Page 25 of A Snowfall of Silver

I beam at him. “No, I’d like you to come. But it’s cold out there.”

“This isn’t cold! Wait until we get up north. You’re not going to know what’s hit you.” He grabs a coat and we go about the business of wrapping up, buttoning jackets, and tying shoelaces, side by side.

“Right, then,” says Kit, as we step outside into the chill morning. “Where are we going?”

“I woke up missing the sea,” I say. “So I thought I might try and find the river.”

“That sounds perfect.”

We walk through the quiet streets in silence. I think it must be around seven o’clock. The sky is a gentle gold, still lightly pink around the edges, the sun struggling and sleepy. When we reach the river a low mist hangs over the bank, giving the place a strange feeling – almost as if we have stepped out of time. I feel like some ancient traveller, walking along the well-worn riverbank. I think about all the feet that have walked this path, about all the lives and the stories and the triumphs and the failures. Great artists and not-so-great artists. Many of them walked here over the years. Even Oscar Wilde was here. And now so am I.

Willows weep over the water, and trees line the banks. Some of them are still clinging to their finery, jewel-like flashes of ruby and amber, others are elegantly spare, skeletal against the early morning light.

“Is it helping?” Kit asks, breaking the quiet. “With missing the sea?”

“Not exactly,” I say finally. “It’s different, I suppose. I miss the size of the sea, the way it stretches out into the horizon, the way it’s always changing… It makes me feel small. And that feels like a healthy dose of perspective. Walking here isn’t like that.” I laugh. “I think I’m starting to get ideas of grandeur instead.”

“Perspective is overrated,” Kit says. “Places like this, with all of their history – it makes me feel close to the people who came before me. The ones who did what I’m trying to do.”

“That’s just what I was thinking!” I exclaim. “I was thinking about Oscar Wilde and how he must have walked along those streets and here by the river. I know it’s the same in London, but somehow it’s easier to imagine here…”

“London is always changing.” Kit nods in agreement. “Growing, spreading, eating itself up and becoming something else. It’s harder to imagine people from the past there sometimes. You catch glimpses, but for the most part I think it belongs to the present.”

“Yes, that’s it,” I say. “That’s what I was trying to work out in my head. The way London feels like the most modern place on earth, where it’s all happening right now – but it’s where it’s always all been happening for whoever was there at the time.” I’m not explaining myself very well, but I know Kit understands. It’s like when you tie two tin cans together with a piece of string; our thoughts whisper straight down the line between us.

We walk a bit further, the grassy path twisting and turning alongside the water.

“So, do you think Alma will be taking over from Daphne?” I ask after a moment.

“I should think so. At the very least it’s a bad sprain. Daphne will have to go home.”

“Poor Daphne,” I murmur.

“She’ll be all right,” Kit says. “She’s good – and hopefully she’ll get a nice write-up in last night’s reviews, although I think most of the critics are coming tonight.” He pauses. “I wonder if Rhys will want to appoint a new understudy.”

There it is. The sharp thud of my heart in my chest acknowledging how close I’ve been to wondering this too.

“If he did,” I say carefully, “he’d probably choose someone with lots of experience.”

“Maybe,” says Kit. “Or maybe he’d choose someone close to home.”

And then, without another word he takes my hand in his for a moment and squeezes it lightly. With that, it’s as though he’s saying all the things he doesn’t want to say out loud. This is exciting for you, this could be good, this could be a big break. I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’m pleased for you.

I squeeze back, just for a second, just to let him know I understand, and then he drops my hand. We carry on walking, and Kit turns the conversation to home, asking me about my family. He laughs at my stories. Kit tells me about his sisters.

“Three of them,” he grimaces. “And I’m the baby. You can imagine.”

I can. “Are you close?” I ask.

“Yes and no. They’re older – just a few years but it makes a difference growing up, doesn’t it? I was always off with my mates from school. I love my sisters, of course,” he adds quickly, as though I might not take that as a given.

“I understand.” I look out over the river and rub my nose. “My sisters – Alice and Lou – they’re older than me, and it was always the two of them. I always felt like the odd one, the one that didn’t quite fit. It was like they had everything they needed in each other so I was by myself a lot.” I wrap my arms around my stomach. “It’s one of the reasons I got into acting. I got to try on different parts, I got to mess around with who I was, and,” I grin up at him, “I could force them all to pay attention to me while I did it. A captive audience.”

For once Kit doesn’t smile back. Instead he looks a little sad, and I realize that he is sad for me. That makes me feel uncomfortable, as if I’ve peeled too much away, as if my words have shown him something too vulnerable. I rub my arms and clear my throat.

“You know,” Kit says after a moment, “we’re almost at Binsey. We can go and see the treacle well.”

“The treacle well?” I frown, remembering. “Like the story the dormouse tells in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?”