Authors: Richard Blanchard
Snow Blind (18 page)
I write more variations on the theme. Each one seems anti-climactic, a betrayal of the idea, they are not strong enough I fear. The
Airplane
idea is particularly hard to develop as it is so visual, I will need to work with Steve on those.
The bathwater is a solid mass now; the noise of gushing water is swallowed as it has less distance to fall. I strip and look into the misted mirror. I wipe a hole in it to temporarily spy my face before the condensation takes over again. In the blurred facial image I see through to my soul; fear, confusion and disappointment dance within. Hell I look like I am about to cry. I avoid any angle where I can see my body; its lankiness mocks me and reminds me of my fragility. I pull the plug to let some hot water out while mixing cold water in.
Stepping into the bath a shooting pain rises up both shins from today's compression and over exertion. Bubbles rise and froth like thin cappuccino, some spill onto the tiled floor. I hyperventilate a little when my bottom rests on the enamel; panting like a dog to introduce some cold air quickly into my body. Somehow I get accustomed to the heat and a feeling of weightless bliss arises as I fully recline. My head bobs above the surface of the completely full bath. “This Charming Man” chimes its jangly chords in my head again. After five minutes a sharp intake of breath allows me to immerse myself fully, setting my long hair free to float on the surface. I can't stay under for long.
I had purposely tried to keep thoughts of my impending marriage away. As I prepare to go on my stag night I know my marriage is a coming of age. I feel grown up beyond my mental years. This rite of passage must be entered into soberly, as it prefaces a real union. The bones in the back of my skull rest painfully on the bath lip. I close my eyes to shut out the warring voices in my head, relaxation at last claims me.
I stand at a marbled island in the centre of a gleaming modern kitchen, dressed in a blue apron. The kitchen exudes money from every marbled surface and each solid Birchwood door. I slice red onions and peppers for a Moroccan Gordon Ramsay dish; I don't cry although his sullen craggy image intimidates me from the front of his book. It is my house and Miles Davis trumpets it out loud via Sketches of Spain. A key click opens a lock; well-heeled shoes clack down a wooden hallway towards me. A woman approaches me from behind but I don't turn around. I feel my hair swept off my shoulder and a kiss hits the nape of my neck. The pressure of Juliet's lips is firm, insistent, rewarding. I hear a toilet flush back in the hallway and realise he is with her. Juliet continues to hug me from behind, resting a warm cheek on my thin summer shirt. I move to pick up the vegetable knife again as more footsteps come from down the hall. They are more definite and heavy this time. My wet finger slips from the knife handle and nicks the bottom of the blade, releasing my thumb and a pure purple patch of blood onto the chopping board. Ethan strides into the room looking for his motherâ¦
I sit up suddenly in the bath. I massage my impacted calves and thighs that are so weary that they don't feel attached anymore. What about that idea of listing my seven wonders of the world. Maybe I could design the ultimate father and son road trip.
So where would we start? Fly into Vancouver first I think, a city in the great outdoors. I am at my most comfortable in these places at the edge of the world. We could hop over to Vancouver Island on the ferry and stay in Tofino to go bear watching. Then we could go down to San Francisco. It's just cool, a city of the world rather than America. I remember a great day on a hired bike cycling Golden Gate Park, from hippy Haight Ashbury through the Japanese Gardens and on to the soaring Pacific Ocean. I was transported to a more loving time in the mythical 1960s, when I imagine people accepted each other more for who they were, but who ever knows the truth? Our third stop would be just a three-hour drive inland in Yosemite. It's immense, too big for just two eyes. Searing waterfalls and giant Redwood trees reduce you to nothingness. I wished I had stayed there. It was so peaceful at the bottom of the valley; like nature's cathedral.
Travelling to destination four. Maybe a few days exploring the ruins around Chichen Itza in Mexico. I was obsessed with the Mayans when I came back. I have never been somewhere so sinister; play football or lose your head; be a young woman and lose your head; look funny at someone in a big hat and lose your head. They must have bred like rabbits to keep up with the bloodshed. The Pyramid of Kulkulcan is freaky; it is a giant calendar that turns into a snake at certain times of year, which is all too much for me.
