WINTER WONDERLAND (7 page)

‘I have just the thing,’ Annique looks minxish. ‘The Tornado.’

‘Sounds relaxing,’ I mumble as we follow her bite-size bottom up and up a steep slope.

‘That is the raft.’ She points to a robust yellow inflatable last seen on the Colorado rapids. ‘The circular one is the Tornado, because it rotates as it descends.’

And what a descent.

‘They really pick up speed on the way down the hill, don’t they?’ I croak.

‘Oh yes. Great fun!’

I hesitate. ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure about this.’

‘Nothing bad will happen, we can all go together – it takes eight people.’

‘Well then I’d like the other five to include a priest and a paramedic.’

‘Oh Krista!’ Annique tuts. ‘You will love it!’

I decide to give it a shot. Now if I could just get in.

With all my swaddlings I can barely lift my leg high enough to get up and over; I have to be assisted and thus enter the group with an unladylike squeak of rubber.

‘
Excusez-moi
,’ I blush.

Wanting to feel secure, I reach out to grab the outer straps, only to have my hands smacked away.

‘Those are what the guys use to spin us.’

‘Well, what do I hold onto?’

Annique takes one hand and urges Gilles to take charge of the other.

‘I need both hands for the camera,’ he excuses himself.

‘Grab his knee!’ Annique hoots.

‘Oh no, I’ll be fine!’ I say, but then the second we are in motion I find myself grabbing him way too high on the thigh and nothing can persuade me to loosen my grip. ‘Oh my god, oh my god!’

I can’t believe how fast we are spinning; it’s just as dizzying as a fairground Wurlitzer, only with the added sensation of plummeting to your death.

While the others whoop with childish glee, my scream is pure high-pitched terror; but then a funny thing happens – as I clamber out I find myself saying, ‘I actually quite enjoyed that.’

‘Want to go again?’ Annique pips.

‘You may have to.’ Gilles looks less than enthralled as he reviews the pictures on his camera. ‘These are very close.’

He shows me a particularly graphic shot of my fillings.

‘Should’ve gone for porcelain,’ I tut myself.

‘I think it is best I shoot you from here with the long lens.’

‘Okay,’ I say as I contemplate the trek back to the top – my own personal Everest.

‘Wait,’ Annique places her suede-gloved hand on my arm. ‘Let me ask if one of these guys can take you up.’

She approaches a pair of snowmobilers, assigned the task of vrooming the inflatables back up for the next trip. Now that looks like a fun way to travel.

‘So, they can’t take you on the snowmobile without a helmet, but you could sit in the raft and they will pull you up.’

Of course. Anything that makes me look mildly foolish – the only person getting dragged up a hill as everyone else whooshes down.

As I get into position and we begin to move, I feel like one of the kiddiwinks being pulled along by their parents, only on a grander scale – these machines are pretty fierce. I hadn’t fully registered just how close to a motorcycle they are; they had always seemed more like plastic playthings to me, but they’re chunky and mean and noisy.

‘Turn to face me,’ Gilles calls after me. ‘Arms up!’

Yeah right! I think to myself. I’m holding on for dear life. Up and up we go at an ever-more unnatural angle. To my left, groups are swirling by, squealing and waving their hands in the air. Perhaps I could do one quick, ‘Woo-hoo!’ at the camera? He’d better get this, I think as I twist around and attempt a wave back at Annique. Of course I choose the precise moment that we hit a bump and out I come, performing an inelegant backward roll and then tumbling messily through the snow, wondering if I will become a human snowball by the time I reach the bottom.

Only I don’t keep rolling, I snag on something – a branch perhaps? Wow. I catch my breath. That was pretty hairy. Best try to get to my feet – I don’t want to get run over by the next snowmobile shuttle or some off-track tobogganer. But it’s not quite as simple as that – the snow here is too deep. I lose my footing, unbalance, and fall back with a hefty
Doomf!

For a moment there is peace. I am in a white cocoon, a snowy grave pit. All I can see is the pale silken blue of the sky above me. I wonder if I’ve broken anything, but as I test for movement in my limbs I inadvertently invite a tumble of snow upon myself. Oh no. What now? Stay still and freeze, or attempt to get upright and risk causing my own personal avalanche? The snow is easily above head height, so even if I could get to my feet, how exactly would I claw my way out?

