by Roz Marshall
-::-
The sky was the deepest azure blue and the morning sun made the snow sparkle like a sea of glass. Scottish mountain weather was like Jekyll and Hyde; hell one day, heaven the next. It was literally the lull after the storm.
Inside the ski school hut, all was quiet as classes had started for the day and all the instructors were out. Mike finished updating the whiteboard, and went over to the kettle. "Coffee?"
Jude had been sitting at the counter, concentrating on some paperwork. She sat up and stretched, "Oh yes, thanks, that’s exactly what I need. I was starting to drift off."
He busied himself with the mugs. "Has Geoff been in touch?" He spooned coffee for Jude, and dropped a peppermint tea bag into the other mug. It was the most acceptable hot drink he'd found since he'd stopped drinking anything with caffeine.
"Yes," Jude replied, "it turns out she's got diabetes. That's why she blacked out."
That made sense and fitted with his first aid knowledge. "Right," he nodded thoughtfully. "At least they know." He poured hot water into the mugs. "And it's treatable." He took Jude's mug over.
"Thanks, you're a life-saver."
That stopped him in his tracks. She used to say that too.
Jude saw his face as she took the coffee mug. "Mike?" she frowned. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, she'll be right." But he wasn't alright. He sat down, his shoulders slumped. "Sometimes you remind me of her." He looked at her from under his eyebrows. "Not to look at, just things you say now and again."
Jude put a hand on his arm. "Your wife?"
"I miss her so much." He touched the ring on his left hand and sighed. "But it's been ages, I should be over it, by now."
"And you think you are. And then something comes along, and 'bang!', it brings it all back, just like it was yesterday."
Mike was startled by this insight. He tilted his head in enquiry. "Your husband?"
"Yes." She bit her lip and hesitated before continuing in a rush. "I'm scared he's not coming back."
He nodded, starting to understand why she sometimes seemed so lacking in confidence. He put a hand on top of hers, which felt small and delicate in comparison to his.
"Don't worry, I'm sure he'll be back soon." He gestured at the view out of the window and raised his eyebrows. "How could he resist this wonderful Scottish weather?"
But he knew that she remembered yesterday's blizzard just as well as he did.
-::-
Fiona stood by the sideboard in their living room, cutting the hospital ID band off her wrist.
Geoff sat at the dining table, poking at the glucose-testing machine, as if trying to guess how it worked.
Wristband despatched, Fiona came over and sat beside him. "I use the pinprick thing to get a drop of blood, and put it in there," she pointed, "and then it gives a reading."
"Amazing," he looked up at her. "Let me know if I can help you with it. Remind you or whatever... anything."
She took his hand. "You're too good to me."
They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment. Then she gave his hand a squeeze. "They told me something interesting — important — at the hospital today."
He tilted his head and wrinkled his forehead questioningly. "Uh-huh?"
"They said that if I can keep my glucose levels steady, I should be able to carry a baby to full term." She paused and raised her eyes to his. "That's probably been the problem the last two times — we just didn't know."
Geoff frowned. "Would you really want to risk it? I thought you were too scared to try again?"
She got up, moved round behind him and put her arms around his shoulders. "I learned something yesterday, from little Johnny. He said not to give up." Geoff twisted round to look at her. "And I didn't. And we were okay." She kissed the tip of his nose. "I think he's right. We shouldn't give up. We should try again." She nuzzled his ear and breathed, "Some of them are worth the risk."
Geoff stood up, and she looked into his eyes, "Let's try again, Geoff."
"Are you sure?"
"Totally." Then she took his hand and led him up the stairs to bed...
Saturday 4th February 2006
"I'M VERY SORRY to do this to you, Mike," said the older man, "you know I wouldn't ask unless I had to."
Based on Sandy's past form, like turfing him out for Christmas Day, Mike wasn't so sure.
"But we've had these bookings for ages," continued Sandy, "and, to be honest, when you arrived at the door last year, I thought you'd only stay for a night or two so it wouldn't be an issue. But it's been, what, two months now?"
"Yeah, near enough," agreed Mike.
