by Roz Marshall
Marty narrowed his eyes and said, “Obviously they’re not choosy about who they take.”
“Mmm, well I certainly wouldn’t want to work for them,” sniffed Sandy. “Half of their instructors aren’t fully qualified — they employ trainees because they’re cheaper.” He straightened his back. “Not like us.”
Debbie bit her cheek and looked round the room. She wasn’t sure Sandy’s disdain for Ski-Easy was well-founded. She still had to pass Grade Three, and she was fairly sure Ben and Zoe still had to get their licences as well. So they weren’t much better than the other ski school. But hopefully, if she could improve her skiing, by the end of the season she’d be qualified and they’d live up to his bombast. She crossed her fingers.
MIKE WONDERED AFTERWARDS how long they'd have stood like that, if they hadn’t been interrupted by the noise of a car turning into the street. Headlights strobed through the darkness and the car stopped outside the house with its engine running.
"I wonder who that is?" said Jude, and started walking down the path towards the side gate. Mike followed her; suspicious that anyone should be visiting the house so late at night.
Jude opened the gate just as a dark-haired man got out of the car. "Oh, Mr Paton! I didn't expect to see you!"
She turned to Mike, "This is Mr Paton of Beechfields School. Mr Paton, this is my chief instructor, Mike Cole."
The visitor held out a hand, "James Paton, nice to meet you." Social niceties covered, he turned back to Jude. "Mrs Winters, I hope you don't mind me stopping by; we've been out for dinner down the road and I thought I might as well drop this in on my way past; give you the good news." He passed her a large brown envelope. "It's the contract for ski lessons for this season. Your proposal was excellent, exactly what we needed — and the price was on the nose, too!"
In the glare of the headlights, Mike saw her face brighten as she turned a delighted smile on Mr Paton. "That's wonderful! I'm so glad to hear that." She clutched the envelope to her chest. "We'll so look forward to working with you, and to meeting all the children. I can't wait!"
"Yes, of course," Mr Paton replied, "the kids are looking forward to it too. All we need now is some damned snow!” He opened his hands. “Right, wifey’s in the car so I'll be off now." He turned to Mike. "Nice meeting you, Mr Cole." He shook Mike's hand again, then turned to Jude and said, "Good night, Mrs Winters!” before getting back into his car.
-::-
They waved the teacher off, and Jude turned to Mike, clapping her hands. "That makes all the hard work on his proposal worthwhile!"
Mike nodded. “It’s no more than you deserve. You made it happen.”
As the noise of the car disappeared into the distance and silence returned, she touched her fingers to her lips, thinking over the events of the last few days. So much had happened since she got that fateful email from Allan; somehow she’d managed to recruit some staff, win some work and earn some money for their bank account. A few days ago, she wouldn’t have believed it possible. She dropped her hands and straightened slightly.
“Perhaps I can do it without him,” she said quietly, “perhaps I can make a go of the ski school.”
Mike nodded at her. “Of course you can. Now come on — let's go in and celebrate with the others, it’s freezing out here!"
Turning towards the house, she felt a whisper of cold touch her nose. She stopped as another touched her cheek, and looked up in awe. Fat, lazy snowflakes were drifting down from the night sky, illuminated by the light shining from the windows and caught by a breath of wind which made them twirl like ballerinas in the spotlight.
"Oh, wonderful!" she breathed, and felt a slow smile suffuse her face. "Finally, it's snowing!" She put out a hand and watched, entranced, as the fairytale flakes landed one at a time on her palm, resting for a brief moment before disappearing like ghosts.
Mike laughed, a huge smile on his face, as the back door opened and the instructors spilled out onto the lawn, whooping and shrieking at the manna from the sky.
Now the season would really begin!
Monday 9th January 2006
DARK EYES STARED into infinity, haunted pools shadowed by sorrow. A solitary tear faltered its way over a smear of freckles and down a sun-kissed cheek to land on a pristine white pillow.
Fiona swallowed, and her eyes widened slightly as a hand inched over her shoulder.
