As they approached the hotel Jane looked at the entrance and knew that she was probably in trouble. There was a restive crowd of about twenty people standing outside braving the storm.
Brady asked one of them what the problem was.
‘They are full and aren’t taking any more clients. I’m just trying to work out where I’m going to stay tonight. I’ll probably try knocking on someone’s door and hope for some good old Christian charity!’
The man turned his back and walked away. He was dressed only in a light raincoat with a claret and blue bobble hat over his normal business suit. Brady didn’t rate his chances very highly.
He turned to Jane and signalled that they should try to slip into the hotel and check her reservation. She nodded.
Brady squeezed his way through the crowd who were none too pleased by this approach.
‘What the hell are you doing mate?’ one burly chap demanded.
‘This girl has got a reservation – we’re going in!’ blustered Brady.
‘No you fucking ain’t, mate. I had a reservation as well, but it’s been first come first served. They just allocated rooms as people pitched up. They are full. You’re wasting your time, mate and anyway, I’m in front of you and you ain’t getting past.’
Brady sized up the man and quickly assessed the situation. Clearly, there was little hope of getting the woman in here. He needed an alternate solution. He turned back to Jane and gave her the bad news.
‘You can't get in here. It's full. You’ll have to come back to my house until the snow stops. It's only a few hundred metres.’
Jane looked despondent, but realised that she had no option. The crowd here was getting angrier by the minute, so it would be better to get away as quickly as possible before a riot broke out.
‘Will it take long? I’m getting colder.’ Jane’s teeth chattered.
‘It's only about ten minutes. Let's get moving before we freeze to death. Give me your hand.’
The snowbound pair set off again up towards Brady’s home. He had left it only a few short hours ago with his family sleeping soundly in their beds. It would be difficult going back inside, but he had to face it sometime, and if he was to survive this weather he needed shelter – and fast.
The going was not getting any easier and they made slower progress now. Then Brady had a brainwave. They should pass a Turkish kebab shop en-route, and if it was open they could go in and order a meal. He hadn’t eaten for hours, and suddenly realised that he was now quite hungry when he thought about it. Anyway, hot food was excellent fuel against the cold – even a kebab! They neared the shop and to Brady’s relief it appeared open. Steam from the giant fat fryers caused condensation to run down the inside of the giant plate glass window. The lights were on and Brady dragged Jane inside.
As he slammed the door shut, Jane looked up at him.
‘Didn’t realise you ran a chip shop,’ she quipped, smiling attractively.
‘Very witty. But you might be grateful for a fry up – I don’t know where our next meal is coming from.’ Brady smiled for the first time since she’d met him. A nice smile, Jane thought – but sad.
Brady turned to the counter. There were about a dozen other customers, all eating and sheltering from the weather outside. It was quite warm due to the cooking, so they were able to take off some of their outer clothing – which they did, and hung it over the back of the greasy dining chairs in an attempt to dry it.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ asked the over-cheerful assistant. He was clearly oblivious to the pandemonium on the other side of the steamy windows.
Brady and Jane looked at the extremely comprehensive menu posted behind the man’s head, printed on a huge purpose built board.
‘What do you fancy?’ Brady asked.
‘Anything, I don’t mind, except that a large mug of tea should be first!’
‘Good idea. Two teas please – large. Then chicken, chips and beans twice, two double cheeseburgers and some bread and butter. To eat in if you hadn’t guessed!’
The assistant copied down the order, nodded, and stepped away calling out instructions to the cook who was ambling out of the back room.
Jane and Brady sat down and were able to speak normally for the first time since they had met under the railway bridge about an hour before. Jane also noticed for the first time that Brady was wearing his RAF uniform, which he had revealed when taking off his outer clothing.
‘I’m Jane Kelly, pleased to meet you. I didn’t realise you were in the RAF. My father was an engineer at RAF Cranwell when I was a child.’ She offered her hand, which Brady shook warmly.
‘I'm Andrew Brady. Pleased to meet you too. Yes, I'm based at RAF Cottesmore, up the road about fifteen miles. But forget all that, what the hell are you doing out in this?’
‘Not my choice, I can tell you!’ she retorted sharply.
Jane then proceeded to tell Brady the story of her day. How her idiot editor had sent her on a wild-goose chase and then left it too late to recall her. Which reminded her to try to phone him, and give the pillock a piece of her mind.
‘Excuse me while I try and call my editor,’ she said as the large mugs of tea arrived with bread and butter for two.
Jane pulled out her phone and rang the office. No response. She tried another number. Nothing either. She then tried the editor’s personal mobile. After a couple of rings, he answered.
‘Jane, where are you? Did you get to the hotel? It was fully booked. I sent you a text, but you haven’t answered – I was starting to get worried.’
