Page 3 of A Snowfall of Silver

“If you’re around before we leave next week then you should come down to the Queen Anne one afternoon,” Kit continues. “I’ll give you the guided tour.”

“Oh!” I grip the seat either side of me with such force that my knuckles turn white. “Do you mean it? Really?”

Kit’s eyes crinkle. They are an interesting pale blue, Kit’s eyes. Almost grey, like the sea on a cold day, and fringed with thick sandy lashes. “It would be a pleasure.”

CHAPTER TWO

The rest of the journey passes in a blur. Kit and I talk and talk, and at some point I drift off to sleep again, waking with a stiff neck to a pale smudgy dawn, and Kit laughing and promising not to take it personally.

“Sorry,” I yawn. “It’s tiring work, being on the run.”

By the time the train pulls in to Paddington I am trembling with excitement. I have been sitting on my hands for the last ten minutes because the mixture of nerves and anticipation is sending shockwaves through my body; it feels like my limbs might somehow get away from me. I can’t stop my left foot from tap-tap-tapping impatiently, as though at any moment I may break into a dance routine like Adele Astaire.

We slow down, down, down, until we’re moving painfully slowly, and the whistle blows, announcing our arrival like a trumpet call. I try to wait, but the train is still creeping forward as I finally give in and leap up from my seat.

“Come on!” I say to Kit. I grab my bag and shuffle into the corridor, squeezing along past other passengers who are gathering their belongings and emerging sleepily from various compartments. I don’t know how they can all be so casual about it. Don’t they know we’re arriving? Into London?

“’Scuse me, ’scuse me,” I mumble, ducking and weaving around elbows and raincoats and carpet bags and hearing the same apologies from Kit, following along in my wake.

I reach the doors as the train finally comes to a juddering halt and I’m out and down on the platform before the carriages have finished swaying drunkenly into place.

The roof of the station is enormous, arching up above me like a cathedral, with weak morning sunlight streaming through, and for a fraction of a second I gawp up at it, dazzled. Then, in the next moment, there are people everywhere. A wave of people. A sea of people. And they’re rushing past me, full of purpose, conveying an intimidating sense of certainty that they know exactly what they are doing, not only now, but for ever and with the rest of their lives.

I am swept forward, along with the crowd, heading unerringly up the platform like salmon streaming upriver. I grip my bag tightly and glance wildly around. “Kit!” I call out.

“There you are!” a voice says at my elbow, and I look up to find the already familiar face of my new friend smiling down at me. I notice he is smiling from quite a long way up, now that he has unfolded himself from the train carriage. He must be several inches over six feet tall – a beanpole, Midge would call him, though he’s a fairly sturdy and reassuring one with broad shoulders and strong arms. That must be what comes from dragging all that scenery about.

My spirits lift at the sight of him and I feel foolish for my panic. I’m meant to be on the run, getting by with nothing but my own wits. A very poor job I’m making of that, I think – already relying on someone else when my feet have barely touched London soil.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say firmly, and Kit nods. He touches my elbow very lightly, so lightly that I hardly realize he’s guiding me in the right direction and we’re through the crowd and past the waiting room and out on the street before I know it.

“We did it,” I puff, breathless and giddy, drinking in gulps of the cold morning air. It might be early but London doesn’t seem a bit sleepy. There are still so many people around. In fact, there are so many new sights and sounds and even smells assaulting my senses instantly and with such ferocity that for a moment it’s hard to untangle the car horns and the shouting and the bright woollen scarves and the tall red buses and the buildings that seem to loom into the heavens. They hit me all at once like an abstract painting, and I think I understand modern art now, which is a rather pleasing development.

“It’s wonderful,” I breathe, looking around me, and brushing back the stray lock of hair that has come loose from my hat.

Kit looks around, surprised, at what is, presumably, a rather ordinary bit of London street. But then he’s not from a tiny Cornish fishing village with an entire population that is smaller than the number of people currently waiting outside the station.

“If you like this, then you really do have a lot to look forward to,” he says diplomatically. “Now, on to more practical concerns. Do you know where you’re going? And how to get there?”

“Of course,” I say. “I’ve been plotting this for weeks.” I pull a slip of paper from my pocket. “I’ve written down Lou’s address, and I have the correct change for a taxi fare. I found out how much it would be from Mrs Bastion. She’s quite a glamorous lady from the village, you see, and she prides herself on travelling up to London once a year and drinking a cup of tea at Fortnum and Mason’s. She loves to show off how knowledgeable she is about the metropolis, as she calls it, so once I got my hands on a map and worked out the mileage it seemed like I would be able to calculate the cost of the journey fairly precisely.”

Kit holds out his hand. “May I?” I place the slip of paper in it. His eyebrows raise and he lets out a low whistle. “That’s a nice part of town,” he says.

“It’s not my sister’s house,” I say. “Lou lives there and looks after it because her friend Caitlin – who actually owns it – lives in Paris.” I lower my voice. “Caitlin and her brother used to be very well off, but then their father died and … I’m not really sure what happened exactly, but they had to sell their big house in Penlyn – they came to the village for the summer, that’s how we met them – and they had some great old heap in London that went too, but they kept this place. It all worked out very nicely for Lou.” I try to keep the sting of bitterness out of my voice, but I’m not sure I succeed. Lou made leaving Penlyn behind for a dazzling life in London look very easy.

I glance up at Kit a little shamefacedly. “I don’t really begrudge her happiness,” I explain. “I’m happy that she’s happy, but sometimes the jealousy, that she’s working as a writer, doing what she wants to do, and that she’s doing it here … it just swamps me.” I have never said that aloud to another person before and I feel a bit nervous that Kit will think I am despicable.

“That’s understandable,” Kit says instead. “But I’m sure it will come in extremely useful when you’re playing in a Shakespearean tragedy.”

I perk up at that, an aspect of my contemptible emotions that I had not previously considered.

“I suppose this is goodbye, then,” he continues. “Are you certain you have enough money for the cab?”

“Absolutely certain. It’s the money that my Aunt Irene gave me for my birthday last year. She’s a Victorian horror who dresses like a vampire bat and loves to disapprove of everything. It’s perfect that she’s funding this particular adventure.”

Kit laughs, that warm, sun-bright laugh, and lifts up his hand to hail a taxi.

“All right,” he says, as I clamber into the back of the car. “I hope the rest of your adventure runs smoothly. And maybe I’ll see you at the theatre one afternoon? The Queen Anne, don’t forget.”