Christmas at Snowflake Lodge

by CP Ward

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame, isn’t it?’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘No, it’s wonderful. Hopefully they’ll be snowed in until February.’

  ‘You don’t mean that. Where’s your Christmas spirit?’ Kirsten gave a nervous laugh, then looked about to apologise. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s okay. It’s just that one reason I came here was to escape from her.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Wouldn’t it be better to confront your problems? Perhaps neutral ground would make a difference. Shaking hands between the trenches and all that?’

  As Kirsten spoiled her sage words with something odd, Jessica frowned.

  ‘Talking of which, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  ‘This morning you missed a meeting that Barry called—’

  ‘Ah, yes, I heard about that from Aaron in the shop.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Someone’s been dipping their fingers into the supplies, I gather.’

  Jessica nodded. ‘So Barry said. And it was a particular type of chocolate bar—’

  ‘Christmas edition Twix, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, but—’

  ‘I loved those. Ben bought me a whole box because I said I love the little elves on the wrapper. It was so sweet of him. Clifford looked pretty crisp when he found out, not that I’m in a love triangle or anything like that! Do you think—?

  ‘So, you’ve not been stealing them?’

  Kirsten looked stunned. ‘Me? You think it was me?’ A single tear beaded in her eye and ran down her cheek. Jessica suddenly felt like the worst person in the world. ‘Oh, dear….’

  ‘No,’ Jessica lied, ‘I didn’t think it was you. I just wondered if you’d perhaps picked those wrappers up somewhere—’

  ‘I would have put them into the nearest litter bin!’ Kirsten sobbed, her nose running now too. Jessica wished the lodge would just collapse on her head. ‘I can’t believe you think I’m the thief. It’s only because Ben is sweet on me … or at least I think he’s sweet on me … do you think he’s sweet on me? Clifford is just a friend, but Ben, there are feelings there for sure, despite the age gap. I mean, he’s a year or two younger, but by the time we were say, thirty and twenty-eight, it wouldn’t matter too much, would it?’

  Jessica wanted to claw out her own eyes and stuff her ears with socks. ‘Can’t we just forget about what I said?’

  ‘You think I’m a thief,’ Kirsten sobbed into a kitchen towel she had pulled from a rack behind her. ‘How can I continue working for you when you think I’m a thief?’

  ‘Come on, I found half a dozen wrappers lying around, and the kid in the shop said you’d never—’

  ‘So you investigated me!’ Kirsten wailed, briefly turning her face up to the ceiling and bawling like a child with a skinned knee. ‘You asked … around!’

  Jessica stood up. ‘Look, I can’t deal with this right now. I’m going for a walk.’

  Leaving Kirsten sobbing behind her, Jessica went out, hurrying up the corridor until the sound of Kirsten’s sobbing had faded into the distance. Only then did she pause long enough to give her forehead a light thump against the nearest wall.

  This was turning into a nightmare. Everything she did seemed to fail. The bullying sledgehammer that was Doreen was moving inexorably closer with her football-loving war host at her shoulder; James, he with the nice smile and the powerful shoulders, thought she was a phone-obsessed maniac who liked to expose herself to schoolchildren, and now Kirsten was heartbroken at their breakdown of trust. Like the icing on a very large cake of emotional suffering, Barry would be fuming with her too, because she’d somehow mislaid her Christmas hat.

  The day felt endless, but it was still barely lunchtime. The last thing Jessica felt like doing was eating anything, so instead of heading up to the dining hall, she followed the nearest set of stairs down into the basement.

  It had surprised her to realise that the room she shared with Kirsten wasn’t actually on the hotel’s very bottom level, rather a purgatory level before the full-on flames, but the hotel was built into the side of a hill so there were various stepped levels going even further down. One staircase below was where all the stored inventory was kept, rooms full of stacked tables and chairs, fold-out beds, baby’s cots, heaps of extra blankets, towels, and bed sheets.

  The second level below was for junk that might or might not one day have a use: broken microwaves and cookers, old air-conditioner units, boxes of old pipes, damaged chairs, sofas with torn upholstery.

