Page 32 of A Snowfall of Silver

I realize that what Nora is describing is exactly what I was thinking about her. It’s too strange to think of Kit that way. “If you say so,” I say, sounding doubtful to my own ears.

“I suppose Russ is rather the obvious choice,” Nora muses, as if I haven’t spoken. “Dull, perhaps, but one can see the appeal.”

“I don’t think he’s dull.”

“No?” Nora’s look is enigmatic. “But then you’re so young.”

I can’t help feeling a bit miffed by that, and Nora obviously sees it in my face because she laughs. “I’m sorry, darling, there’s nothing worse than being told you’re too young to understand something, is there? I didn’t mean to be patronizing; you seem like a girl with her head screwed on right, and you work your socks off. You’ve got an eye for design too,” she adds. “Not many do. There might be a future in dressing for you, if you ever wanted to look outside of acting.”

I am torn between pride at her hard-won praise, and horror at the idea of giving up acting.

“Oh, no,” I say quickly. “It’s always been acting for me. It’s what I’ve wanted my whole life.”

“Then I’m sure it’s what you’ll end up doing.” Nora’s red lips part in a smile. “Perhaps starting tomorrow.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It is frighteningly early the next morning, and I am perched on the edge of the stage while Rhys Cantwell sits in the front row, all of his intense energy concentrated on me like a sunbeam through a magnifying glass. It feels as though he might burn me up without a hint of remorse, like a small boy torturing an ant.

“What I need from you, Miss Trevelyan, is a proper audition,” he says crisply. “Can you do a scene from the play?”

“Yes, sir,” I say quickly. “I know every part off by heart.”

“Every part will not be necessary,” he growls. I wish his face were not so unfriendly – it’s very off-putting. He’s not even wearing the silly spectacles which took the edge off last time. “We will do the scene where Algernon and Cecily meet in Act Two. You,” he pauses here, “in case it is not obvious, will play Cecily. I will read in Algernon’s lines.”

“Of course.” I get to my feet and move upstage.

“You may take it from, ‘I have never met any really wicked person…’”

So this is it, I think. I’m really going to read lines for Rhys Cantwell. I feel sick, dizzy, feverish, shaken. I try to empty my mind, to feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing – nothing but the words coming to me, like a voice whispering them in my ear. I close my eyes for a moment, and then I begin.

“I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like everyone else.”

Rhys Cantwell fires Algernon’s lines back at me with speed and precision and I match them without pause. It’s exhilarating and strange, more like a game of tennis than any acting I’ve done before.

It goes all right, I think. I remember the lines, and I fill them with as much wit and meaning as I can, remembering how Alma played the part. When we finish the scene I stand in front of Rhys, my hands clasped. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking somewhere past me, into the middle distance, his expression thoughtful. He picks up a pen and twirls it in his fingers.

“Please, sit down.”

I do so, my legs swinging over the front of the stage. It leaves me feeling vulnerable, a bit like a child, my feet too far off the ground on this big stage, but Mr Cantwell doesn’t seem to notice.

“Tell me what you think of the play,” he says finally, surprising me.

“Of this play?”

“Yes,” he snaps, an impatient hand flapping. “Of course this play.”

I gulp. Not exactly dazzling so far, Freya. “Well, I think it’s wonderful,” I manage, and then, mortified by the trite words and gathering my scattered wits together as best I can, “It’s funny, and it makes people laugh, but it’s funny in a way that’s not quite warm. It’s witty and clever. It’s cutting. It can be cruel. It’s saying things, about the way people behave, about the way people want to be seen and the way they really are…” I trail off, embarrassed by my miserable little schoolgirl’s analysis of a speech.

“Tell me about Cecily,” he says.

“She has this romantic fantasy about her cousin Ernest, but I don’t think she’s as innocent or naive as people think. She holds her own against Gwendolyn, she asks Miss Prism difficult questions. She has to be knowing and – and unknowing at the same time.” I’m floundering now. Did I just say unknowing? Is that even a word?

Mr Cantwell fires more questions at me. He asks me questions about the different parts, he asks me questions about the individual performers and what I’ve learned from them so far. He asks me about the costumes and the decisions Nora made and why I think she made them. He asks me about the sets and the props and even the lighting. I like these questions, I like the way they’re making me think about the play differently. I feel alight with enthusiasm, as though I’m somehow producing my own electricity. And though Rhys Cantwell never goes so far as to smile, or nod, or actually soften in any perceivable way at all, I begin to feel that I am not doing so badly.

He has me walk up and down the stage and then do exercises that project my voice further and further towards the back of the theatre. Finally, at the sound of a door opening in the auditorium he says, “Ah, Eileen, there you are.”

I freeze, actually freeze, my limbs unmoving, my brain empty save for a dull buzzing sound, I am like the proverbial rabbit in the headlamps, just waiting to be squashed, flattened, obliterated.