She caught her breath as the hand continued its investigation southwards, cupping, converging, caressing.
Her eyes closed.
Then memory overcame sensation, and an expression of pain crossed her face. In one explosive movement, she leaped out of bed, crisp white bedcovers flying everywhere in her wake.
As she headed to the bathroom, Geoff extricated himself from the tangle of sheets and threw himself back onto the pillow, banging his fist against the mattress in frustration.
-::-
Early morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, reflecting off white and chrome kitchen units. A pot bubbled on the cooker, stirred thoughtfully by Geoff — ski patroller by day, good-natured husband by night — a bear of a man in a frilly pinny.
He shouted through the open door to the living room. "D'you want sultanas in your porridge?"
In the lounge, breakfast news accompanied Fiona's exercise routine. Neat, disciplined and defined, in tracksuit bottoms and a sports top, she was stretched out on the floor, arms crossed over her chest as she counted sit-ups under her breath. The room was as tidy as its owner — a medley of beige and Ikea.
Her rhythm didn't alter. "Ninety-six... ninety-seven... "
She shouted back, "Yes, please," and completed her set. "Ninety-nine... hundred."
Routine complete, he saw her sit up, and shake her head briefly as if dizzy, before getting up and heading for the kitchen. He caught her around the waist as she came in, and kissed the back of her neck. "Good workout?"
Her arm went up and round him in a quick hug, before she broke free and made for the kettle. "Fine, thanks," she replied. "Want some coffee?"
"I've already made some — here." He handed her a mug.
She looked up at him. "You're too good to me."
"I know. You don't deserve me!"
She turned away quickly, and put the mug down on the counter.
He went back to stirring the porridge, and took a deep breath, not daring to look at her. "So, you're not ready yet." A statement, not a question.
She turned, misunderstanding. "Yes, I am."
"But... You..." He reached out, as if to touch her arm.
"I need to get back to work. To take my mind off... things."
His arm dropped. He nodded slowly and turned back to the porridge.
THE SCHOOL BUS belched diesel fumes into the frosty morning air of White Cairns village as the small group of uniformed children filed on. The last teenager turned from the step to shout to a blonde woman standing at the kerb. "Don't forget — I've got drama tonight."
The woman nodded and waved. "Of course, see you at four thirty!"
-::-
Some miles away, an air of subdued excitement permeated a single-decker coach as it wound its way up the ski road. Assorted items of skiwear adorned seat backs and were strewn about the gangway, with obvious disregard for their replacement value.
In the front seat, Mr Paton, the brusque, balding, forty-something head of P.E. typed a text message into his mobile phone.
A few seats back, ten-year-old Johnny was so entranced by a spider painstakingly making a web in the corner of the window that he was oblivious to the fact that his collar was tucked inside his fleece and that he was wearing mismatched socks.
Further back, Natalie, the type of girl who thinks she's seen it all at sixteen, was giggling with her friend over a celebrity gossip magazine.
At the back of the bus, Amanda, twelve going on twenty, queened it with her cronies, making fun of her supposed friend, an unfortunate who was wearing last season's antiquated ski suit. Being a rather spoiled only chi
ld, she had no real understanding of the sacrifices less well-off families made in order to kit out their children for expensive sports.
-::-
Further up the road, in the middle of swirling snow and a busy car park, a sign on a pine hut proclaimed ’Lessons today!’ in bold sans-serif, underneath a smaller sign saying ‘White Cairns Ski School’. Inside, a radio blared, unheard in the background, as blue and red uniforms blurred in a flurry of activity.
The instructors were variously munching on junk-food breakfasts, exaggerating the previous night's exploits, fighting their feet into neat-fitting ski boots, reading the tabloids or stocking their pockets with the hats, goggles and the other paraphernalia needed for a day in the mountains.
The shrill of the phone fought to be heard over the hubbub of noise, and was answered by Jude Winters, the fragile-looking blonde ski school owner. She looked concerned, said a few words into the receiver and then put the handset down.
She crossed to the whiteboard on the wall where Mike, who had stepped in as chief instructor this season, was writing up class allocations. "You’ll never believe it — that was Zoë, she's phoned in sick."
