by Roz Marshall
At the bottom she looked back up the hill to the tiny dots at the start and punched the air, elation filling her chest and a huge grin splitting her face. I really enjoyed that! Who'd have thought it — Debbie Easton, ski racer! She laughed at the absurdity of it.
-::-
"Lucy boarded well today," Mike said, as Jude turned the car out of the ski area car park and onto the mountain road.
"I'm nearly as fast as Zoë, Mum!" Lucy said enthusiastically from the back seat. "Mike said I improved the most of everyone!"
"Yeah, you did very well. Zoë's pretty quick," said Mike.
"How did you time them?" Jude asked.
"Oh, just with the second hand on my watch. Nothing clever."
Jude gave a tight smile. "That's why we need the timing equipment."
Mike nodded, and looked out of the car window. It never ceased to amaze him how different Scotland could be from day to day. As they descended from the hills, the white blanket gave way to a patchwork that reminded him of the ubiquitous tartan found in all the tourist shops — checkers of green bracken, stripes of silver birch, patches of amethyst heather and threads of yellowing couch grass poking through blocky grey granite rocks and all offset by a weft of dark, brooding pine trees. It was beautiful — or perhaps handsome would be a better word — in a rugged, imposing way.
His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the car indicators as Jude signalled to turn right onto the back road to White Cairns. "Thanks for the lift, by the way."
"Oh, don't mention it! It's the least I can do, since you're running all the race training and trying to win the instructors' race for us," said Jude. "Shall I drop you at the B and B, or The Rowan?"
"The B and B, please." He leaned an elbow on the window sill and rubbed his temple. "That reminds me, do you know of a room or cottage that I could rent, in the village?" He glanced across at her. "I need to move out for half-term, 'cos they're already booked up."
Lucy bounced forward. "He could stay in our spare room, Mum?"
Mike started to shake his head, and he saw Jude's forehead crinkle.
"No, I'm afraid we couldn't do that, Lucy," she said. "People would talk." Her nose wrinkled. "You know what they're like in a small village." She bit her lip, and then brightened. "You could maybe stay in the room above the shop, if you want? We always meant to do it up, so it's rather spartan, but there's a shower, and you could use the kitchen in the office if you need to?"
He nodded slowly. "I forgot to say — I need the internet too."
Jude's forehead asked the question.
"Just some work stuff I do in the evenings."
"Skiing work?" she asked, incredulously.
"No," he said, "work I do in the summer — when I'm not skiing. But I have to keep it ticking over all year."
"Ah." She nodded slowly. "Well, there's internet in the office, so we could probably put an extension in or something?"
"Okay, thanks. I don't have to move out till Thursday, if you hear of anything else."
"You should check in the Post Office. Or ask Lachie — he seems to know everything that's going on in the village."
Mike laughed. "Yeah, the postman at home is like that too — nose in everyone's business."
"Where's home, Mike?" asked Lucy. "I mean, I know you're from New Zealand, but whereabouts?"
He turned in the seat to look at her. "A village — no, a small town — on the North Island. Most of the ski areas are on the South Island in New Zealand, but we ski on a volcano, would you believe?"
Lucy's eyes saucered. "Really? What d'you do about the lava?" Her brow puckered. "Doesn't it melt the snow?"
Mike grinned at her. "People always think that. But the volcano is pretty much dormant, so it gets snow just like a normal mountain. There's skiing on two sides, north and south; we're closer to the northern ski field. And, of course, we ski in your summer months — usually June to September or October."
Lucy turned to Jude. "Is that where Dad is, Mum?"
"No, honey, he's in Queenstown on the South Island, and last I heard he was working on Coronet Peak."
Mike nodded. "I've skied there. He must be working on the glacier, since it's summer weather there?"
Jude pursed her lips. "Yes, so I believe."
Mike looked sideways at her. There was something she wasn't saying, but, out of respect for Lucy, he didn't pursue it.
