Chapter Ten
Christopher
Christopher is not convinced that anything happening now could constitute the first snow-based emergency, given all that has happened to him in the last twenty-four hours, but he ushers Shaz over all the same.
‘By any chance do you know Myffy Evans? Nice lady, little older than me. Face like an angel. Rollickingly dirty jokes. Uses a wheelchair when she’s down in town.’
‘No, I’ve never met her I don’t think.’
‘Well, she lives up at the top of the village, and her carer just called in sick for the day. Normally that wouldn’t be a massive issue as her husband Mohan can work from home and help her out, but he’s stuck in London.
Myffy needs someone to pick up her prescription quite urgently, plus probably a little help at home.
I can sort the prescription now as it’s just down the road, but . . .’
There’s no way Shaz has time to trudge up the village with Gar and the kids.
‘I can take it to her. What’s her address?’
‘Are you sure? It’s a long walk uphill. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t—’
‘I want to help. And I have hiking boots.’
‘And longer legs than me. Sorry, I’d offer you the car—’
‘You need that just in case for Gar. It’s fine, Shaz.’
Somewhat foolishly, he had left his little car with his parents when he moved to Wales, as he’d had to drive a rental van laden with all of his stuff during the move itself and he’d figured that he wouldn’t be massively in need of a car when he got here.
That was very silly as it quickly turned out he couldn’t really get anywhere without relying on the underfunded, barely there public transport system.
‘If you weren’t being so helpful I’d tell you off for interrupting me. All right, I’m sending her your number, and her address to you.’
The maps app on his phone tells him it’s a twenty-five-minute walk. Given how long it took him to get to the train station and back yesterday, he’s mentally doubling that. At least. He should probably take a thermos.
‘We don’t need to walk,’ says Nash.
The ‘we’ of that sentence throws him, but also, obviously they need to walk. Christopher gestures outside. ‘Erm, yes we do?’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ says Nash, mirroring Christopher’s movement, but in a way that doesn’t feel mocking. ‘This morning, I dug out your truck before I did all the, err, ill-advised home gym.’
This gets two raised eyebrows from Shaz, who still hasn’t heard the full story. ‘No, don’t tell me,’ she says, stopping him with a hand. ‘What I’m imagining is way better.’
‘Thank you for clearing the snow, but that van hasn’t worked for years.’ The former owners had called it ‘non-operational’, which he assumed was code for ‘ready for the scrapheap’. He’d never even attempted to look at it, and was just waiting to find someone to come and scrap it for him.
‘Oh. It does now.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what I was doing outside. It just needed a tune-up, some oil and some air in the tyres. And all that stuff was in the little shed by the side of the house – the lock on that is bust, by the way. So yeah, long story short, I fixed it.’
‘And broke into the shed by the sounds of things,’ Shaz adds.
Christopher can’t quite compute what Nash is saying. ‘You fixed the van?’
‘Yeah. It was really easy. Didn’t need much to get it going. I think it could do with a few new parts but you’re not going to get them today. It’ll last if I keep an eye on it. Will get us to Myffy’s house, at least. It should be able to drive through the snow easier than anyone’s car.’
‘Bloody hell. Thank you.’
‘It’s no big deal. I just needed something to take my mind off . . . things.’
Shaz gives Nash an approving look, but Christopher is still barely processing.
He fixed the van?
‘I’ve got my licence upstairs, and I think I insured it when I got it just in case,’ Christopher says, mostly to himself. ‘I haven’t driven around here in the snow before. There’re a lot more hills than in Oxlea.’
‘Just go slow and hope for the best,’ Shaz offers.
‘Wow, thanks.’
‘Sorry, mildly supportive aphorisms are all I can offer. I’ll go get her meds. You two can get loaded up. See you in a tick.’
* * *
Twenty minutes later, outside the bakery, Christopher exchanges a paper bag of fresh-out-of-the-oven gingerbread reindeer with a prescription from the pharmacy down the road with Shaz.
‘This feels like an illicit deal,’ she says, waggling her eyebrows.
‘They might be a bit wonky. I didn’t have enough time to cool them properly, so who knows what shapes they’ve set in. And they’re not decorated.’
‘Err, stop apologising, will you? Wonky or no, it’s a win for me. Drive safely. Call me if you need anything?’
‘Will do,’ he says, locking up the bakery behind him. It’s incredibly cold outside, but thankfully it has stopped actively snowing. The sky is murky grey, clouds still heavy with snow.
He rounds the corner and finds Nash doing last check-ups on the van, which is gently humming.