  And on the final level, one with doors that actually led outside to a covered staff car park where her father’s Tomahawk motorbike stood thankfully out of the snow, was the fuel storage.

  Tanks of kerosene for the room heaters, piles of firewood for the stoves. And in case they got snowed in and ran out, stacks of old wood which looked leftover from various construction jobs.

  It was cold down here. Jessica stuffed her hands into her pockets as she poked around, climbing over fallen heaps of firewood, looking for the exact thing she needed.

  There, in a corner she found it, a big stack of long, thin logs yet to be cut into chunks. Jessica had taken a short carpentry course as part of her plumbing studies and had found herself just as adept to working with wood as she was with piping. All she needed to do was hunt out an electric saw from somewhere and she was good to go. Leaving her selected wood near the door, she began poking among the piles of junk, looking for what she needed.

  After a few minutes of fruitless searching, she figured she would need to ask Mr. Dawes. Having hoped to surprise him, it was a little disappointing, but there was one last thicket of wood in a back corner which might be hiding the treasure.

  As she pulled away a plywood board leaning against a pile of logs, her eyes widened in surprise. Behind it, the pile had been hollowed out into a little den, and there, inside, was a rolled up sleeping bag.

  Beside it, an empty box of Christmas edition Twix.

  25

  The End of the Line

  Mr. Dawes lifted an eyebrow. ‘So, you gonna lay this thief a trap or just tell Humpty Trumpty and let him deal with it?’

  ‘Whoever had been there definitely wasn’t there anymore,’ Jessica said. ‘There was nothing personal in there, just that rolled sleeping bag and a few empty boxes.’

  Feeling a little nervous but unable to hide her curiosity, Jessica had found a torch and taken a look inside the little den. She had found a couple of cartons of orange juice, an empty packet of bread rolls, and a stack of light reading. The mysterious squatter was a big fan of the Christmas fiction of Jenny Hale and Debbie Macomber.

  Otherwise, however, there were no personal items, and a quick search of the surrounding area had revealed nothing, suggesting the squatter had moved on.

  While it creeped Jessica out a little to know that someone had been or maybe still was hiding out in the lodge, she felt intrigued rather than afraid. The kind of person who read books like A Christmas at Silver Falls was unlikely to be dangerous. If anything, she felt a little worried for him or her. It was cold enough in the basements during the day, so nighttime had to be freezing.

  ‘We’d better fish them out soon,’ Mr. Dawes said. ‘It’s likely that we’ll be snowed in pretty soon. Not much getting in or out once that happens, not unless you’re into cross-country snow hikes.’

  ‘How bad could it get?’

  Mr. Dawes grinned. ‘A metre, two metres, maybe. We’re in a bit of a micro-climate here. Could be raining five miles over, but here we’re two feet deep in snow. That’s why we string the lights high, so you can still see them. Proper magical it is.’

  ‘Doesn’t it worry you?’

  ‘Why would it? Most of our guests come in for the season. We get proper stocked up, and because all the heating is wood-fired, we’re good to go as long as the pipes don’t ice up. Nice and cozy it is. You’ll love it.’

  ‘I already do.’

  ‘Nothing
better than being cut off from the world with plenty of mince pies, hot wine, and good company. I hear you ruined your phone.’

  Jessica grimaced. ‘Who told you that?’

  Mr. Dawes grinned. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Young James Wilcox. He’s sweet on you, don’t you know. Always brings you up in conversation out of the blue. Like, I’ll be complaining some tree’s come down on the line and the chainsaw won’t start, and he’s like, I bet that plumber girl can get it started. Like, he pretends he don’t know your name. He’s sweet on you, believe me.’

  Jessica’s cheeks were burning. ‘He hates me. He thinks I’m addicted to my phone.’

  ‘Ah, he’s got a bone about those things. Best thing you could have done was drop it in the bath. Perhaps shouldn’t have jumped up out of the water in front of all those kids.’

  ‘He told you about that?’

  ‘Couldn’t keep the grin off his face. Just trust me. I’ve been around a while. I know the way these things work.’

  ‘His wife … she died, didn’t she?’

  Mr. Dawes sighed. ‘She did indeed. Terrible thing. Five years back it was, I think, off top of me head. Poor lad was heartbroken. Time heals and all that, though. He’s still young.’