Tuesday 7th February
LACHIE SUCKED AIR through his teeth. "You'll be lucky, son, the village is really busy for half-term." He drummed his fingers on the shoulder-strap of his postbag as he thought for a moment. "You might have more luck down the road in the town." He jerked his chin to the south, indicating the main ski resort a few miles away.
"But I don't drive, so I really need to be here in White Cairns," said Mike with a grimace.
The postman shook his head. "Well, if I hear of anything at all, I'll be sure and let you know, laddie."
Mike nodded. "Thanks." I'll try at the hotel later on, I guess.
-::-
When they arrived for race practice, they discovered that Mike had set up a pair of short, matching courses, running side-by-side, so that two of them could race each other. "The instructors' race next Wednesday is a dual slalom, so I thought we might as well start early." He pointed at the red and blue slalom poles. "A dual slalom is usually straighter than a normal slalom course, as we don't have the width for wide turns. So if you can cope with the speed building up, try and let your skis run and minimise the amount of steering you do."
He looked round for Simon. "Right, Simon, I see you're on your skis today," he turned to Sandy, "we'll need you to go up against one of the guys then, Sandy, to keep the numbers right, so that I can stay here in the start and help the others." He raised his eyebrows at the older man. "Sorry."
Sandy sniffed, but didn't say anything.
"Okay, who's first?"
Callum volunteered and Mike asked him to race Ben. The result was a predictable win by the ex-British team member, but Mike was pleased that Callum wasn't flustered by being beaten — in fact he started to ask Ben for some tips. He nodded and sent Fiona and Debbie off.
Fiona, as the better skier, won that pairing, but Debbie did a creditable run for an inexperienced racer.
Next to go were Simon and Sandy. To his surprise, Mike saw Sandy slowly edge in front of the younger man, and win by a short distance. That's interesting! Perhaps the extra weight the older man carried gave him a gravitational advantage in the shorter, more direct races.
The same thing happened in the next run, although Simon had improved slightly and Sandy only won by a ski length.
"Let's swap it round next time. Sandy, you go against Callum, and Simon, let's put you against Marty on his board."
Callum was much quicker on his feet than Sandy, and almost skipped round the poles. But the old man's solid, safe style served him well, and he seemed to get more competitive when he had someone to chase.
"You might just be our secret weapon, Sandy," said Mike when they arrived back at the top of the run. "The opposition won't expect you to be fast, and they won't try as hard at the beginning. And by then it'll be too late." He grinned at them. "I might just have to have you in the team after all!"
-::-
Mike sat at his customary table in The Rowan, tucked into a corner and out of sight of most of the other patrons. The lamb dish he was eating only served to highlight the difference in culinary conventions between Scotland and New Zealand. At home, meat was plentiful and made up the bulk of many meals, whereas the Scots seemed to eke out their servings with minuscule portions of vegetables and large amounts of carbohydrates, especially the ubiquitous 'chips'. Still, food at The Rowan was tasty and filling, and he ended up eating there most nights, since he didn't have cooking facilities in his room at the guest house.
As he ate, he heard someone sliding into the banquette behind his table, then a clunk and some swearing — it sounded like the person had spilled their dr
ink as they sat down. He looked up from the broadsheet business pages he'd been studying. That sounds like Ed Griffiths.
He shook his head and applied himself once again to his roast lamb and the rows of figures.
About five minutes later, he heard the front door open, and a gust of icy air swirled momentarily around his feet, fanning the flames of the log fire that crackled in the stone hearth. He heard stirring from the seat behind him, and then Ed calling out, "Ben, Ben — over here!"
Footsteps crossed the room
Ben? Quietly, Mike put down his fork and knife. He couldn't help but overhear their conversation.
"Ben, thanks for coming over," said Ed's disembodied voice.
"No problem."
"I'm glad I caught you. I wanted to touch base with you, to tell you about some of the plans I've got for Ski-Easy. I really want us to be the best ski school in the valley, and I think that if you came on the team, Ben, it would be a win-win situation."
