Chapter Two
Christopher
The next morning starts in the same way pretty much any holiday does for Christopher. He gets up nice and early to shower, and once he uses something, he packs it in his travel bag, so everything is present and accounted for.
The only difference is, today he goes into host mode, setting out fresh sheets and towels, and fresh, fancy miniatures to replace his hidden-away half-used bottles. It looks nice in the end. Rustic.
Seeing as his mother would be proud, he takes a picture of his handiwork for her. For some reason, it won’t send, though that’s not unusual. The phone and Wi-Fi signal is always all over the place here, fluctuating even when you’re standing still; hopefully it’ll send when he’s downstairs.
The very last thing he does is open the curtains.
Outside, there is snow.
A lot of snow.
So much snow in fact that the broken-down bakery van, which he also got from the bakery’s previous owners, is completely submerged.
When he first moved here, he had somewhat falsely presumed winters would be snowy. But something about being so close to the sea meant it was too warm for snow, and instead the coast got whipping icy winds and sleet. And yet . . .
This is fine, he tells himself. Absolutely fine. No need to panic yet.
Admittedly, it is a bit startling to discover a lot of snow when you’re not expecting it, but still.
He carries his cases downstairs and decides to make a coffee.
It is a little expensive to run the huge bakery coffee machine just for him, but it is delicious and will give him something to do to settle his nerves.
Not that drinking coffee has ever made him feel particularly chilled out.
But going through the motions of grinding the beans, tamping down the softly powdered coffee, and running the steaming hot water through it slows his brain down.
He breathes deeply, purposefully, as he watches the crema layer over the top.
Coffee in hand, he leans against the counter, connects his phone to the café’s Wi-Fi, and navigates to the Met Office website.
He’s greeted by an alarming amount of red.
There are, somehow, multiple severe weather warnings – for snow, clearly, but also for ice, for wind, for general inclement weather. In the north and south of the UK, there are flood warnings. It’s somewhat apocalyptic.
And worst of all, warning banners across the page announce that no one should travel unless there is a medical emergency. Christopher is fairly sure being a little burned out does not count.
From the big bakery windows, he looks out across the village. Everything is less snow-dusted and more snow-buried. Piles of snow seem to climb up against the buildings where it’s been blown around.
And somehow, it’s still coming down. Sideways.
Normally, he is happy to see snow. A sprinkling feels magical, like the icing sugar dusted over gingerbread houses. This is . . . possibly cursed.
He unlocks the front door and steps out, almost losing a slipper in the process. It’s really, really cold outside. Once back inside, he has to shake a flurry off his clothes.
His phone pings with a notification from his group chat with Kit and Haf.
Kit: Bud are you ok? I just saw there’s snow on your end.
Christopher: Yeah, there’s a lot.
Haf: We never got snow growing up!! I’m so jel.
Haf: This is probably not helpful is it
Kit: No babe. xxx
Kit: It’s bad here too. The snow volunteers are already out shovelling and salting.
Haf: I’m still mad you wouldn’t let me join them
Kit: We are not spending Christmas in A&E.
Christopher: Are you two just sitting next to each other texting me?
Kit: No
Haf: Obvs
He sends them a few pictures of the view outside.
Kit: Shit.
Haf: There’s no way the trains are running. They barely run at the best of times so
Haf: I’m doing it again aren’t I
K: Yes
His train ticket app shows a similarly red vibe. When he checks his route, all the trains have a totally-not-alarming question mark next to them. They must be running later on. This can’t be that bad, he thinks. It’s just a bit of snow!
As the websites are a sea of unhelpful panic, he decides to walk down to the train station just down the road by the sea.
His train isn’t for ages, but because Pen-y-M?r is a request stop, you have to either tell the guard you want to get off or furiously wave one down like you’re in The Railway Children, so usually there’s someone around.
Walking boots laced and warmest coat on, Christopher steps outside. Or rather, he pushes himself outside. Since he last went out, the door is now wedged firmly with snow, and it takes a good few shoves to get it open enough for him to squeeze out.
The snow is thigh-deep on him, which for a six-foot-tall man is a bad sign. He winces as the cold seeps through his jeans.
The weather is so bad, it takes him the best part of twenty minutes to wade down the high street to the train station. The red-brick station building is open but inside he finds the ticket booth closed.
‘Hello?’ Christopher calls.
‘Over here,’ calls a thick, sing-song Southern Welsh voice, which he follows out onto the sea-facing platform. It looks angry out there. Grey, and white-tipped.