  ‘How…?’

  ‘How’d she die?’ Mr. Dawes sighed again. ‘Car accident. Not her fault at all. She was sitting at a junction on one of those little roads out there, waiting to make her turn. Big heavy duty American pick-up comes plowing through. Doesn’t even indicate, just turns right into her. She never had a chance.’

  Jessica gasped. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Killed her instantly. Turned out, the driver was some kind of hotshot property guy from London. He was on his phone making a deal about a patch of land when he made the turn. Should have got a couple of years for manslaughter but his firm hired some slick lawyers who got him off on diminished responsibility due to work stress. He was transferred overseas right after.’ Mr. Dawes shook his head. ‘So, you can understand why James might have a few issues both with phones and people in high places. I don’t believe he owns a car, and even though he’s had dozens of offers for his land over the years, he refuses to sell.’

  Jessica couldn’t bring herself to speak. She just sat quietly, running a hand up and down the length of wood she had brought out to the grotto.

  ‘So, you gonna tell me what this is for then or what?’

  Jessica looked up. ‘I had an idea. I need to cut this in half, hollow a groove in the middle, then add some straps. On the other side it needs to be carved into some kind of point and then oiled and waxed.’

  Mr. Dawes frowned. ‘Isn’t it a bit big for an ice skate?’

  Jessica smiled. ‘Not at all. It’s for a wheelchair.’

  Mr. Dawes looked at her for a moment, a glimmer in his eyes. ‘Girl, you’re really something. Anyone ever told you that?’

  ‘I’m just trying not to be entitled, when it would be very, very easy.’

  ‘Well, you’re doing a good job. I’m guessing you’re after a couple of dozen of these, aren’t you? I’ve got you covered. Out at the end station, we have a stack of wood not being used. And I have the tools. We’ll need manpower if we’re going to get this done in any reasonable timeframe, but that can be arranged.’ He stood up. ‘Right. Let’s get on the wagon.’

  ‘What wagon?’

  Mr. Dawes smiled. ‘The wagon of hard work. Follow me.’

  They headed out from the grotto along the old train line. Still off limits to guests, Mr. Dawes had been working hard to keep the line relatively clear of snow, and it was only a few centimetres deep as they trudged through the forest until another station came into sight. The lights twinkling through the trees were all green and red, the bulbs shaped like leaves.

  ‘Welcome to Victorian Christmas,’ Mr. Dawes said, as they climbed up on to the platform.

  Not for the first time in this wondrous place, Jessica found herself staring openmouthed. The station building had been transformed into a slate-grey Victorian townhouse, complete with smoke puffing out of a chimney. Through latticed windows she saw a quaint café set up around a wide hearth, an ornate Christmas tree in one corner surrounded by intricately wrapped presents. Not a space on the walls was left undecorated, everything with a historical, vintage air. As Mr. Dawes led her inside, Jessica could barely contain her excitement.

  ‘We’re going back in time,’ Mr. Dawes said. ‘A few of us used to joke that this one was modeled on the childhoods of those old bats in Barry’s conglomerate, but I don’t think even they’re quite old enough.’

  A rocking chair stood in one corner. ‘All the staff dress up like Dickens’s Christmas Carol,’ Mr. Dawes continued. ‘There’s always a scrap over who gets to be Scrooge, because all he does is sit in that chair and grumble. I usually go shotgun on that, but my day off is coveted.’

  ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘Sells only Victorian-themed drinks and cakes,’ Mr. Dawes said. ‘Everything made onsite. Would you believe that Demelza from the kitchen used to run a Michelin three-star bakery in London? She actually sold it to move up here and run our dining room. The woman’s out of her mind, but she said it’s all about location. She loves a turn on the slopes, too.’

  Jessica was still struggling to find words. She was just about to mumble something when movement caught her eye as something shifted underneath the Christmas tree. As she let out a surprised yelp, a fat ginger cat appeared, weaved between the presents and rubbed himself against Mr. Dawes’s leg.

  ‘Ah, Muffin. My cat. She has a heated box back there. Doesn’t come out much until the spring thaw.’

