Chapter 7 #6
‘Wendy?’ Jill cries, reaching for the wheel herself. ‘Wendy! Do something!’
The car is now slewing sideways, and nothing either of them do makes the slightest bit of difference. ‘Wendy!’ Jill screams. But they’re both realising there’s nothing to be done except wait and see where the car comes to a stop.
In a ditch at the side of the road. This is where they have landed.
With the exception of the wipers, which continue to swipe fresh snowflakes from the windscreen every couple of seconds, all is silent.
‘Christ!’ Jill eventually says when, after a few swishes of the blades, she finds herself able to speak. ‘Jesus! Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Wendy says, though as she says it her hands start to tremble. She folds them beneath her armpits and forces herself to breathe. ‘Boy, that was…’ She’s momentarily lost for words.
They sit like this for a moment, trying to take it all in.
‘That has to have been the slowest, quietest car accident in history,’ Wendy finally says.
‘Like slow motion,’ Jill says.
‘Like in a dream.’
‘Do you think we can get the car back on the road?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Wendy says. The ditch they’re in is only about a foot deep, but will the car want to leave it? Will the tyres now decide to grip the snow?
She releases her seatbelt and tries to open her door but it’s impossible to push it further than an inch because of the height of the embankment to her left.
‘Shit,’ she says, turning to Jill. ‘Try yours.’
But – and they both gasp in relief at this – Jill’s door does open, so they tumble inelegantly from the car and stand in the cold light of the headlights from where they attempt to appraise the situation.
Things aren’t looking good, it has to be said. The ridge of the road is higher than the bumper of the car and the snow is falling more heavily now than before: huge, fluffy, in any other circumstances beautiful flakes drifting past the headlights.
‘It’s not going to work, is it?’ Jill says, with a shiver. ‘It’s too high.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Unless… maybe in reverse? It’s a bit lower there,’ Wendy says, pointing.
So Wendy climbs back over the gearstick to the driver’s seat. She starts the engine and engages reverse. But the second she releases the clutch it becomes apparent that the car isn’t going anywhere. The wheels merely spin and slide more deeply into mud that’s lurking beneath the snow.
‘Stop. Stop!’ Jill shouts. ‘You’re just making it worse.’ She rounds the car and climbs back in beside Wendy. ‘Bloody freezing out there,’ she says, fiddling with the heater controls.
‘Quite literally,’ Wendy agrees.
‘So what now? Do we call a breakdown truck? I suppose they have French AA or something, don’t they?’
‘There’s a number on the paperwork in the glovebox,’ Wendy says. ‘But d’you think they’ll come out in this?’ A wave of despair washes over her and to avoid crying she buries her face in her hands and makes an angry ‘agghhhh!’ sound.
Jill pats her shoulder. ‘Oh, honey,’ she says.
‘If we phone for breakdown I’m worried we’ll get the police,’ Wendy says, her voice trembling.
‘And?’
‘The drink,’ Wendy says. ‘I can’t afford to lose my licence. What would I do if I couldn’t drive up here? Or back home. Life would be impossible.’
‘I’m sure you’re fine by now, aren’t you?’ Jill says. Even she’s feeling sober after all the drama.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t. But am I willing to take the risk?’
‘And why would the AA call the police anyway?’
‘Because it’s a hire car? Because I’ve wrecked it? Because that’s maybe what they do when you have an accident in France? How would I know?’
‘You can barely call this an accident,’ Jill says. ‘You just slid off the road, really, didn’t you? And the car’s probably fine. It’s not like we hit anything.’
‘Maybe,’ Wendy says. ‘Maybe not. That was quite a drop. We’re lucky it didn’t roll over.’
‘God,’ Jill says. ‘Don’t!’
‘Anyway, no, I’m not calling the hire company until the morning.’
‘Fair enough, but then what?’ Jill asks. ‘Because we can’t just stay here. We’ll freeze to death. Actually, would we? Would we free—’
‘It’s maybe not that far,’ Wendy interrupts.
‘You want to walk it?’ Jill says. ‘In this?’
‘I think it’s less than a mile. Or maybe about a mile. But honestly not much more.’
‘But look at it,’ Jill says, nodding.
When Wendy raises her eyes to the windscreen she sees that the view is almost completely obscured by snow. ‘I know. But shall we try? If it’s awful, we can always come back and phone that number.’
‘Crazy,’ Jill says. ‘You are absolutely batshit crazy.’
‘I know,’ Wendy says. ‘But you love it. Come on. Grab your coat.’
‘If I’d known, I would have worn flats,’ Jill says, as they slip-slide their way along the road.
‘If I’d known, I would have worn skis,’ Wendy replies, mimicking Jill’s intonation.
