Secrets in the Snow, Volume 1: Early season stories from the White Cairns Ski School drama series

by Roz Marshall

  "I'm Fiona, and this is Jude," offered Fiona.

  "Mike was just asking about work as an instructor," said Jude.

  "Yeah, I thought I'd try the skiing in Scotland for a few weeks, see how your slopes compare with home," he said.

  "That's good timing, we were just about to sort out our team for this season," said Fiona, taking the milk and biscuits over to the counter. "Where's home?"

  "New Zealand," he replied.

  Jude gasped, but Fiona didn't notice as she said, "Oh, what a coincidence, that's where Jude's husband is, right now!" She opened the carton of milk. "He normally runs the ski school but Jude is having to step in till he gets back." Fiona turned to look at her friend. "But what about the book, Jude, didn't you have a deadline for that?"

  Jude nodded. "I'm nearly done, but I've still got a few more illustrations to do, and they're hassling me to get it finished by the end of the year." She bit her lip, "And I've to make costumes for Lucy's Christmas play at school. I'm not sure how I'm going to fit it all in."

  Fiona poured milk into the coffee and pulled open the packet of biscuits. "Well, the sooner we get started on this, the quicker you can get back to the book!"

  Jude looked at the coffees and then at the man standing by the counter. "Can I offer you a coffee, Mike?"

  "No, thanks, I don't drink anything with caffeine in it. Maybe a glass of water?"

  "I'll get that!" said Fiona, taking the carton of milk with her as she went over to the sink.

  -::-

  Jude sat down again and motioned Mike to a seat, but before he could move there was a rap at the door and it burst open, admitting Forbes Sinclair, the operations manager of the ski area. Wearing a ski patrol jacket zipped to the collar, his assertive moustache bristled above the stump of a cigar clenched between his teeth. Fortunately, the cigar wasn't lit, but as the smell from his clothes reached Jude, Mike coughed and took a couple of steps back.

  "Morning all!" announced Forbes. "Just stopped by to check things are ship-shape for the new season. Need your staff list for lift passes, getting them printed next week. Is Allan about?"

  Jude's face fell. It was all happening too quickly! "Erm, Allan's been held up in New Zealand, he won't be back for a few weeks."

  "Oh, that's a blow!" said Forbes. A thought occurred to him, "And damned awkward actually, you need a Grade One for the ski school — for insurance purposes, and to keep you straight with UKASI."

  Jude looked at him, aghast, and started to say, "I didn't—" but she was interrupted by Mike, who had caught the look and appeared to have sized up the situation.

  "It's okay, mate," he said, striding across the room and offering a hand to Forbes, "my name's Mike Cole, I'm a Level Three ISIA from New Zealand — equivalent to your Grade One — and the ladies were just offering me a job to cover till the boss gets back."

  Forbes shook his hand enthusiastically. "Welcome, welcome, great to have you here, Mike, I'm Forbes Sinclair, ski area ops manager. I'm sure you'll be a useful addition to the crew!" He turned to Jude. "Will you let me have your staff list soon as?"

  Jude looked at Fiona, trying not to show the panic she was feeling. Keep calm! Princess Diana wouldn’t be worried. But she was worried. Even with Mike stepping in, she was still short of more than half the team.

  Mike seemed to realise without being told that there was still an issue. He intervened again. "Forbes, how long have we got? When's your print deadline?"

  "Well, Tuesday, ideally, first thing next Wednesday at a push." Forbes replied.

  "Okay, we'll get it to you early next week," promised Mike.

  "Right-ho, I'll look forward to that, see you next week. Now, I'd better go and touch base with Ski-Easy. Ciao!" With a wave and a last waft of Havana, he marched out.

  "Wow, I think I need something stronger than coffee now!" joked Fiona, sitting down beside Jude and grabbing her mug.

  “Are you sure about that?” asked Jude, with a raised eyebrow and a pointed look.

  Fiona screwed up her nose. “Maybe you’re right. Coffee it is!” She raised the mug. "Sláinte!"

