What Happens in the Alps.... T Williams A

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       Chapter 3

      That night it started snowing again, this time seriously, and it didn’t stop for forty-eight hours. By the time Friday came along, the whole town was underneath a thick layer of the white stuff and strangely quiet, everyday noises muffled by the snow. But, among the inhabitants of Santorso, things were buzzing. Signora Toniolo in the bar told Annie first and then Paolina confirmed it; the ski lifts had started working all around the valley. The skiing season had begun and it was still just the beginning of December.

      By eleven o’clock, Annie had done everything that needed doing at the school and she couldn’t wait to take advantage of her wonderful new ski pass. Leaving Paolina in charge, she pulled on her skiing clothes, strapped her skis to the roof of her little Panda and set off for Montalto.

      The snowploughs had been working hard and, with the aid of her winter tyres, she found it quite easy to drive right up the winding road to Montalto through the pine trees and grassy meadows, now buried under a thick layer of snow. She parked close to the big chairlift, carefully avoiding leaving the car under any of the trees, all of which were laden with snow. She and Steve had made that mistake years ago with their old cinquecento. When they returned, they found it nearly buried in a huge pile of snow that had then frozen. It had taken them almost an hour to hack their way into the car and then reverse out again.

      It was almost lunchtime by now, but it was still bitterly cold. The sun was just beginning to burn off the low cloud, but it would be an hour or two before the temperature rose above freezing. Her visit to the slopes didn’t start too auspiciously. As she stepped out of the car onto the frozen ground, her feet slid out from underneath her and she almost did the splits, ending up on her bottom on the very cold ground. She pulled herself to her feet, her breath forming clouds in front of her in the frozen air, dusted herself off and reflected that it was just as well her sister hadn’t been there to witness that little scene. She made her way gingerly around to the back and sat down on the rear bumper to put on her ski boots. As she did so, she noted that there was no queue for the main lift. Tomorrow, Saturday, once skiers from Turin and Milan had made their way up the motorway, it would be busier, but for the moment she felt as if she had the place to herself.

      Once she had tightened her ski boots and fastened her jacket, she pulled on her hat and released her skis from the rack on the roof of her faithful old car. Then, finally, she was able to put her gloves on and she began to feel life returning to her frozen fingers. Feeling rather grand, she flashed her new ski pass and took the chairlift up to the first station. Below her, the pistes had been cleared, but there were very few people on the slopes. After years of riding in chairlifts, she was no longer scared stiff. Although she knew that in all probability she might be killed if she fell off one of these lifts, she wasn’t anything like as scared as when she was hundreds and hundreds of feet off the ground in a cable car. It was a question of degree. She was just grateful that Montalto didn’t have any cable cars.

      Evidently, she was going to be one of the first skiers of the season. That, too, was exciting. As she skied off the lift at the top and stopped to adjust her goggles and gloves, she found she was humming to herself. She hadn’t done that for a very long time. It felt good, really good. She stood there for a few moments, staring out across the snow-covered mountains, and she felt the familiar stinging in her eyes, but this time, she didn’t cry and she didn’t stop humming. She ran a gloved hand across her face, pulled her goggles into place, and set off.

      An hour later, after a few fast downhill runs, she had warmed up and decided to ski down a particularly difficult black run; a steep mogul field of dips and bumps, bordered on both sides by thick forest. It was tough, technical skiing and she was concentrating hard. As she reached the left-hand side of the piste, within touching distance of the thick canopy of conifers, she threw herself into a sharp turn back in the opposite direction, her knees flexing hard under the compression. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another skier flash past, bouncing over the bumps, hopelessly out of control. At the same time, a movement further down the slope caused her to jam in the edges of her skis and stop dead, her hand over her mouth in silent horror.

      A big black dog came running out of the trees, right in the path of the other skier. The man was powerless to take evasive action and the two figures converged with an awful inevitability. She clearly heard a cry and a yelp as the skier smashed into the dog, sending both of them flying into the air. The dog landed several metres further down the slope, its body limp and lifeless like a rag doll. The man bounced, rolled, and finally ended up on his face, perilously close to the trees, one ski still attached, the other stuck upright in the soft snow at the side of the piste. As Annie looked on, he stirred, sat up and then, without making any effort to help the injured dog, pulled himself to his feet, clipped on his missing ski, and set off down the hill once more.

      Annie was appalled.

      She skied down to where the body of the dog lay motionless in the snow. She stepped out of her skis, sticking them into the snow in the form of a cross to warn any other skiers of the danger, and went over to the dog. He was a fine-looking black Labrador, but he was quite unconscious. She knelt closer and was relieved to see he was still alive; his white, steamy breath clearly visible in the frozen air. His tongue was hanging out and blood was running from his mouth into the snow. She sat down beside him, her hand resting on the dog’s head, and debated what to do. Then she spotted a silver medallion attached to his collar. On it was a phone number. She pulled out her phone and dialled the number. It was answered almost immediately.

      ‘Pronto.’ It was an old man’s voice. He was speaking Italian, so she СКАЧАТЬ