Mike couldn't remember ever hearing so much business jargon in a single sentence before. He wondered how the youngster would respond.
"I'd like to put an offer on the table," Ed continued, and paused.
"Aye?" said Ben.
"If you come to work for us, I'll offer you fifty pence per hour more than you're currently getting."
There was a silence. Ed must be desperate if he's offering to part with money.
"What d'you think?" asked Ed.
"I'm sorry, but like it where I am," Ben said slowly, "the people are cool, y'know, and that matters a lot to me. I've been in situations where — er — things haven't been very friendly, like, and I don't ever want to get myself into something like that again."
"But we're very friendly as well, Ben, and the social life's superb. It's a great team — and of course it would be even better if you were on it."
There was no reply. Ben must've looked unconvinced, because Ed continued, "How about if I made it a pound per hour more than the Winters' rate? That would give you an extra thirty or forty quid a week." He gave a guffaw. "That would buy you a good few extra beers."
"It's not the money, Ed, it's the people. I like them. They're starting to feel like family, and I wouldn't want to let them down. I suppose I just enjoy working there." There were rustling noises, as if Ben was standing up. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm going to stay with White Cairns."
Ed might've got on better if he'd offered to buy him a pint first. Skinflint. A moment later, Mike heard Ben's voice at the bar, and then a slow hiss as the barman started to pull a pint of beer. From Ed's table there was an annoyed curse, the noise of a pint glass clanking onto the wooden table, and then more footsteps echoing across the wooden floor before the main door slammed shut.
Ed seems happy about that, he thought wryly, and couldn't help but smile to himself. He was pleased to hear that Ben felt loyal to the ski school — they were a good bunch of kids, so he could see why Ben enjoyed their company, and Jude's influence helped to make the working environment very supportive and convivial for all of them, himself included. I guess I enjoy working there, too. It was the first time in more than two years that he'd spent longer than a month in the same place, so perhaps it was just as well.
Monday 13th February
WET SNOW WHIPPED into Debbie’s face as she led her group to a stop near the bottom of the Highlander run. She looked up at the sky, which was a uniform, featureless grey, and grimaced. I hope the weather's not like this for the race on Wednesday.
"Tuck yourselves into the side, so that you're not in the way of other skiers," she told them, pulling her scarf up over her chin. "Now, we'll work on a new exercise on the last part of this run," she said, stepping in front of them as she prepared to show them the next move. They were starting to look a little cold, so she wanted to get them moving again as quickly as possible.
"This time, we're going to hold our poles in front of us and keep them facing down the hill." She demonstrated, holding her poles horizontally and turning her body to face the bottom of the run. As she did so, she heard a gasp from someone in the class, a loud, scraping, scudding noise and then she found herself flying through the air and coming down in a tangle of limbs and ski equipment on the wet snow.
Something hard in the landing knocked the breath out of her lungs, and she was aware of a heavy weight across her hips and legs, and wet snow down the back of her collar and filling her goggles. Her hands were caught under her body and the mass on her legs pinned her so she couldn't move. Her brain felt groggy. What in heaven’s name just happened? She tried to wriggle a hand free, and became aware of voices swirling through the fog in her head, saying something about Ski Patrol.
"Lie still, Debbie, till we get him off you!" That sounds like Callum, but how can he be here?
A moment later she felt a brief sharp pain on her calf and then relief as the weight was lifted off her. She started trying to extricate a hand again, until the voice said sharply, "Lie still, woman! I need to check there's nothing broken." It was Callum!
The goggles were pulled away from her face and a warm hand gently pushed the snow away so she could breathe more easily, and open her eyes. She blinked the snowflakes out of her eyelashes and caught a glimpse of Callum's red and blue jacket.
"Right, let me check you out," he said.
"Don't enjoy it too much," she croaked, remembering from her First Aid training what would be coming next.