  Jude laughed, then turned to Mike. "And, thank you so much, Mike, for stepping in." But then she remembered the bombshell that Forbes had just delivered, and looked at the two of them with barely-disguised anxiety. "What on Earth are we going to do, though? How are we going to find another five instructors between now and Wednesday?"

  MIKE NOTICED THE pronoun ‘we’ and realised that by helping them out with Forbes, he'd unwittingly become part of something. He hoped that he wouldn't regret it later. "I met Sandy at the B and B, and then there's yourself, Fiona and me — that's four already, so you need nine in total?" He leaned on the other side of the counter.

  "Oh, I don't teach," said Jude, "so there's just the three of you."

  Mike caught Fiona giving Jude a sharp look, but she just said, "We had eight last year."

  He nodded. "Are there not some other local instructors you could recruit?"

  Fiona shook her head. "No, they already work for the other ski schools — Ski-Easy, which Forbes mentioned, are our big rivals locally. Everyone's pretty loyal, so we end up getting different people each season, and they come and go. Apart from me and Sandy, that is."

  "We'll need to look outside the village then," said Jude, "if we want to conjure up five more instructors within a week."

  There was silence for a moment as they all wracked their brains.

  "Could we put an advert up somewhere?" Mike suggested. "On a website, maybe?"

  Fiona clapped her hands, "Of course! We could get UKASI to put something on their website. And maybe they would do an email mailshot for us. That would reach all the British instructors; surely we'd find five people that way?"

  "But I'd want to meet them," Jude said apologetically, "to check that they're nice people. We're going to have to work with them all winter!"

  Mike pulled a stool over and sat down. "That's going to be difficult to fit in before next Wednesday."

  "Unless we could do them all at once? Like a mass interview?" suggested Fiona.

  "That's a good idea!" said Jude. She nodded. "We could get them skiing, give them some feedback, and call it a Hiring Clinic or something? That might work."

  -::-

  Jude thought the room felt bereft, somehow, when the others left, as if all the colour and energy had disappeared with them.

  A combination of office and shop, she usually manned the counter in the mornings, selling ski clothing and accessories in the winter season and general outdoors gear in the summer. As she looked around with a more critical eye than usual, she could see that the shelves were looking somewhat bare and that some maintenance and touch-ups wouldn't go amiss. She sighed. More money required. Or perhaps it would just have to stay closed this winter, if she was to be otherwise occupied, learning how to be a ski school manager.

  She looked at her watch, calculated the time difference, and realised that Allan should still be up — he'd always been an owl rather than a lark.

  Picking up the phone, Jude tapped in some numbers and put it to her ear. As she waited for it to connect, she drummed two fingers on the counter, and wondered what he'd say. But all she got was the unobtainable tone.

  She sighed again. He must be up in the mountains, out of signal range. She'd just have to muddle through on her own, then. Perhaps she could channel Michelle Mone or Richard Branson or some great business manager, like Fiona had suggested? Her shoulders slumped. But what if she messed up or got it wrong? They were already short of money, and he'd be so annoyed if she ruined things.

  For a moment it all started to overwhelm her, and she despaired of where to start. But she caught herself; that's not going to help anything. She sat up and took a deep breath. Imagined Princess Diana's poise. Breathed out. That's better.

  Okay, where to start? Her eyes fell on the mess under the counter. Perhaps the paperwork would hold some clues as to how she should organise things, or where all the money had gone?<
br />
  An hour later, she had sorted the piles into some semblance of order, and was starting to realise how inadequate the ski school organisation had been. Perhaps Allan should've asked her to help sooner. She wasn't exactly the tidiest person in the world, but at least she was systematic — everything had its place.

  Whilst sifting through the morass of papers, she'd found some unpaid bills and unopened letters, including an interesting one from a nearby private school asking about group ski lessons for this winter, but it was dated two weeks ago, and it would probably be too late to reply now. She'd just have to find another way to build the business.

  But right now, she realised, with a sinking feeling, all she had was unpaid bills, no money, only half of her instructors, no snow on the hill, and to top it all, a clueless manager who was more used to illustrating children's books than running a ski school. She put her head in her hands. It seemed a huge mountain to climb.