Even if it doesn’t sound as if it’s going to be capable of driving him to Yorkshire, finally having his own means of transport feels like a huge relief.
Perhaps he can actually explore this new country he’s moved to.
The short driveway that runs down the side of the bakery has been cleared of snow, and a small bank of it sits neatly at the edge. ‘Thanks for clearing the snow,’ Christopher says.
Nash pops his head up from under the bonnet of the van. ‘No worries. I only did your drive. I wasn’t sure if you guys have rules about who can clear the sidewalk, you know, in case someone sues.’
Christopher hops onto the worn leather of the front seat, to get himself familiar with the van. Despite its general neglect, it’s clean inside, though he’s not entirely unconvinced that wasn’t another Nash Nadeau morning task. What a strange man he is.
‘You do a lot of pavement-clearing in LA, then?’ Christopher asks.
‘Not in LA, but I’m Canadian.’
‘Are you?’ asks Christopher, before instantly regretting what a giveaway the surprised squeak in his voice is.
Nash closes the bonnet of the van and fixes him with a puzzled grin. ‘Yes?’
Christopher pretends to be distracted by cleaning the mirror. ‘Is clearing snow a genetic predisposition?’ he asks casually.
‘No, I just had to do it a lot as a kid. Why are you so interested that I’m Canadian?’
‘Just don’t meet a lot of Canadians,’ Christopher replies quickly.
Behind him, the back door to the van opens and Nash piles a bunch of tools inside.
Christopher raises his eyebrows. ‘One, where did you get those? And two, why do you think we’ll need a saw exactly? We’re hardly going on an expedition. It’s just to the top of the village.’
‘From the shed I broke into; and you never know what is going to be helpful in a snowstorm,’ Nash replies, slamming the doors shut. ‘When I was a kid in Canada, I was taught to always make sure you have the things you need on the road.’
Christopher tries to resist rolling his eyes. ‘Come on, I’ve got the prescription. Do you want to drive?’
To his surprise, Nash slinks around the car and sits in the passenger side. ‘You’re already there. Go ahead.’
Damn. If he’s being honest, he hoped Nash would test-drive it, especially as he is apparently Canadian and presumably very familiar with the snow. He must have driven in the snow more than Christopher has.
‘You can drive it if you want? Especially seeing as you fixed it.’
‘I’m good. Wrong side of the road and I don’t have insurance for here.’
‘Honestly, you get used to the little roads quite quickly, and it’s not that big a van—’
‘No. Thanks.’
‘No?’
‘Really, no.’
‘All right then.’ Christopher adjusts the mirrors and his seat height until he’s satisfied, and then does another round of checks, just to be safe.
He can do this. It’s just driving a formerly defunct vehicle uphill in a snowstorm to deliver important medication to an alone and possibly vulnerable woman. Easy.
‘You’re going to run out of gas if you take much longer,’ Nash drawls, a map open on his lap.
Christopher ignores him. ‘I’m just being safe. Can you direct me?’
‘According to this massive X that Shaz has marked, you need to go straight up after the crossroads.’
After stalling the van . . . twice . . .
Christopher eventually manages to reverse it onto the main road.
He drives cautiously through the freshly snow-covered roads, wishing they had some snow chains on the tyres.
If this wasn’t an emergency of sorts, he would not be behind the wheel.
At least there’s a lull in the snowfall right now so his windscreen is clear.
But it’s been so cold he’s worried there could be ice under the snow, so he drives very slowly.
He’s always been afraid of driving on ice.
Are you supposed to turn into a skid, or away?
This is the sort of thing from his driving test that he has completely forgotten after living in London for years, and only using his car in Oxlea when he was visiting his parents.
It’s still bitterly cold so hardly anyone is out. The few people they pass are wrapped up to the nines in knitwear and mountain boots, clearing snow from their paths with big shovels, or trudging through the thick snow on some small adventure. It really does feel like day two of Snowmageddon.
The road to Myffy’s curls up the mountain. This high up they can see the whole valley mouth unfurl beneath them to one side, and the angry grey of the sea on the other. The clashing white and dark grey is somewhat ominous.
‘Wow,’ murmurs Nash, his face pressed to the window.
‘It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, in like a dramatic, possibly depressing kind of way. Feels like the background to a shoot where someone is about to get murdered in a coal mine.’
Christopher rolls his eyes. ‘You’re obsessed with murder.’
‘Can you keep your eyes on the road. I swear you almost nicked that mailbox.’ Nash stares straight ahead, holding onto the map for dear life.
‘Postbox,’ mutters Christopher.
‘What did you say?’