Flying further south to Havana, Cuba, the rawest most authentic place, a complete one-off in a time capsule. The place does everything differently from anywhere else. It's like one of those films where Charlton Heston walks around a corner to discover the land that time forgot. Its buildings are so elegant and decrepit. You can imagine fables of the botched CIA plot to kill Fidel Castro. You know you have travelled when you go there; you have been exposed to a raw place where a wrong turn can end badly.
Maybe too much time in the Americas. Fly back to Europe for number six then. It must be Rome. I like Venice and most Italian cities but Rome has that jaw-dropping moment when you see the Forum for the first time and think what the hell happened here? You can see the age-old importance of somewhere that is irrelevant today. The Parthenon and the really old buildings just ask why.
Fly where to our last destination? Maybe back to England and just the Lake District, but it doesn't have the oomph of the others. Maybe even Chamonix. Maybeâ¦
What is the time? I leave number seven for now, a tough decision. The body of water sloops back into place as I pull myself out of the bath. I step onto the cold wet towel I discarded this morning, if only Chris would use one. I had relaxed with my seven wonders road trip, but a wicked tension hangs in the air again. I am naked in the face of their plans. My fingertips have become withered prunes, over emphasising the whorls of my fingerprints. I raise one foot onto the bath edge so that I can easily dry underneath. What is the time? Almost six o'clock. I dress for the stag-night gallows, socks first. What can I wear to look okay but protect myself from any further physical assault? I select the thickest socks I have as Chris enters. An air battle rages near the door, my steamassisted bath fragrances against his skiing sweat and burgers.
“You okay Chris?” Chris harrumphs a non-verbal but sarcastic reply to the negative.
“Are you getting a bath?” I hope.
“I will change me shirt.”
“What's been going on down there? You have been over an hour.” Socks and underwear are donned.
“Oh just arguments. That Robert is a prick, why did you invite him? Juliet is trying to stop him but no-one else helps.” What are they arguing over? Maybe I am the only one who can sort them out. Every item of clothing donned carries me further into certain uncertainty. Buttoning my shirt feels like an ultimatum; are you ready for marriage?
“Listen, they want to take you off skiing in a big valley somewhere tomorrow. It sounds like some serious skiing. When they ask you later tell them to bog off, I just did.”
“I am not worried about skiing tomorrow, more about humiliation tonight.” I want to ski with them all to show them my progression. Even Robert must concede it; I won't be an embarrassment any more.
“If you want me to I can sort this Robert lad out. You know, scare him off for you.”
“No Chris, he is hard work but just leave him be.” Chris has revealed his bare chest; his shirt goes on without any cleansing.
“Do what you want, not what that prick wants,” he re-affirms to me.
“What are you going to do tomorrow then?”
“I can amuse myself for one day if you are fool enough to follow him.” I can see he is imagining a burger fest.
I sit on the bed waiting for Chris to change his trousers. Underpants that have just skied Chamonix are ready to carry on into the night! I get a whiff of fresh fruit but don't associate it with anything. I see a red scar on my pillow. I pull back the covers to see berries placed there this afternoon coagulated under my bed sheets. I must have squashed it all into a smoothie when I lay on the bed before.
“That weren't my idea bro.” Not his idea but he is an accomplice none the less. I peel off the bed sheets and throw them in the bath. A strawberry drops into the curve at the front of my scooped black shoes.
I notice that my breath is shortening again: altitude, fear or both? I must let everyone know how I feel.
My mobile phone radiates a patch of wasted light into the night. Its sleek black plastic lines and silver edging contain communication and entertainment technology beyond comprehension a few years ago. Does anyone even remember how a delayed journey could often not be communicated, leaving one party in semi-indignation or the purgatory of being stood up or genuine concern for the absentee. A crow flying my call home would need days to do it; soaring over Mont Blanc, over Geneva from whence we came, over Paris, skirting London and Birmingham and finally on to Manchester. What simplicity could propel a message so accurately so far? I feel the radio waves buzzing into the side of my head; it must be that physical to produce something this powerful. I step off the top step at the front of the hotel as Sophia answers.