  Muffin approached Jessica, gave her a quick miaow, then proceeded to claim her as territory with a solid nose press to the ankle.

  ‘She’s very friendly,’ Mr. Dawes said, as Jessica leaned down to give Muffin a quick stroke. ‘We dress her up with a bow tie when customers are here so she fits into the period piece.’

  Muffin had seemingly tired of giving her attention, so with a final flick of her tail she disappeared back among the boxes.

  ‘One more place to visit,’ Mr. Dawes said. ‘The station at the end.’

  They went back outside and started their trudge along the line. Deep in the valley, with the forest gorge narrowing, the sun caught them only with occasional shafts of light down through the trees. On either side of the line, however, Mr. Dawes had hung strings of lights around young pine trees growing up beside the path.

  ‘Planted these myself,’ he said, giving one a tap as they paused to knock the accumulated snow free. With a tingle of bells hung around it, the snow cascaded down, revealing a pretty string of lights. ‘Got to make it magical for the kids, see.’

  Jessica could only imagine what it would feel like to be eight or nine years old and travelling along this line. The thrill would be unlike anything they’d ever experienced.

  ‘And there it is,’ Mr. Dawes said, as lights appeared through the trees a half mile further on. Jessica’s legs were aching from the trudge through the snow, but she guessed it would be a lot easier when carried by a reindeer-drawn sleigh.

  As the building came into view, Jessica gasped. It wasn’t a station building like the others, but a log cabin set in a forested clearing that straddled the line. Like something out of a Christmas TV advert, it was strung all over with Christmas lights, and the garden at the front was filled with snow-covered illuminations. A large snowman wearing a ring of fairy lights stood by a snow-topped garden gate.

  ‘Built him myself this morning,’ Mr. Dawes said. ‘His name’s John. John Snowman. You follow cricket?’

  Jessica gave a regretful shake of my head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Never mind. Shall we take a look inside?’

  They headed up the garden path, snow crunching underfoot. Jessica marveled at the stillness of the forest around them, almost able to imagine she was no longer in Scotland at all, but somewhere far north
like Lapland or Greenland. And when she opened the door to reveal a beautifully decorated café with a grotto area at one end, she was somewhat disappointed not to find Father Christmas sitting inside.

  ‘He’ll be here from middle of next week,’ Mr. Dawes said. ‘Got a special guest star for a few days.’ Mr. Dawes grinned. ‘Said it was the one thing he’d never done in his career, was Father Christmas.’

  ‘Grandpa?’

  ‘Right. Said kids have to sit on a chair, though. His knees won’t take the weight anymore.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  As she took off her boots by the entrance and stepped into the cabin, Jessica’s mind began to drift. He might never have done it commercially, but it wouldn’t be the first time Grandpa had been Father Christmas. He had shown up on her parents’ doorstep every Christmas Eve until she was twelve to hand-deliver a special present. Usually something he had picked up on his travels, she had treasured the unique gifts far more than anything her parents had half-heartedly bought from the Toymaster or Argos down in Broadmead and had Reg or Molly wrap in paper almost as expensive as the presents. She had started to guess her red-and-white clad guest’s real identity around the age of seven or eight, but it hadn’t made it any less magical. As she looked around the grotto, at the huge easy chair Grandpa’s tiny frame would somehow need to fill, she couldn’t imagine a better choice.

  ‘Is this the kind of thing you’re after?’ Mr. Dawes said, breaking Jessica out of her daydream. He was standing behind her, holding up two pieces of curved wood. ‘Got a stack of it out the back. Was rebuilding the kitchen wall earlier in the year after we had a leak. Tons of it left over.’

  Jessica smiled. ‘Perfect,’ she said.

  26

  Questions without Answers

  By the time Jessica and Mr. Dawes had made it back to the lodge, it was already dark. The large Christmas tree in the car park and the lights strung up around the windows and doors made it look beautiful set against the starry night. Unsure how her body could take any more physical punishment, Jessica rubbed her arms as they came through the door. A hard hour with Mr. Dawes’s power saw had left her shoulders numb. She wondered whether when she woke up in the morning, she would be able to get out of bed at all.