‘Slow down, slow down. I’m fine – no thanks to you. Yes, the hotel was full, but luckily for you and me I’ve been saved by a knight in shining armour’.
Brady allowed himself another wan smile as he sipped his steaming mug of tea.
She continued. ‘The weather here is dreadful – just appalling. What's it like elsewhere?’
Her editor drew breath. ‘Terrible, just terrible. Blizzards everywhere and no transport anywhere, so I sent everyone who made it into the office home. I’m trying to reach home myself and I’m currently on the bypass - but the traffic is at a standstill everywhere. I’ve been in a jam for an hour and a……’. The phone went dead.
Jane returned the mobile to her handbag and turned to Brady.
‘I’ve lost the signal, but he’s stuck in his car. Rather him than me. I reckon anyone in a car more than a mile from home is in trouble,’ she mused.
‘I reckon you’re right,’ Brady answered as the food arrived.
It was a welcome sight. Not cordon bleu, but extremely heartening all the same. They tucked in and quickly demolished the platefuls of hot food. Jane surprised herself.
‘ I didn’t realise how hungry I was,’ she offered, as she polished off the cheeseburger.
‘Do you want any more?’ asked Brady as he eyed up the menu. ‘I think I’ll get a few bits of takeaway for later – you never know.’
He summoned the waiter and ordered two whole cooked chickens, twelve cooked giant sausages, six portions of chicken nuggets, six cold meat pies and six double cheeseburgers. To this, he added four large bottles of coke and four large bottles of still water.
The assistant looked mildly surprised but was grateful for the business.
‘It’ll be about twenty minutes. Can you pay now please?’
‘No problem’, smiled Brady, ‘have you got a small box I can carry it away in?’
Brady turned to Jane who also looked mildly taken aback.
‘Having a party’ she joked.
‘No, but we might be grateful for this if the power goes off. It's impossible to guarantee that there won’t be power failures or gas stoppages tonight. Best be prepared, as my scoutmaster always maintained. Anyway, let's get going. As soon as the grub is ready, we’ll get home. It's only five minutes at most.’
Jane agreed with a brief smile and after ten minutes and another mug of tea started the process of redressing. Her clothes had been up against a rad
iator so they were nicely warmed and almost dry. The food arrived after a further ten minutes tidily boxed, and Brady noticed that other customers had suddenly taken up his idea and were now ordering wildly at the counter. It didn’t take long for panic to set in, Brady thought.
‘Let's go,’ he shouted and made for the door.
Jane went out first and Brady slammed the door behind him, carrying the box of supplies. The blizzard raged as violently as before and visibility was almost zero. He clutched the awkward box in two arms and shouted at Jane to hang on to his arm.
They trekked down the hill to the traffic lights and crossed over. A further two hundred metres and they reached the end-terraced house on the main road out of town. Brady stood Jane against the wall and gave her the box. He had prepared the key in the kebab shop, and was able to pull it from his pocket and insert in into the lock with no trouble. Luckily, the door opened inwards. He tried to move some of the snow aside before opening the door, but to no avail. He gave up with the effort, ushered Jane through the portal into the entrance hall, slammed the door behind him, locking it securely, and took the box from Jane before putting it on the sideboard.
The central heating had come on via the timer set by his wife. It was warm but there were no welcoming lights. Of course, there would not be. She would have turned them off before they left that morning.
He shuddered – not with cold but with the memory.
Jane looked round and then looked up at Brady.
‘Do you live alone?’
‘Yes, I suppose I do’, he whispered. ‘Let's get out of these clothes and sort out some sort of plan of action. We are safe now and should be able to keep warm until this snow stops. Let's try and get the television on and see what's happening’
It was just before 1pm.
Day 2 – Bath, Avon – 1:00pm
Tamsin Urquart, that great old sixties character actress, had been out of work for several months – perhaps for over a year if she would only admit it to herself. However, things were looking up. The sixty-five year-old performer, originally from Jamaica, had received a note from her agent specifying a bit part in ‘Holby City,’ and Tamsin was very pleased. Filming took place in Bristol and if she played her cards right, it could lead to yet more work, which she desperately needed.
Times were hard and her meagre savings were fast running out. Her ex-husbands had provided her with nothing financially and Tamsin had no children to support her in old age. Therefore, she had to keep working, as the state pension was never enough. There was a time, not so long ago, when she was in great demand. A very successful period in the seventies and eighties had long since passed, and the best she could hope for now were walk-ons and cameos. To be fair, she wasn’t choosy, but work had dried up and she was beginning to feel the pinch. Luckily, she owned her small bungalow, so at least there was no rent to find.
Consequently, she was optimistic about this chance in ‘Holby’. She liked the show and was sure that after a quick audition the part would be hers.
