Page 49 of A Snowfall of Silver

“Found weeks later. Our story will be told for centuries,” he adds.

“Well, that sounds nice. But it’s hard to think about being a tragic romantic heroine when I can’t feel my toes.” I jump to my feet and stomp them a bit, trying to get the feeling to return. “I know!” I exclaim. “We can rehearse your play.”

“My play?”

“Yes, I have it with me in my bag, and I’ve made notes. I hoped we’d get a chance to talk all about it. I can show you what I was thinking. Come on,” I grin, pulling the pages from my bag. “Just read it with me.”

Half-laughing, half-groaning, Kit allows me to drag him to his feet.

I sketch out a rectangle in the middle of the abbey with a stick to represent the stage, then put my hands on Kit’s shoulders and position him.

“You stand here, you see. We’re in a drawing room, a bit old-fashioned, you know – as if there was money once, but it’s gone now. Now go on, you start.”

Kit reads the lines of ones of the lovers, and I read back to him, pausing occasionally to adjust the way we’re standing.

“What about this line here?” He breaks off. “I’m not sure how to play it best.”

“I suppose the question is whether or not he is actually in love with her – or whether he just thinks he is? It will make a difference to the way you play it.”

“I think he loves her,” Kit says quietly. “He just doesn’t know how to tell her.”

“I do too,” I say. “He’s nervous, which is uncomfortable for him. I think if he delivers the line a little more offhand then it will be funnier. Like he doesn’t quite dare say it seriously. Try it again.”

And so it goes on. We work through the first scene, making ourselves laugh, arguing over certain lines, sharing our ideas of how you could make it work. We’re so involved that we don’t notice the voices until they’re on top of us.

“Well, hello, you two.” The unmistakable voice of Eileen Turner greets us, and I swing around to find her walking towards us on the arm of Rhys Cantwell. They are both wrapped up in thick coats, and Eileen has a round fur hat pulled down low on her head.

Do not curtsey, I tell myself sternly.

“It looks like you’re having a good time,” Eileen continues. “True that you can make a stage anywhere, it seems.”

“How did you two get up here?” Kit asks. Like me he is clearly trying to imagine Eileen Turner scaling the cliff face. Perhaps Mr Cantwell carried her on his back like a daring mountaineer. I stifle a wave of laughter.

“We followed the path.” Mr Cantwell gestures across the clifftop towards the top of the town. “It’s not a bad walk, even in this weather. I assume you two climbed up from the beach?”

I wonder if it’s our completely bedraggled appearance that has led him to this conclusion.

“And what are you up to, that has you in such high spirits?” he asks. “We could hear you laughing all the way along the cliff path.”

“We’re acting out Kit’s play,” I blurt out quickly. “It’s completely wonderful, Mr Cantwell. You must read it.”

I hear Kit’s sharp intake of breath at that, and I know I’ve crossed a line. I don’t dare look at him. The play is too good for him to keep it a secret. It needs to be out here, in the sunlight where people can see it.

“We were just working on the first scene,” I say.

“Will you show us?” Eileen asks. It’s not really a question; she knows we’ll bow and scrape as much as she likes, like courtiers before our queen.

I risk a quick glance at Kit and his expression is slightly stunned. “If – if you’d like,” he says uncertainly, his eyes going to Mr Cantwell.

“Yes, show us,” the director agrees, taking a seat on the low stone wall where Kit and I shared our picnic. Eileen gives the wall a brief, dubious look but as there is no alternative, she dusts down her thick fur coat and perches gingerly next to him, her back rigidly straight.

I smile reassuringly at Kit, who has gone so pale that his freckles stand out against his skin.

“All right,” he says, collecting himself. “Well, in this scene, the man is in love with the woman, but she has no idea. She thinks he loves her friend, and so their wires get crossed while he tries to bare his soul to her. The narrator comes in when the action freezes and unpicks what’s really going on.”

“She’s sort of world-weary,” I add. “She’s seen it all before and she critiques them as if they’re in a play.”

I don’t suppose that you often know something important is unfolding right in front of you, but that is how it is now. We play out the scene, on our stage set in the ruins, for an audience of two, and it goes over like a dream. Mr Cantwell laughs several times, something I have never seen before up close. The exhilaration of it pours through me, more warming than a tot of brandy.