The tall, spare-looking Kiwi raised his eyebrows. "And guess who was still at The Rowan when I left last night? Looking very cosy with some guy with an eyebrow ring?"
Jude made a face and shook her head despairingly.
"She'll be right," said Mike, "I'll sort something out."
He rubbed Zoë's name off the board, then paused for a moment, rubbing his nose, before shouting over to the others. "Simon?"
Simon Jones, also known as Spock for his space-cadet tendencies, looked up from clipping on his ski boots.
"Could you take boarders today, instead of skiers?"
Simon nodded, and started undoing the ski boots, pulling snowboard boots out from under the bench and lacing them on instead.
A gust of wind rustled the pages of the newspapers on the table as the door opened and Fiona entered.
Jude noticed her and went over to greet her with a shoulder-hug. "Fiona! It's wonderful to see you!" She gave her a kiss on the cheek, noticing from her friend’s unyielding posture that Fiona was rather tense. She lowered her voice. "Are you really sure you're ready to come back to work?"
"I'm fine, really," Fiona replied. "Anyway, it'll do me good to keep busy."
Jude looked at her sideways, and nodded. "I know what you mean." It was Fiona's turn to give her a look.
-::-
Mike had noticed Fiona's arrival and went over. "Fiona, I'm really sorry but I'm having a 'mare. I was going to put you on adult ski school, but I've been let down, and I need you to do a school group today. D'you mind?"
"Don't worry, I'll be fine, honest," she answered, glancing at the unfamiliar faces across the room.
"Have you met the others? You know Sandy, and Zoë's off today," he pointed at the younger instructors in turn, "but here we've got Debbie, Marty, Ben, Callum and Simon."
She replied to the chorus of greetings from the new members of staff with a small wave and a smile, before putting her daypack on the bench and starting to wrestle with her ski boots. They always felt two sizes too small in the morning, especially when they were cold, but the close fit helped her to ski with precision.
Once the boots were on, she stood up to retrieve her jacket from her peg, and realised that the other instructors were gossiping about ski patrol, which piqued her interest.
Sandy Potter, a rotund, balding, rather jaded fifty-something, known as Santa when not in earshot, was holding forth. "I mean, I don't know how Ski Patrol are going to manage without him. Doug practically ran the place, single-handed."
Fiona was surprised. Geoff hadn't mentioned anything about Doug.
"And nobody's sure if he jumped — or if he was pushed," Sandy continued.
Callum narrowed his eyes. “Probably the latter." He shook his head, making his messy ginger hair stick up at even more extreme angles. "But I thought they were short-handed? They'd better watch they haven't thrown out the baby with the bathwater!"
A sudden silence filled the room. Everyone looked at Fiona. She studied her boots as if her life depended upon it.
In the background, the radio Weatherman reported, unheeded, "...will be worsening, with poor visibility and blizzards later..."
IT WAS ORGANISED chaos. Groups of bundled-up children clutching skis and poles — with varying degrees of expertise and success — were shepherded by harassed-looking teachers to the ski school meeting place. As groups were paired off with their instructors, they headed off in the direction of the ski slopes.
The instructors were easy to pick out by their bright uniforms and practised nonchalance. Mike used his height to advantage, peering over the heads of the throng until he saw his target. He moved through the crowd towards Fiona, who was standing outside the ski school hut, a distant stare isolating her from the hubbub.
Callum reached her first. "Fiona!"
She looked sideways at him.
"I'm really sorry about earlier. I was a real wally," he said.
"It's fine. You don't need to apologise."
"Aye I do — I need to learn to engage the brain before opening the cakehole.” He raised an eyebrow. “It only took me three years at university to learn how to be this stupid!"
Fiona laughed, despite herself, and Mike found himself grinning too as he interrupted them. "Fiona! Can I point you to your group?"
Callum disappeared with a shrugged wave, as Mike ushered Fiona over to one of the school groups. He looked down at her.
"Are you really sure you're up for it, today?"