‘Help!’ I cry, and then realise I should probably call out in French, though ‘
Aidez-moi!
’ sounds so weak. Surely Gilles and Annique saw what happened and are on their way? I hope there’s not too much of a fuss. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble for trying to spare me the hike up the hill.

It’s then I see the face of an angel – a white fluffy angel with black eyes and a black nose. He peers down on me with a look of bemusement as much as anything.

How exactly do I convey to him that I need rescuing? The only word I can think of is ‘
chien
’ and, of course, Lassie. I do hope he has something in common with his collie counterpart because he’s taken a good look at me and then turned and left.

I wait for a clue as to what to do next but I can’t hear anything – the upper world, the one I used to be a part of, is now muffled by snow. But it’s okay. I’m not going to panic. The snowmobiler would have realised his cargo is missing by now. Any minute—

‘
Ça va?
’

A new face appears on the brim of my pit. His hair is a wind-ruffled chestnut, his skin tone a natural outdoorsy tan, and I’m not sure if he has a goatee so much as those soft whiskers that casually frame the mouth and line the jawline. He’s the kind of guy I picture sitting beside a campfire in a well-worn check shirt, beer in one hand and a tattered novel in the other.

But for now he’s in a padded parka looking down at me.

‘I fell in the snow and now I can’t get out.’ I state the obvious.

He takes a step closer and a clomp of snow drops and bursts upon my chest. He raises his hands – ‘
Pardon!
’ And then studies me for a moment before disappearing.

Am I to become the town spectacle? Seconds from now will the opening of my pit be trimmed with curious faces mistaking me for another piece of Carnival art.

But instead he returns with a rope.

‘Take this and hold on tight.’

I wrap it around my hand but don’t fancy his chances of being able to haul me out.

‘You should probably cover your face.’

‘Sorry?

‘Use your scarf to wrap your face, in case there is anything sharp in the snow. And keep your eyes closed.’

This is sounding more hazardous by the minute.

‘Ready?’ he says.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I ask, wondering if I should be trying to scrabble up the bank of snow with my feet, attempting to gain traction where there most likely is none.

‘Don’t resist, just let the rope do the work.’

I wonder if I should tell him my weight, let him know what he’s up against, but before I can speak I hear him cry, ‘
Allez, allez!
’ and suddenly I am in motion, yanked upwards, arms wrenching at their sockets, roughly ploughing face-first through the snow.

And then everything stops.

I feel him turn me onto my back and gently lower the scarf so my mouth is free.

‘Can I open my eyes?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

As I do so, he slides his sunglasses back onto his head and I see he has two different coloured eyes – one warm hazel, the other milky blue.

Perhaps I’m a little concussed because I hear myself asking, ‘Are you part-husky?’

He smiles a little and then nods beyond my head. ‘Well, I do consider these my family.’

There, staring back at me with lolling pink tongues and similarly random eye colours are six puffing husky dogs.

‘My sled team.’

‘My heroes!’ I breathe. ‘And what about the Samoyed?’

‘You know Samoyeds?’ He looks surprised.

‘It’s my dream dog – all that heavenly white fluff … ’

He whistles and the dog angel appears. ‘This is Sibérie.’

‘As in Siberia?’

He nods. ‘He’s a little old so he can’t pull any more.’

I sit up to greet him, amazed at how deeply my hand disappears into his luxurious fur.

‘He’s just beautiful! They all are!’

And then my gaze returns to his face. Now that I am adjusting to his bewitching eyes, I see something in them beyond the colour – something I can’t quite place but something that triggers a yearning in me …

I have a million questions but we’re being closed in on by Gilles and Annique on one side and the snowmobilers on the other. Before I can even properly thank him for saving me, he has me back onto my feet and is asking my name.

‘Krista,’ I tell him.

He steps closer. ‘Krista, please stay away from the snowmobiles. They are too dangerous.’

His words have such an intensity, I find myself promising I will never go near one again. (And if he asked me to give up chocolate right now I’d probably do that too.)

‘
Mon dieu!
’ Annique exclaims, rushing to my side. ‘I was so afraid! I saw you fall and then disappear!’

‘I’m fine, really, just a little disorientated.’

‘Madame! Are you well?’

‘
Oui!
’ I assure the snowmobiler. ‘It was my fault – I should never have let go.’ And with that I turn to Gilles. ‘So, did you at least get a good picture of me falling?’