“Hi there, all okay with you?” I picture her reclining on her dad's sofa. Bepe will be kneeling on the floor absorbed in a CBeebies programme. His blue duck will be tucked under one arm, maybe a warm milk bottle held precariously in the other hand. He will be grasping a dummy with his teeth, sucking it for imagined sustenance, the noise growing louder as he gets sleepier. Improbably he has fallen asleep in this position before.
“Hi Dan.” There is tiredness in her reply. A waft of evening dinner smells blow down the steps from the hotel, as the door opens. Juliet has arrived; she stays under cover sitting next to Chris on the bench outside. I walk away across the car park to maintain some privacy. Pulling my scarf tighter around my neck, I try to position it so that no cold air can hit my chest directly.
“You a bit tired babe?” I am not sure what her flatness indicates yet.
“Yes, but I am not feeling great either. I have sorted so much out today. Briefed the video man and disco as to what I want.”
“Can I have a say in the music playlist?” At last something I could do. Maybe I can save our union from a foreboding start in disco hell.
“If you insist, ring him up next week. But I warn you, make sure that people can dance to it. I've also been to the florist to see their table arrangement. The wedding cars we wanted have broken down, so Dad's made them upgrade us for no charge. I was in town so I even went by the jewellers and picked your ring up. I think I can take the weekend off. I have organised this wedding on my own.”
“Yeah, you have done great. That's saved me a trip on Monday.” I cannot disagree. “Hey, I am being taken out for my main stag do tonight. We are going to Italy for dinner would you believe?”
“What nonsense. How are you getting there?”
“By taxi, takes half an hour apparently to go to Courmayeur. I am not meant to know but Chris has told me.”
“Make sure there are no women involved tonight.” A warning that is too vague. Juliet is getting Chris to talk more than one syllable answers.
“Of course. I don't know what they are planning but I won't go near any women. I promise. Hey, I can parallel ski now.”
“How could you possibly learn so quickly?”
“Oh, I have just had good instructors. I really enjoyed today.” I stand with one foot raised on a hard packed mound of ice, blackened with mud and gravel, at the furthest point from the hotel. I can stop pacing if I am in this position. I need to make myself heard.
“Only a day and a bit till I am home. I have missed Bepe so much. I have been carrying on with my time capsule thing for him. I am planning a road trip for us. Can I speak to him?” I detect the phone being transferred by a series of scratching noises, probably from his dummy.
“Bepe, Bepe, it's Daddy.” Nothing.
“Bepe, Daddy misses you loads and is coming home on the big plane to see you very soon.” I hear the confirmatory sound of suckling.
“Bepe, Daddy has made some music for you son. We can listen to it when I get home. You look after Mummy for me.”
“I can't get that dummy out of his mouth. He is watching
Charlie and Lola
so you won't get anything out of him. I miss you too you stupid man. I am still cross with you over Bepe's accident. What time am I picking you up on Sunday?” She wants to sulk more, but it is too straining to keep up at a distance.
“Six thirty in the evening I think. I can't do anything about the accident now babe. It wasn't my entire fault, he just ran.”
“Diddy I got plane. Diddy I got plane. No plane Diddy.” His little voice is briefly insistent and then disappears as quickly as it came.
“Aaah. He went and got his toy plane and brought it back to the phone to show you. How precious is that?” I hear her plant a series of kisses on him. An increased hubbub rises behind me at the hotel steps. My stag group is present and correct. Oh my god, Rubber Juliet is with us; fully pumped up and being tossed around once more.
“Listen I forgot to mention, Juliet was attacked by a bunch of Italian lads this afternoon.”
“What? What do you mean attacked? Is she in hospital?”
“No, it was just some lads coming on to her, she is okay.” Robert is making his way over to me. The taxis are ten minutes late now.
“She has six men with her. For god's sake who was looking after her?” Her logical question goes begging, lest I incriminate myself.
“Let me speak to the condemned woman.” For the first time Robert arrives at an opportune moment. I pass him the phone.