the hallway, wrapping a scarf from the teetering coat rack around my neck, when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Looking up, I find Kit, yawning.

“Hello!” he says in a low voice. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be awake.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to explore.”

“Would you like some company? You can say if not; I know it’s hard to get time to yourself on tour.”