"I'm fine. You know what it's like," it was as if someone flicked a switch, "I'll just go into 'teaching mode'." She gave him a big smile. "See?"
He looked sideways at her, not convinced, but replied, "No worries."
The schoolchildren were bunched restlessly beside a teacher who seemed more interested in his mobile phone than his charges or the day’s activities. He waved an arm. "Here's your group. Been skiing a few days now. Some are wobbly 'basic swing', a few of them are doing good snowplough turns." He motioned to the teacher. "And their teacher, Mr Paton. He'll be your helper, today." He nodded at the older man, who inclined his head in return.
"Morning!" Fiona’s smile encompassed the group, as Mike went off to sort out the next class.
"My name's Fiona, I'm going to be your instructor today. Are you all ready?" She looked round at them, her excitement infectious. "Then let's go and do some skiing!"
-::-
Further over, Mike walked off, leaving Callum with his class, a group of teenage girls.
Callum's lack of boy-band looks didn't seem to deter them. There was a lot of nudging and giggling going on.
Callum hoisted his skis onto a shoulder and beckoned them to follow him. "C'mon, gang, let’s go hit the slopes," he paused for effect, "and hope they don't hit us back!"
With a few giggles his group started to follow him.
Natalie, sporting a black ski suit and womanly wiles, contrived to drop her skis. Callum turned round at the noise.
"Oh!" said Natalie and looked pleadingly at him, a curtain of black hair falling over her matching eye-makeup. "Can you...?"
Callum looked heavenwards then shook his head in mock despair. "Seeing as it's you." He picked up her skis and loaded them onto his other shoulder. Behind his back, Natalie's friend gave her a thumbs-up.
-::-
Debbie and Marty watched the pantomime while they waited to be given their classes. Marty shook his head, "How does he do it? I mean, he's not even good looking — his nose is all squidgy and that forehead goes on forever!"
"I dunno, he’s not my type, he’s too short," Debbie shrugged, "maybe they think he’s funny or something, women usually like that." She studied Marty surreptitiously. From the side, she could see how long his eyelashes were, and the way his hair curled round his collar made her wonder what it would be like to run her fingers through it. She’d
never have a chance with him though, unless maybe she could impress him with her skiing; perhaps he’d notice her then.
"They must have a weird sense of humour then. I mean..." Marty’s theories on women were cut off by the arrival of Mike, brandishing class lists.
"Right guys, plenty of time for chatting later!” He raised his eyebrows. “Let me take you to your groups."
COIRE BEAG WAS a wide, gentle slope, with good snow cover; ideal conditions for shaky intermediates.
Under lowering skies, various ski groups were dotted around the run. Other skiers and boarders, in inconsistent states of balance, made their erratic way down the hill.
Part-way down, Fiona had arranged her class in a vertical line up the side of the piste, to minimise obstruction to other skiers. They watched as Fiona used her arms in sweeping movements to demonstrate a ski manoeuvre, then showed them how to do the exercise.
Mr Paton, at the bottom of the line, wasn't paying attention, but was muttering secretively into his mobile phone: "...in the three thirty... Yes... Okay. Thanks." He snapped the phone shut, just as Amanda finished her turn.
"You’re a star, clever girl!" Fiona called to her, and then addressed the group. "Right, you've all done so well, I think you're ready to go over to Ceann Mòr. Amanda, can you lead the class down to the bottom?"
Amanda seemed to grow a couple of inches taller as she set off, the rest of them following her like Hamelin’s children after the Pied Piper.
Johnny was the last-but-one to go, and as he pushed away, his red scarf fluttered to the ground.
Mr Paton, last in line, picked it up for him, and turned to Fiona, shaking his head. "Kids — who'd have 'em?"
As he skied off down the run, he didn't notice Fiona's expression.
-::-
The Ski Patrol office was built from pine, like the instructors’ hut, but seemed less crowded. Equipment was stacked tidily on shelves or hung from hooks; safety posters decorated the walls, a portable gas heater blasted away in the corner, and a radio set sat on a desk by the window, where Geoff was filling in some paperwork.
