Page 41 of A Snowfall of Silver

Freya xx

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS

Time handed in: 14.37

Office of origin: Westminster

Words:5

NO IT WAS NOT

ROBERT

From Nottingham we continue north to Sheffield, Leeds and York. We have fallen into a routine now, and while the hours are punishing, the thrill of the performance continues to hold its spell over me. I’ve never worked so hard, or been so tired, or felt so fulfilled and exhilarated as I do in those weeks. My own rehearsals – squeezed into our busy schedule – have improved, and I feel a general sense of achievement.

The temperature continues to plummet, and by the time we head into the last week of the tour it has started to snow. We are driving towards the Yorkshire coast when this becomes a problem. The increasingly narrow roads we are driving down are banked with snow. The wheels of the van skid a couple of times, and I learn some more colourful swear words from Nora. I thought I had heard them all by now.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Nora murmurs as we creep carefully forward in the van. “Thank goodness we left early and there’s nothing else on the roads. Have you seen anything that looks like it might be the town yet?”

“I think we’re almost there,” I say, projecting more confidence than I feel. I frown over the map, trying to trace the exact route we should be taking, with very little idea of where we actually are.

The snow is falling thick and fast now, a flurry of fat flakes that splat audibly against the windscreen. The wipers are going full force but we can barely see a few feet in front of us.

“Look!” I exclaim. “Civilization!” I see a snow-covered sign and realize with relief that we have reached the outskirts of Runleigh, the small town that is to be our next stop. It’s such a small town that I’m not entirely sure why it’s on the tour. When I asked Nora she said that Mr Cantwell had a special affection for the theatre here, which piqued my interest.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” Nora mutters under her breath as we crawl along the road, shadowy buildings looming up alongside us.

“Here,” I say. “This is the boarding house, I think. Just there on the left.”

We pull bumpily off the road. I see that Kit and Mr Cantwell have already arrived. Mr Cantwell’s car is still humming, and through the snow-covered window I can see Eileen Turner all wrapped up in her fur coat. We abandon the van and slip and slide across the driveway towards the two men. It begins to dawn on me that neither of them look at all happy. They are having a conversation with a third man that involves much angry gesticulating.

“What’s going on?” Nora asks when we finally reach them.

“They haven’t got room for us,” Kit says. The man they’ve been talking to takes this opportunity to slink unobtrusively away and back towards the boarding house.

“I don’t understand it,” Mr Cantwell murmurs darkly. “Meriden has never let us down before but the blasted man says he hasn’t got any record of us coming and that he’s completely full.”

“Miss Meriden will know what to do, won’t she?” I say.

“She’s not coming,” Kit says. “She sent a wire to the boarding house, not that the manager had a clue who it was for at the time. The roads were too bad. Most of the company turned round and headed back to York. Apparently we missed the worst of it by the skin of our teeth.”

“Not coming?” Nora says blankly. “Miss Meriden?” And I agree, it seems impossible that that capable woman should be thwarted by anything as mundane as the weather.

“What are we going to do?” I ask, shivering.

We’re interrupted by a screeching sound as Russ’s car suddenly swings into the road, coming to a precarious stop almost on top of us.

Viola emerges almost instantly. “My god, Russ, you could have killed us all!” she shrieks. Russ steps, laughing from the car, and Alma and Dan emerge from the back seat, pale and shaken.

“Things got a little hairy,” Dan murmurs, coming to stand beside me. “Between Russ’s driving and Viola’s banshee impression, I began to think it possible I’d died and been sent straight to the abode of the damned.”

“Well, you were wrong.” Alma smiles weakly. She too looks a little green-tinged around the edges. “We all survived, and anyway, you’re an angel and you’re going straight to heaven.”

“Sweet of you, darling, but I’m afraid heaven sounds dreadfully dull.”

The situation is swiftly explained to them and then we all stand, undecided what to do next. At last, Kit suggests we go to the theatre.

“We can’t just stand around here all day,” he says reasonably. “I don’t think anyone else is coming. Perhaps the manager there will have some suggestions.”