The railway tracks are covered in just as much snow as the roads. A station guard stands, hands on hips, surveying the mess.
‘Bore da,’ Christopher says in nervous Welsh. He’s been learning on his own. He’d ask Shaz to practise, but she is somehow worse than he is.
‘Morning fella.’
‘Is the 11:23 to Manchester still running?’
‘There’ll be no trains going today, boyo,’ sniffs the guard.
‘None?’
‘Not a sausage.’
‘From just here or . . . ?’
‘Anywhere. The whole network is down. Too much snow for the trains to drive safely. Not enough drivers who can get to the trains. And nowhere near enough engineering teams to deal with all the situations we’ve got.
We’ve not even managed to get the rail replacement buses going because all the coach companies are having variations on the same problem. ’
‘Christ.’
‘Not his fault.’
‘Feels pretty biblical.’
‘Not sure there was a snowstorm in Egypt, but I get your point.’
Christopher resists pointing out that Jesus wasn’t around for that, but arguing his Sunday School knowledge in the middle of an ongoing snowstorm seems futile.
‘Is it just the snow? Do you think it might clear up later today and things will get on the move again?’
The station guard chuckles. ‘Just, he says. I doubt it’ll melt in this cold. Plus, I’d say that’s a pretty big problem,’ he adds, pointing at something a little way up the tracks.
Christopher follows his pointed finger until he sees a huge tree has crashed over the whole line.
Christopher sighs. ‘Well. That’s quite definitive, isn’t it?’
The station guard’s eyes soften. ‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news on a day like this. I think we’re in for a worse-before-it-gets-better-type situation. I’m sorry, but it might be no trains until after Christmas from what I’m hearing.’
Deep down, Christopher knew the guard was going to say this. He takes a photo for the group chat, sends it and pockets his phone.
‘Going somewhere were you?’ the guard asks, when Christopher says nothing.
‘Not anymore.’
‘Sorry, lad.’
‘Thank you for your help. I appreciate it.’
‘Stay safe now.’ The guard pats him on the shoulder as he heads back inside.
* * *
The miserable hike home takes even longer as it’s uphill and against the wind.
Christopher is convinced the wind changed direction just to spite him.
There are a few scary moments when he almost falls over, but luckily he manages to get home with no injuries.
Just a heartache. It’s another battle to get inside, and he flings his snowy walking boots against the door with frustration.
After that walk, he’s grateful that he indulged in turning the coffee machine on after all. As his hand settles on a tub of hot chocolate – because boy does he need a hot chocolate right now – his phone buzzes with a video call from Kit.
She and Haf appear on screen, both wearing Santa hats. Kit’s new bob sharply pokes out underneath the trimming. Despite the hat, Haf’s hair is, as usual, somehow everywhere.
God, he needed this Christmas with them.
And now he’s here. Alone.
‘Hey. Are your parents okay?’ he asks Haf. After all, they only live down the coast from him. They will have been hit with this too.
‘Yeah, they’re fine,’ Haf says. ‘Mum has enough packets of quinoa in the pantry to last an apocalypse. I think they’re mostly bothered about whether they’re going to make their New Year’s cruise.’
‘I’m so sad,’ says Kit flatly.
‘Me too,’ Christopher says.
‘This was supposed to be our grown-up, calm Christmas!’ Haf wails.
‘I don’t think it was ever going to be exactly that,’ murmurs Kit, which earns a weak chuckle from Christopher. ‘Fuck this weather.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asks Haf sadly. ‘Do you even have any food in?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he admits. ‘There’s fish fingers in the freezer, and there’s some bakery stock.’
‘I mean, a Christmas where you live off cake isn’t too far off what we’d normally be doing,’ says Kit.
‘I don’t want you to be alone,’ whispers Haf.
‘It’s okay. My friend Shaz invited me over to hers yesterday.’ Even if it was just an offhand comment, he knows she’ll strong-arm him into coming when she finds out he’s home alone. Hopefully, anyway.
‘And the weather could all change by Christmas Day,’ he says, even though this is counter to what the station guard told him. ‘There’re still four days until Christmas. Anything could happen!’
Kit and Haf nod with forced smiles.
‘Have you heard from the person coming to house-sit?’ asks Kit.
‘Oh Christ,’ Christopher says, wiping a hand down his face. ‘I hadn’t even thought about her. Hang on.’