Today however, there was one major problem. The snow! It was at least six inches thick outside her modest semi-detached bungalow in the suburbs of Bath. The question was: how could she make the audition? She had called her agent and he confirmed that it was still going ahead despite the weather.
‘Make sure you get there on time, Tamsin, it might be your last chance
chance,’ he warned amicably.
Consequently, she had called for a taxi, but it hadn’t shown up. She tried the hire company again and they had given her the standard retort:
‘It's on the way, luv.’
Tamsin peered anxiously through her lounge window. It wasn’t a long journey to the audition, maybe ten minutes by car, and she could have walked it in twenty minutes on a good day. But today she wasn’t walking anywhere. Even a job with the Beeb wasn’t worth falling in the snow, and it was a real blizzard out there.
Then she saw the taxi. It slithered up the avenue and slid to a stop outside her house. The driver beeped his horn several times and she hurried to the front door. She already had her coat, hat and gloves on, ready to leave. She opened the front door, and when a huge gust of wind blew straight into her face, the door slammed wide open, smashing into the small hall table, knocking the ornaments and telephone onto the carpet. Tamsin staggered back and gripped the bannister for support. The taxi beeped again.
Ignoring the ornaments, Tamsin gathered her wits, struggled to the door and after a mighty effort moved through it and onto the front step. She was ankle deep in snow but managed to pull the door to and slam it shut.
The driver blared his horn once more.
‘Can't you see I’m coming?’ she shouted in vain, in utter frustration.
Tamsin turned and faced the driveway or at least what she thought was the driveway. It was a complete whiteout. She was hopelessly disoriented and her hat blew off in one particularly strong gust.
The horn went again.
‘Impatient bastard!’ she thought.
Tamsin turned towards where her hat had blown and walked towards it. She didn’t see the rose bushes at knee height and stumbled into them. Sharp thorns caught in her trousers and she leant down to free herself. Mistake! Another gust caught her from behind and she fell headlong into the flower border. Her elbow crashed against a semi-buried garden gnome and she slumped into the snow.
The ageing and frail actress was now entangled in the rose thorns and was quickly becoming covered in snow.
The exasperated taxi driver blew his horn one last time. A ten-second blast.
Tamsin struggled to rise to her knees but her coat was caught in the rose bush. She tried as hard as she was able, but just didn’t have the strength to struggle to her feet, as the blizzard raged around her, freezing snow swirling into her face.
The taxi drove away.
Day 2 – Chester, Cheshire – 3:00pm
He was up every day before 4am. Walther Schmidt lived above the newsagents he owned and ran these past thirty-five years. It was a typical corner shop. Papers, magazines, sweets and now a few veggies, lottery tickets and tinned goods. Not a great living but plenty enough for Walther.
He had never married and enjoyed life in the suburbs of Chester where he had settled since moving from Poland in the sixties. His paperboys and girls delivered the news to customers within a two-mile radius of the shop. Every day at 5am he took delivery from the press agency driver and spent an hour or so sorting the papers into rounds for his teenagers to pick up. However, today had been slightly different. Most of the youngsters had not turned in. Not surprising really, as the snow was causing problems all over the country. Some parents would have prevented their children from venturing out and some would have preferred a warm bed rather than brave the snowstorm.
A few had phoned in but most hadn’t which was not untypical. Children these days had no sense of responsibility.
Even the four boys that had turned up were still in the shop. They had waited around drinking the hot cocoa that Walther had brewed up in expectation that they would be cold. None of them were adequately dressed for the snow, and Walther quickly made the decision that no papers were going out today.
No doubt, the phone would start ringing soon as the usual moaning minnies complained about their lack of morning papers. However, they would have to go without for once and by 8pm he had taken the phone off the hook.
He’d had precious few customers that morning as the snow blasted the shop front incessantly. It was going to be a quiet day on the sales front. But what should he do with the four boys he had in the shop? There was no school as the Christmas holidays had started in Chester, so he needed to solve the problem of getting them safely home. That was easier said than done, though. The boys all lived relatively close, but the conditions outside were ferocious. He had checked with all four boys, and all four had working parents. None of whom were now at home answering the phone. He had persuaded them to use their mobile phones to let their parents know that th
ey were safely in the shop. Walther then prepared and cooked a full breakfast for the lads and got them settled in his sitting room upstairs. It was warm up there and the boys could wait here safely until the snow abated somewhat, and then they could make a break for their individual homes.
There was little else he could do for the time being. He was temporarily responsible for the boys and he believed that there was safety in numbers.
However, the boys were not quite as happy about the situation as Walther might have imagined. The newsagent was not married and had a bit of a reputation as being a bit of a ‘funny old man’. He didn’t help himself as he dressed a bit like ‘Fagin’ from Oliver Twist, and the children would make cruel jokes behind his back. Even now, they were sniggering amongst themselves and Walther was acutely aware of this.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 15
