Page 46 of A Snowfall of Silver

Alma shakes her head. “There’s a drift of snow out there. I don’t think we’ll be leaving any time soon. Unless we can dig ourselves out.”

Alma’s prediction proves correct. It’s perhaps an hour later when the six of us, without Nora (who has declared firmly her intention to stay in bed “where it is warm and does not resemble deepest Siberia”), are trying to push our way out of the stage door.

Russ is wielding the coal scuttle which is the closest thing we could find to a shovel and digging with his shirt sleeves rolled up. “If I just dig a little more here,” he pants, “I think I’ll have it.”

“Come on, put some effort in,” Viola says. “Try to get further round towards the middle.”

“Sadly, my dear, the laws of physics make that impossible,” Russ drawls. “So you can take it up with them.” He looks dishevelled this morning, but no less handsome for it. “Obviously, not all of us have your flexibility.”

“You’re doing a wonderful job,” Alma says encouragingly, her eyes shining. “I think you’ve almost got it.”

After a bit more complaining, and huffing, and swearing, the door finally swings forward with an unhappy groan.

“Freedom!” Russ waves the coal scuttle in the air. He tugs on his thick, grey woollen coat, and then holds out his hand to help me through the gap and into the pure white snow. He pulls me towards him, so that I fall briefly against his broad chest.

“Russ!” I laugh, disentangling myself.

“Clumsy me,” he smiles, with his wolf smile.

“Come on,” Alma says quickly, tucking her gloved hand through my arm, and pulling me away from Russ. “We’ve got exploring to do.”

It is impossible to describe the scene that greets us this morning. Impossible to capture the dreamlike feeling of emerging into a world transformed so completely.

The previous day our excursions had been spent head down, battling through freezing winds and icy rain. Now, the sky is a celestial blue, arcing above us and punctuated by the odd wisp of white cloud. The sun is pale beaten gold, weaker than on the kind of miraculous blue-sky days you find in summer, but all the sweeter for that. We crunch through the snow, our footprints the first footprints, breaking through the crisp crust like a spoon tapping against burned sugar.

We make our way slowly, arduously, through winding streets and past small, stone cottages. Underneath their blanket of snow, they look like something you might find on a Christmas card.

Eventually, after much puffing and panting, we round a corner on to a steep road sloping down and away from us.

“Look,” Kit says, his eyes instantly seeking mine, full of pleasure. “Look, Freya.”

I catch my breath.

The sea.

I feel a rush of emotion at the sight of it. The road we’re on now angles down towards the harbour, with its long stone wall. Out to the sides the beaches spread, the tide out and the sand covered in an icing sugar dusting of white snow. The sea itself is grey and wild, crashing against the harbour wall with a roar of defiance. I was right, I realize in a flash, to compare Kit’s eyes to a winter sea.

But there’s no time for that now.

With a cry that I don’t intend to make, I stumble down the hill, laughing and sliding through the snow, steadying myself as I go with the black iron handrail, the old-fashioned lamp posts, anything my hands scramble over. It is far from dignified, and more than a little of the journey is achieved flat on my bum, but I don’t care. I can hear the others scrambling behind me, making their own whoops of exhilaration.

When I reach the bottom I fly on to the beach, right up to the edge of the water, the sound of it filling my ears, the wind whipping my hair around my face and the sharp taste of salt on my lips.

“Aaaaaoooooooooooooooo!” I shout into the sea, howling like an animal. The noise is instantly snatched away from me, spiralling out into the waves and the sky. I shout again, louder this time.

Viola appears at my side, her nose pink, her eyes wide with delight.

“Aaaaaaaaooooooooo!” she howls with me. We grin at each other, for once completely in harmony. On my other side, Alma appears. I find that the three of us are holding hands. Soon all six of us stand in a line, hand in hand, tethered to each other like a string of lobster pots, shouting and laughing as the wind snaps and growls around us.

We break apart, wandering over the sand, picking our way across the rocks.

I bend down over a large rock pool and tug my glove from one hand, touching my fingers to the water, an ice cold kiss, that leaves me tingling.

“What can you see?” Alma asks, coming to stand beside me and leaning over the pool.

“Anemones,” I say. “Loads of them. That one,” I point to a red sea anemone, clinging to one of the rocks, its tentacles waving gently in the water, “is called a strawberry anemone. For obvious reasons.”

“It does look just like a strawberry!” Alma is delighted.