The terror of the accident is now behind them and a hysterical adrenalin buzz is taking over, that almost makes this seem fun. Both women are already picturing how this will be a story they’ll be able to tell forever.
The moon is peeping through a gap in the clouds lighting up the stunning whiteness of it all, and now they’re walking it doesn’t even feel that cold.
‘I’m sorry I made you drink,’ Jill says, giving Wendy’s hand, which she’s holding for stability, a squeeze.
‘It’s fine,’ Wendy says. ‘We’re both alive. That’s the main thing.’
‘For now,’ Jill says. ‘Until the wolves get us. But I am feeling guilty here. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t kept plying you with drinks.’
‘Oh, I think it probably would have,’ Wendy says.
Jill assumes that Wendy means she’s not that drunk – that her drinking had nothing to do with the accident.
But what Wendy is feeling is more mystical.
It’s as though the accident was somehow pre-determined – their strange slide into the ditch caused by the push of an unseen hand.
She has no idea why she feels this way, particularly because it’s not the kind of mumbo-jumbo she generally favours, but she thinks it all the same.
That’s just how it felt in the moment: as if they were being pushed – like the accident needed to happen.
They walk for half an hour, making slow but steady progress.
Both women fall over twice, once together, Jill dragging Wendy down with her in a heap of giggles, and once each on their own, more abruptly.
The road surface is turning into an ice rink but they discover that by walking along the edge their heels cut through to the mud and gravel beneath, enabling them to stay upright – just about.
Eventually they reach the little parking area from where Wendy hiked up to the radar. Which means they’re still more than a mile from home. She decides not to tell Jill this.
She thinks, as they pass the parking area – now a flat expanse of virgin snow – how she’d promised herself she’d hike up there every day.
Jill’s arrival put paid to that particular good intention.
But how beautiful it must be up there in the snow!
She wonders how difficult it would be to get up there without snow boots or whatever.
‘Car!’ Jill says suddenly, so Wendy glances back down the road to see a pair of yellow headlights sweeping the plain behind them.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Wendy says, pulling her friend to a stop.
‘You’re not… Are we really going to flag down a serial killer?’ Jill asks, only half joking.
Wendy laughs. ‘Stop it,’ she says. ‘You’re giving me the heebie-jeebies.’
The car, advancing slowly, is almost upon them, so Wendy starts to wave.
‘If we end up chopped into steaks,’ Jill says, ‘then don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
The car rolls to a gentle halt beside them and the steamy window winds down.
‘Oh, is you!’ a familiar voice says, and Wendy thinks once again, Destiny! ‘You scare me in the night like this!’
‘Our car,’ Wendy says, pointing back down the road. ‘We had an accident in the snow.’
‘It’s OK,’ the post lady says. ‘I take you. Get in!’
Once they’re seated, Wendy in the passenger seat, Jill on the bench seat in the rear, the car slowly pulls away.
‘I’m so glad it’s you!’ Wendy says. ‘What are the chances?’
‘Me too!’ Jill says, with meaning, then, ‘And who is this, Wens?’
‘My post lady,’ Wendy explains. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name.’
‘I’m sorry?’ she says, then, ‘Oh, my name. Manon. My name is Manon.’
‘Like Manon des Sources?’ Wendy asks.
‘Yes,’ Manon says, sounding bored by the choice of reference. ‘Just like Manon des Sources.’
‘That’s a lovely name,’ Wendy says. ‘And I’m Wendy. And this is my friend Jill.’
Manon raises one hand and wiggles her fingers back at Jill. ‘I see a car back in the snow. Is yours?’
‘Yes, we were going slowly, but we slid right off the road.’
‘Is very bad tonight. You need snow wheels. This is obligatory here in winter. New Europe law. Everyone must have.’ Manon’s English isn’t quite as good as usual tonight and Wendy wonders if she’s been drinking or is just tired.
‘Right,’ Wendy says. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘I have,’ she says, ‘the good wheels. And this one…’ Here she caresses the steering wheel. ‘She is old, and small, and heating not so good, but in snow she is perfection. She is four four, you see. I drive through anything.’
‘Four four?’ Wendy repeats.
‘She means four-wheel drive, I think,’ Jill offers.
‘Yes, this,’ Manon says. ‘So she is perfect to live here.’
‘Because it snows a lot here?’ Wendy asks.
‘Oh, every year,’ she says. ‘Though more December, janvier. Is early this year.’
And now, they’re home, slamming the doors to the rusty Fiat Panda and waving goodbye.
‘Well, that was a stroke of luck,’ Wendy says as the taillights fade into the distance.
‘She’s sweet,’ Jill comments. ‘She reminds me of one of Michael’s friends when he was at school.’
‘She is sweet,’ Wendy agrees. She’s actually feeling a fairly unreasonable surge of love for this young woman who, against all odds, has appeared to save them from their nightmare.