"It's because it's half-term; we're always full in the school holidays. It's the same at Easter," said Sandy. "Jean and I are run off our feet — especially since I have to leave for work at the ski school after breakfast and she has to do all the rooms herself."
Mike nodded. "I'll find something else, she'll be right."
"You'll be okay till Thursday the ninth, but we've a full house from Friday." Sandy puffed out his chest. When he did that, he looked more like Father Christmas than ever, with his grey-white beard and rosy cheeks. It's no wonder the others call him Santa when he's not in earshot. "For two weeks," Sandy continued, "two and a bit, actually, if you include the weekends." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Different schools choose different weeks for half-term. So it lasts for longer."
Mike nodded again. So he needed to find somewhere to stay for over two weeks, during one of the busiest winter periods. And he needed access to the internet, which he'd discovered was quite unusual in this rural backwater. He sighed inwardly. Maybe it was time to think about moving on.
"No worries," he told Sandy.
But he would worry. He'd just learned to keep his worries to himself.
Monday 6th February
AS MIKE CROSSED the village street, ski boots dangling by their straps in his gloved hands, Jude was juggling a large box and a bunch of keys as she struggled to open the door of the ski school shop. "Morning, boss," he greeted her.
She turned at his voice and tutted at him as she pushed the door open. "Please don't call me that!" she chided. "You know Allan's really the boss."
He followed her into the shop, picking up a pile of envelopes from the doormat as he passed. "But Allan's in New Zealand. And you're running things here. Anyway, it's your ski school, isn't it? Didn't you tell me your dad left it to you?"
"Well, yes," she admitted grudgingly as she put the box on the counter. "But 'boss' just sounds so…" she paused and pursed her lips, searching for the right word, "formal, I suppose. I still feel like an impostor, most of the time."
She turned to face him, and he handed her the letters. "But you're doing a great job — you won that new contract from Beechfields. And the 'Ski with Santa' thing at Christmas went down well with the kids, didn't it?"
She made a face. "Yes, but not so well with all the instructors!"
He laughed, remembering Sandy stomping off in his red Santa outfit. "Yeah, but Sandy's never happy. It makes his day to have something to complain about!"
"Actually, I was meaning Zoë. It seriously undermined her street cred, having to wear that fake beard."
He raised his eyebrows. "Might have taught her some humility, perhaps? Maybe you did her a favour."
She smiled, and riffled through the envelopes in her hand, stopping at one made from an expensive-looking cream vellum. "Ski Development Trust? I wonder who they are?" she asked rhetorically, and put the rest of the pile on the counter, picking up a letter-opener.
She was quiet for a moment as she scanned the contents of the letter. Then her hand went to her mouth. "Oh!" She looked up at him. "They want us to run some ski trials for them. To find candidates for their race training programme. And then run the race training for them. One of their kids was in our Santa classes at Christmas and recommended us."
"That's good, isn't it?"
"Well, yes, but I don't think we can. Do the racing thi
ng, I mean."
"Why not? There's plenty of slalom poles."
"Yes, but we don't have any timing equipment. We've never needed it."
He shrugged. "We should just buy some, then."
She shook her head. "No, we've not enough money for that."
He frowned. "But—"
"I know you said we're doing well. But Al—," she corrected herself, "but the ski school was struggling somewhat last year, and we're still recovering, financially. So I'm afraid there's no spare money for equipment."
"Maybe you could borrow the kit?"
She raised her chin and looked upwards as she thought it over. "The only timing kit I know of belongs to Ski-Easy. But I don't think they'd loan it to us. They'd want the contract themselves."
He nodded slowly. He'd met Ed Griffiths, the manager of their rival ski school, and had privately thought that he was the sort of man who got Scots a reputation for meanness. "What about hiring, then?"
She rubbed her lip, then nodded, "Yes, I'll look into that. There must be somewhere." Then she looked up at the clock on the wall above the door. "We'd better get up the hill. Classes start soon!"
-::-
"Oh, what's that?" Jude nodded at the door, as their boots crunched on the new snow that dusted the steps to the ski school hut.