She could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Hah, can't be too much wrong with you if you're cracking jokes!" Then she felt his hands checking her shoulders, down her arms, pressing gently on her torso and down each leg, feeling for any abnormal lumps or misalignment. Finally he came back to her head and felt carefully round the back of her neck. "Any soreness or pain there?"
"No."
"Did you lose consciousness at all?"
She tried to recall the accident. "No, I don't think so. But I don't know what happened?"
"A snowboarder lost control and crashed into you. Bloody boarders." He sounded annoyed. "I was up the hill with my class and I saw it happen."
She started to try and turn herself over, but was stopped by a hand on her shoulder.
"Will you lie still, woman! I need Ski Patrol to check you out before we can move you. You might have a spinal injury or something."
"Och, I'm sure I'm fine," she replied. I can't afford to be ill! She started to push herself up, levering with the hands under her body, and got half-way up when she started to feel woozy. "Oh!" she said, unsteadily. She felt Callum's hands on her arms, guiding her back down onto the snow.
"Careful!" he said, and this time she could hear the worry in his voice. He lifted her head slightly and pushed one of his ski gloves under her cheek, so she'd have something dry to lay her face on.
"Thank you," she murmured, feeling light-headed again, and closed her eyes. "I'll be fine. Jus' a bit dizzy."
-::-
"Over here," Callum called, unnecessarily, to the approaching ski patrollers — it was fairly obvious from the gawping audience, the crossed skis planted in the snow above them and the prone body at his feet that there had been an accident.
"Is that you, Callum?" asked the lead patroller.
"Yeah. Hi, Geoff," he said, recognising Fiona's husband under the hat and goggles. He motioned at Debbie. "She was knocked over by that lunatic boarder over there," he pointed at a young chap sitting in the snow and rubbing his knee, "and provided a nice soft landing for him. She seemed okay at first — talking to me, joking even — I checked her out and nothing seemed broken, but then she tried to sit up and she said she felt dizzy, and she's been out of it ever since."
"Okay, we'll get a neck brace on her and stretcher her down on the back board, just to be safe." Geoff motioned to his colleague, who started unstrapping equipment from the sledge he'd been towing. "Can you help by holding her still whilst I get the collar on?" he asked Callum.
With his hands on the top of her arms, Callum found himself gazing do
wn at the trickles of hair escaping from inside her hat, and noticing the few freckles that the sun had kissed onto her nose. Despite the situation, he found he wanted to trace the arc of her cheekbone, the bow of her lips, the line of her chin. The longing was like something physical inside him, an ache somewhere behind his breastbone, and he hated that he had to hide it.
His mind drifted back to the only other time he'd touched her, at New Year, and he remembered the sweet softness of her lips and the glorious way her body had felt in his arms. Why is it that the only time I ever get to hold her is when she's comatose? He blinked hard to dispel the image and set his jaw. He couldn't afford to let his emotions show at a time like this.
Within minutes, Ski Patrol had her safely strapped into the stretcher and were busy fixing it onto the sledge. Callum found his mobile phone in a pocket and dialled the ski school to explain what had happened.
"Oh no! Poor Debbie! I hope she's okay," exclaimed Jude, the pitiful reception making her voice echo like she was at the other end of a long tunnel, rather than several hundred yards away, down the hill and across the car park.
"I'll bring her class down to the bottom with mine," said Callum, checking his watch, "but there's still an hour or so to go before lunch — is there another instructor around who could take them?"
He heard muffled voices as Jude conferred with someone, and then, "Mike will meet you at the chairlift in a few minutes. Thanks so much, Callum."
"No problem. Catch you later." He rang off, just as Geoff came over to clip his skis on.
"Right, Callum, we'll take her down to base and see what's wrong with her. I'll let Jude know, once we've got a diagnosis."
"Okay, thanks Geoff." Callum raised a hand as they skied off, staring after them as they dragged the sledge behind them, aware of a gnawing worry in his stomach.