  Saturday 10th December

  JUDE WALKED INTO the empty room and looked round. It was soulless; corporate chintz and laminate. But it would have to do.

  She turned to Sandy, who had followed her in. "Could you do me a favour and set out some chairs? I thought they were going to have it all ready for us."

  She thought Sandy was going to grumble, but he just nodded and walked over to the side wall and started wrestling with a stack of chairs. She suppressed a yawn. Working day and night really didn't suit her, but at least she'd finished the book illustrations and sent them off to the publisher. Once the invoice for that was paid their bank balance would look a bit healthier, and if she could ever get hold of Allan and get him to put some of his wages in, they might even have enough to survive the next month or two.

  At the front of the room, there was a large trestle table covered with a starched white tablecloth. She put down the papers she was carrying and picked up the arrangement of white plastic lilies and ferns, muttering to herself, "Did they think we were having a wake?"

  Before she'd worked out what to do with the inappropriate flowers, there was a discreet rap at the door, and a prim, grey-suited man stepped in. "Ms Winters," he said, "Good morning. I trust everything is to your satisfaction?"

  "Yes, thank you, Mr Talbot, but could I give you these flowers? They'll just be in the way." She handed him the vase. "Oh, and where will I find the flip-chart stand, please?"

  "Ah, yes, of course, it's over here," he replied, and showed her a cupboard discreetly hidden behind panelling in the corner of the room. He put the flowers on a shelf in the cupboard and turned back to her. "Now, before I forget, could I give you the details for the New Year poster and advert?" He pulled a piece of paper and a CD-ROM out of his suit pocket. “Our logo’s on the CD.”

  She skimmed the document quickly. "Thank you, I think that's all the information I need. I'll get the proofs to you by Wednesday, like you asked."

  "Yes, we need to get it to the printers quickly so that we can start the publicity for the Hogmanay party."

  She nodded, "Okay." She was still amazed that she'd managed to barter with him to use this room in return for her doing some graphic design work for the hotel. It had saved her a ton of money that they didn't really have, and she was secretly rather proud of herself.

  He held out a hand, "I hope you have a successful day, Ms Winters; it's good to do business with you."

  Once the hotel manager had gone, she went into the cupboard and pulled out the flip-chart tripod. She was fighting with the telescopic legs when the door opened and Mike came in.

  "That's everything ready over at the slope." He looked around at the empty room. "Nobody's arrived yet?"

  "No," said Jude. "I'm trying not to get worried."

  He looked at his watch. "It's still early. She'll be right." He raised his eyebrows in the direction of the flip-chart. "Want a hand with that?"

  "Thanks! I'm no good with mechanical things," she said. "I'll go and get the pad, if you could put it up?"

  She pulled the flip-chart pad out of her pile on the table and unrolled it, opening it at a page headlined: 'Child Protection'. "Are you sure you're okay to cover all this stuff?"

  He nodded. "Yeah," he motioned over to where Sandy was finishing setting out the chairs, "and I've got Sandy to help, if I get stuck."

  She gave a tight smile. "Fiona really enjoys that sort of thing, it's such a shame she can't be here today. Thank you for stepping in."

  "Yeah, especially since it was really her idea." He paused. “I hope she’s okay.”

  “So do I,” she said. It came out more fervently than she’d expected. Perhaps I’m more worried about her than I realised. She sighed. Poor Fiona.

  Shaking her head, she brought herself back to the current dilemma. She looked up at Mike. "I just hope today works, and some good people turn up. We've only got a couple of days left to get the list to Forbes."

  "SHE'LL BE RIGHT," he said again, but anything else that he might have added got lost as the door flew open and a denim-clad bundle of energy bounced into the room. Small, ginger-haired and distinctive, rather than tall, dark and handsome, he looked like the boy next door who'd been shrunk in the wash.

  "Morning, campers!" He looked around the almost-empty room. "Uh, I sometimes clear a place after I turn up. But this is a first!"

  Jude suppressed a sigh of relief. At least someone had come!