Mike pulled the flyer out of the letterbox as Jude unlocked the door. "Ski School Race," he said, skim-reading the text. "A tie-in with the Winter Olympics. Wednesday the fifteenth. Ski and snowboard teams. Ah!" He stopped short as they stepped into the hut.
She turned back and looked at him quizzically. "What's the problem?"
"Not a problem, it's the first prize." He grinned at her. "It's race equipment!"
Her eyes widened. "Oh!" She started to smile, but then a troubled look crossed her face. "But we'd need to win." She frowned. "Could we win?" she asked him.
"We could have a damn good try. After all, we've got Ben, which will give us an advantage. I could start some Race Training with the others."
"Racing?" said a male voice behind them.
"Annual Ski School Race, Ben," Mike said, turning to the fair-haired young man who'd just entered, and handing him the flyer. "We're hoping your British Team expertise might help us!"
-::-
"I'll leave the racing to you youngsters," said Sandy, stroking his silvery beard. "I believe my slalom days are well and truly over." He turned to Mike, raising a palm magnanimously. "However, put me down as a substitute, if you need one."
Mike nodded. "Come along to the training, though, Sandy, just in case." He looked round at the others, who were gazing expectantly at him from various perches around the ski school hut. "But I'll need all of the rest of you." He looked over at a lanky guy who was sprawled untidily over one of the pine chairs. "And Simon, I think I'll need you in both teams — boarding and skiing — unless Sandy skis after all." He grimaced. "And I'm still short of a lady for the snowboard team."
"There's no 'I' in team," muttered Callum, who was usually the joker of the pack.
Mike looked sideways at him, waiting for the punchline, but none was forthcoming. He raised his eyebrows. "Right, we still need a second lady for the snowboard team."
"Is there an age limit?" asked Jude.
Mike's brow furrowed. "I thought you didn't ski — or board?" He noticed Fiona shooting Jude a look.
"Oh, not me, I meant Lucy," Jude said, flustered, "she's quite good on a board."
"But Lucy's not an instructor," said Fiona. "I think the racers need to be instructors?"
Mike rubbed his temple whilst he contemplated that.
"Perhaps she could 'work' for us next weekend — as a part-time trainee. That would make her count as an 'instructor', wouldn't it?" suggested Zoë.
"But wouldn't it be a bit dishonest?" said Debbie, screwing up her nose.
Sandy made a 'harumph' sound. "I'll bet that wouldn't stop Ski-Easy from filling their team with shills and ringers if they thought that would help them win."
"No need to do anything like that," interjected Ben, waving the the race flyer above his head theatrically. "One of the rules says you can co-opt a relative or neighbour into the team. And it's anyone over the age of twelve. So Lucy would count."
Jude beamed a smile at him. "That's wonderful!"
Mike looked across at Jude. "Would you be able to get her up here after school so she could do race training with us?"
She nodded. "I'm sure we could work something out." She turned to the rest of the group. "Can I just say 'thank-you' to all of you for agreeing to do this? Obviously it's good to get our name out there and there will be some prestige if we win; but the first prize of race equipment would be really useful as it would let me accept a new contract with the Ski Development Trust to run race training and trials — which would obviously provide more work for some of you." She smiled at them.
Ben cleared his throat, and pointed at the leaflet again. "There's an incentive for us, as well." He got some curious glances. "Members of the winning team also get Sports Market vouchers. So there's even more reason to win."
"Well, hopefully with you on our team, Ben, we'll have a great chance of doing just that!" said Jude. "But just do your best, everyone."
"Okay," Mike looked round at them all, "that's us sorted then. From now on we'll meet at the top of the Creag Dheighe for race training every night as soon as you're finished with your classes." Then he glanced up at the clock. "Talking of which — time to rattle your dags — lessons start soon. I'll see you out there!"
-::-
Linda, the ski area administrator, smiled up at him from under her fringe. "Mornin', Mike. Are you here to enter Winters' into the ski school race?"
"Er, yeah," replied Mike, and pushed the forms across her desk. He'd just about got used to locals calling the ski school Winters' after its owners, rather than its proper name of 'White Cairns Ski School'.