‘I-I … ’ he falters.

I take that as a no.

‘Never mind. Could you get a picture of the team that saved me?’ I turn back but they are gone. All of them – six huskies, one elderly Samoyed and my rugged rescuer – totally and utterly
disparu!

CHAPTER SEVEN

I spin around. ‘D-did you see-’

‘
Oui, oui
,’ Annique confirms their existence. ‘That was L’homme Loup.’

‘Lom Loop?’ I frown.

She spells out the French words for Wolfman for me. Then, while Gilles gives one of the snowmobilers a guided tour of his camera functions, Annique tells me that people say that the reason he wins the Carnival’s dog-sledding race every year is that his team are interbred with wolves. ‘Either way, he is very sympa with the canine. They run faster for him, it seems.’

‘I’d love to get a picture of him. For the website.’

‘Yes, but this is not possible now. He only runs the first morning of dog-sledding here at the Carnival. Now he goes home.’

‘Does he have a dog-sledding business?’

‘
Oui
.’

‘Well, could we book a ride there?’

‘That is over on the Île d’Orléans, but we can go five minutes up the hill and do pictures with the team here.’

She motions for me to follow her.

So that’s that? We just move on as if nothing has happened? I take it neither Gilles or Annique has a mortal fear of being buried alive.

I follow them in silence, repeatedly looking around for signs of the Wolfman. If I was atop the Hilton I’m sure I could track his progress, but here I’m at a loss.

‘Here we are.’ Annique steps aside so I can survey the dog-sledding attraction.

‘Oh.’ I look on in dismay. Nothing against mutts, I’ve had them my whole life, but these scrappy, skinny dogs with their mottled brown and cream coats simply cannot compare with the stark monochromatic beauty of the huskies. The track itself is a wonky oval, advertised as a ten-minute ride, but I clock it at under a minute and a half. You’re on, you’re off and they’re loading the next.

This is not what I want my first dog-sledding experience to be.

‘I think we should wait and go to a real-deal establishment,’ I say. ‘Somewhere in a more natural setting.’

It just doesn’t seem so authentic when there’s a 1970s tower block with a revolving restaurant on the horizon.

‘We can arrange that,’ Annique obliges me. ‘But I don’t think Jacques will agree… ’

‘Jacques?’

‘The Wolfman,’ she replies. ‘Jacques Dufour.’

I’m strangely thrilled to know his real name. It feels like another step closer to finding him again.

‘I don’t think he courts publicity,’ Annique continues.

‘Is he … shy?’ I ask.

‘Private. And this year he has withdrawn.’

‘From the world?’ I ask, picturing him living in a remote, snow-crusted cave with his dogs.

‘From the race.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I just heard yesterday. I was surprised to see him here at all.’

‘Okay, so maybe that won’t work,’ I faux-concede, ‘but I don’t think I’m ready to take the ride right now, I’m still rather shaken up from the fall, you do understand?’

‘Of course.’ Annique consults her To-Do list. ‘I suppose the luge is out of the question?’

‘As in barrelling down an ice tunnel on a plastic tray for a ride so bone-rattling your teeth get rearranged along the way?’

‘Okay, no luge,’ she confirms. ‘No toboggan, no ski joring.’

I’m about to ask what ski joring is when she says these three magic words: ‘
Cabane à Sucre
?’

‘If that translates as sugar shack, I’m in.’

Again I wish Laurie was here. She’s always looking for new ways to sate her sweet tooth. Danielle and I have put on a stone since we started working in an office with an official Teatime. But I have to say, it’s such a nice tradition and great stress-reliever. I always used to burrow through the working day, barely coming up for air, but Laurie insists we take that break together – sort of the working girls’ equivalent of a family sharing their evening meal. Without the pressure to ‘finish your greens’. Unless she’s brought along something with pistachio frosting.

Danielle’s actually more of a Mr Kipling Country Slice girl, and I love anything splurging fresh cream, but Laurie has us both drooling like dogs the first morning she’s back from a trip to New York bearing cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery. She actually has to bind the cardboard box in Sellotape so she doesn’t get tempted to claw it open on the flight, and there’s always a mad hacking and slashing with the office scissors to get to them. I smile. She’s probably just tidying away today’s crumbs now – I take out my phone and tap a sneaky response to her most recent ‘How’s it going?’ text.