‘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’reobsessedwith 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?’
‘It’s called apostbox.’
‘I know.We use both names in Canada, where I grew up.Anyway, stop.’
The van lurches to a halt as Christopher slams on the brakes.‘What?!’His heart is thudding in his chest.
Nash looks from the map up to the house.‘I think we’re here.’
‘Some warning might have been nice,’ Christopher grumbles.
‘You were too busy complaining about North American English being a whole other language.’
They’re parked up in front of a pebble-dashed bungalow with a cherry-red front door.The path and drive up to the house are covered in knee-deep snow.
‘Good job I brought all those unnecessary tools,’ says Nash, as he hops out of the van.Christopher is briefly worried this means he’s found a reason to use the saw.
Christopher locks the van and catches Nash giving him a look.
‘What?’
‘Why did you lock it?’
‘I always lock the car.’