"Don't know why you're bothering," drawled a voice from the doorway. Mike turned and saw a pony-tailed bloke with teeth like tombstones and dissolute, droopy eyes, wearing the fluorescent-green jacket of Ski-Easy, their rival ski school.
Linda smiled politely at the new arrival and said, "Well, good morning to you too, Ed. So are you here to enter the ski school race an' all?
He slapped a couple of entry forms onto Linda's desk, then turned to Mike, turning up the collar of his jacket and squaring his shoulders as he did so. "We're going to walk it. I reckon we could win even if we tied our hands behind our backs and skied blindfolded."
Gamesmanship or delusion? Mike looked Ed in the eye and decided it was the former. He raised his eyebrows.
Before he had time to reply, Linda intervened. "Yer man Ben Dalton works for you, Mike, doesn't he?" she asked, innocently.
He turned back to her. "Yeah."
"Sure, but he'll give you an advantage in the race, won't he?"
"Advantage? What advantage?" blustered Ed.
Linda's eyes took on a dreamy, unfocussed look. "I used to watch him on 'Ski Sunday'. It's a crying shame he had that accident last year — we might have been cheering him on in the Winter Olympics otherwise." She gave her head an imperceptible shake, as if to clear an unwelcome image.
Ed's brow furrowed, and he turned to Mike. "That can't be right. You're not allowed to have Olympic skiers in your team!"
Mike shrugged. "He works for our ski school. Has done since December. I'm surprised you hadn't heard," he replied evenly.
"Huh. Well, one skier doesn't make a ski team." Ed's eyes narrowed. "As they say, 'no man is an island; everyone is a part of a continent'," he misquoted, and flicked a hand dismissively. "We'll soon see if the rest of you match up to your star player." He turned on his heel and stomped out.
Linda slapped her palms down on her desk. "Well, that went well, didn't it now?" she said, and smiled mischievously. "I can't help but mess with that guy, he's such a gobshite, so he is!"
Her accent made the expletive sound like something Gollum would've s
aid in 'The Lord of the Rings', and Mike found himself grinning at her. "You'll get me into trouble!"
If only he'd realised how prescient that was…
DEBBIE TOOK OFF her skis and stamped her feet in a vain attempt to get warm. For once in her life she was first at the meeting place, and as she waited in the cold for the others to arrive she realised some of the advantages of her usual tardiness. Here at the top of the Creag Dheighe run, despite the blue sky, it felt like the nor' easterly wind howled directly over from Siberia, and particles of icy snow whipped off the ridge and stung any skin that wasn't covered by gore-tex, fleece or wool.
Mike had finished setting up the slalom course, and slid into place beside her. "Hey, Debbie, it's too cold to hang about here for long." He inclined his head. "Come over to the start, it's more sheltered over there."
She clipped back into her skis and they side-slipped and skidded over to the first of the red plastic poles that were drilled into the icy snow at offset intervals, marking a winding route down the hill.
"Have you done any racing before?" he asked her.
She shook her head. "Not really, just a couple of goes at the dry slope. Nothing like this," she gestured down the steep hill.
"Okay, well the most important thing to remember is to start your turns early. Earlier than you'd think. Start the next turn half-way between one pole and the next, so that the apex of the turn is at the pole."
She nodded. That made sense. But it didn't make the icy piste look any easier.
"Don't push it too hard this first time. Go for safety, not speed. It's a team race, so it's more important that you get down in one piece—" he looked at her sideways, "if you ski out of the course the whole team is disqualified, unless you can walk back up and re-do the turn. But by then it will probably be too late, of course."
No pressure, then! She took a deep breath and shuffled into the start. To the side of the run she could see some of the others coming up the tow. An audience, too. She sighed, set her jaw, and pushed off.
The top of the run went by in a flash; skidding and sliding on the ice she concentrated on keeping her speed under control so she could make the turns around the allotted poles. On the lower part of the course the hill flattened somewhat and the snow became softer, so she felt that she could let her skis run more freely. She tried to turn early, like Mike had suggested, and things started to feel effortless and the turns started to flow.