  -::-

  The main ski resort was a few miles away from White Cairns village. Built in the 1960s, around an existing village, it was a jumble of flat-roofed concrete monstrosities, quaint alpine-pastiche wood-clad lodges, and typical Scottish stone-built houses.

  On the high street, a Premier bus pulled away from the bus stop, leaving two passengers on the pavement. The first quickly strode away, ponytail swinging above the rucksack on her back, Doc Martens tapping a rhythm that counterpointed the ski bag which banged against her leg.

  The second passenger looked rather forlorn as she stood amongst her bags, gazing round at the shops and cafes.

  Tourists milled aimlessly on the pavements, cameras dangling round their necks like medals on Olympic athletes. Mostly they looked like they had just come off a bus trip to 'see Scotland in a day', although a few were obviously there for sporting activities and were dressed appropriately in sensible walking boots, fleeces and Gore-tex. The only local in evidence was a rather dishevelled, stringy old lady with grey hair and a decades-old ski jacket who was pushing a bicycle across the street, plastic supermarket bags swinging on the handlebars.

  Debbie hoped that the rest of the skiers round here were a bit more modern, and perhaps more masculine as well. Unzipping a pocket in one of her bags, she pulled out a rather crumpled bit of paper. After studying it for a moment, she looked up and down the street, frowned, turned the diagram through ninety degrees, looked left, and spotted her destination. Stuffing the paper into the pocket of her hoodie, she took a deep breath and picked up her bags. Time for the next step in my transformation.

  -::-

  In the hotel car park, a beat-up Fiesta was sitting with its engine running, its windows starting to steam up. Inside, two sets of lips were welded together in a farewell clinch.

  After some long minutes, they broke apart and the passenger reached behind him for the door handle. He slid out of the door, lips last, then flipped the seat forward and pulled a snowboard bag off the back seat and onto the pavement. He leaned back in for another kiss. "Last night was awesome!"

  She pouted back up at him, saying, "Anytime, cowboy!" Then something across the car park caught her attention, and he noticed her pupils widen.

  He turned his head to see what she was looking at, and his eyes narrowed. Another snowboarder was swaggering across the car park. He looked like a surfer dude — baggy cargo pants, a Fat Face sweatshirt, Converse sneakers and Oakleys perched on sun-bleached hair.

  Marty stood up, pulled his sunglasses off his curly hair and onto his nose, then smacked the roof of her car and waved her off, saying, "I'll give you a call." H
e wouldn't.

  The other snowboarder approached, sizing him up. From the look on his face, he obviously thought his labels were more impressive than Marty's jeans and fleece.

  "Hi bro, I'm Colin. You here for the job?"

  "Yup." Marty hoisted his snowboard bag onto his shoulder.

  "What d'you ride?" asked Colin.

  "A Deacon XT."

  Colin sniffed. "I had one of those last season. Got rid of it." Marty just looked at him. "I got an Oppera Maxride from the rep. Wants me to test it for them. It's totally rad."

  Marty shrugged. "I heard they were pretty sluggish. But okay if you don't ride too fast."

  He turned his back and headed for the hotel entrance. They might be fellow snowboarders, but it was obvious they weren't going to be friends.

  AROUND THE CORNER from the hotel, a large black Daimler pulled in at the side of the road.

  A uniformed driver got out of the front, but before he could reach the passenger door, a grungy fashion victim with baggy clothes and two-tone hair swung out of the car, looking sideways at him from under her fringe.

  The driver stopped short, and then went round to open the boot. With a disdainful sniff, he removed a colourful snowboard bag and a large suitcase, and deposited them on the pavement as if he were putting out the rubbish.

  She grabbed the luggage and had started to hurry off when the rear window slid down and a cultured voice called out, "Aren't you going to say goodbye?"

  She sighed theatrically, shrugged her bags down onto the pavement and slouched back to the car as an elegantly-dressed man in his early fifties stepped out of the back door, smoothing non-existent creases in his jacket as he turned to face her.

  "You don't have to do this, you know, darling," he said. "I could get you a proper job at the company — or in the city, if you insist on some independence. It seems such a crime to let your education go to waste. And your mother will be inconsolable, with you away from home."