Longshot

‘What did you say your name was?’ he said, teeth clenched, shuddering.

‘John.’

I handed him a navy blue silk undershirt and long Johns, two sweaters, grey trousers and the bathrobe. No one ever dived into clothes faster. My shoes were a size too big, he ironically complained, hopping around and pulling them on over dry socks.

Fiona had changed Ingrid to the waist and was waiting to do the second half. I took off my boots and then my ski-pants, which Fiona put on Ingrid after trying to shield her brief lower nakedness from my eyes, which amazed me. It was hardly the time for fussing. The boots looked enormous, once they were on, and Ingrid was nine inches shorter than my ski-suit.

For myself I brought out a navy blazer and jodhpur boots, feeling the ice strike up through wool to my toes.

‘My feet are squelching,’ Fiona said, eyeing the boots with strong shivers, ‘and I’m wet to the neck. Is there anything left?’

‘You’d better have these.’

‘Well... I...’ She looked at my bare socks, hesitating.

I thrust the boots and blazer into her hands. My black evening shoes, which were all that remained in the way of footwear, would have fallen off her at every step.

I dug into the bag again for jodhpurs, black socks and a sweatshirt. ‘These any good to you?’ I asked.

She took all the clothes gratefully and hid behind Ingrid to change. I put on my black shoes and the dinner jacket: a lot better than nothing.

When Fiona reappeared, her shivers had grown to shakes. She still had too few layers, even if now dry. The only useful thing still unused in my belongings was the plastic bag which had contained my dinner jacket. I put it over Fiona’s head, widening the hole where the hanger usually went, and, if she didn’t care to be labelled ‘Ace Cleaners’ at intervals front and back, at least it stopped the wind a bit and kept some body heat in.

‘Well,’ Harry said with remarkable cheerfulness, eyeing the dimly seen final results of the motley redistribution, ‘thanks to John we should live to see Shellerton. All you lot had better start walking. I’ll stay with Mackie and we’ll follow when we can.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘How far is it to the village?’

‘A mile or so.’

‘Then we all start now. We’ll carry Mackie. It’s too cold, believe me, for hanging about. How about a chair lift?’

So Harry and I sat the semi-conscious Mackie on our linked wrists and draped her arms round our necks, and we set off towards the village with Bob Watson carrying all the wet clothes in one of my bags, Fiona carrying dry things in the other and Ingrid shuffling along in front in the moon-boots with my camera case, lighting the way with the dynamo torch from my basic travel kit.

‘Squeeze it.’ I showed her how. ‘It doesn’t have batteries. Shine it on the road, so we can all see.’

‘Thank God it isn’t snowing,’ Harry said: but there were ominous clouds hiding the stars. What little natural light there was was amplified by the whiteness of the snow, the only good thing about it. I was glad it wasn’t too far to the village. Mackie wasn’t draggingly heavy, but we were walking on ice.

‘Doesn’t any traffic ever come along this road?’ I asked in frustration when we’d gone half a mile and still seen no one.

‘There are two other ways into Shellerton,’ Harry said. ‘God, this wind’s the devil. My ears are dropping off.’

My own head also was achingly cold. Mackie and Fiona had woollen hats, Ingrid was warmest in the hood of my ski-suit, Bob Watson wore a cap. Ingrid had my gloves. Harry’s hands and mine were going numb under Mackie’s bottom. If I’d brought any more socks we could have used them as mitts.

‘It’s not far now,’ Bob said. ‘Once we’re round the bend you’ll see the village.’

He was right. Electricity twinkled not far below us, offering shelter and warmth. Let’s not have a power cut, I prayed.

Mackie suddenly awoke to full consciousness on the last stretch and began demanding to know what was happening.

‘We skidded into a ditch,’ Harry said succinctly.

‘The horse! Is the horse all right? Why are you carrying me? Put me down.’

We stopped and set her on her feet, where she swayed and put a hand to the side of her head.

‘Did we hit the horse?’ she said.

‘No,’ Harry answered. ‘Better let us carry you.’

‘What happened to the horse?’

‘It buggered off across the Downs. Come on, Mackie, we’re literally freezing to death standing here.’ Harry swung his arms in my bathrobe, then hugged his body and tried to warm his hands in his armpits. ‘Let’s get on, for God’s sake.’

Mackie refused to let us lift her up again so we began to struggle on towards the village, a shadowy band slipping and sliding downhill, holding on to each other and trying not to fall, cold to the bone. I should have brought the skis, I thought, and it seemed an extraordinarily long time since that morning.

One reason for the dearth of traffic became clear as we reached the first houses; two cars lay impacted across the width of the lane, and certainly nothing was leaving the village that way.