Christmas at Frozen Falls

by Kiley Dunbar

  As I head to the bathroom to apply the dye to my mousey roots it strikes me that over the years I’ve slipped back into those old bad habits and I realise that I can remember pretty much every single negative comment anyone’s ever made about my looks or my shape, but I had no memory at all of him saying these nice things to me, or indeed of any of the nice things other people might have said to me over the years.

  There must have been some compliments, but only the bad stuff sticks in my mind and I replay it all to myself every now and again when I’m feeling crap; like the time Cole suggested that I lay off the red wine and tea as he handed me a leaflet about cosmetic teeth whitening, or that woman with the tape measure in the bra fitting cubicle who told me I could ‘minimise my back fat’ with the right kind of support. Cheeky cow. So basically, I end up trolling myself with this stuff, which really isn’t on. But he – oh, all right, Stellan – didn’t believe anyone had imperfections or flaws, and he just saw me. I repeat this to myself in the bathroom mirror with a smile and a shrug as a blob of red dye plops down my forehead and onto the tip of my nose. He just saw me.

  After I rinse the colour off and blast my hair dry, I quickly check Facebook once more, telling myself this really has to be the last time. And… nothing. There’s some photos of Mum and Dad grinning in front of the Empire State Building and a message from them hoping I have a great trip, but there’s no new ‘friends’. I shut down my laptop, also trying to shut down the hopeful little butterfly feelings in my stomach telling me how much I’d hoped to hear from him before jetting off.

  The thing about nostalgia for the past, I find myself thinking as I get ready for bed, is that everything is rose-tinted; you recollect the best bits and magnify them, and no wonder, really. I’d rather remember Stellan – and Cole for that matter – in those first exciting, happy days, when we were just finding out about each other, and when everyone’s on their best behaviour and still very much wearing their nicest underwear.

  Maybe the problem with all this Stellan nostalgia is that we never had the chance to get to the saggy old pants stage? I never saw him asleep and drooling on the sofa wearing sweaty gym gear on a Saturday morning. I never had to squeeze past his muddy track bike and umpteen pairs of his expensive trainers in the hall as I struggled inside with the groceries. I never had to accompany his grandmother on her trips to the chiropodist because nobody else could be bothered taking her. Yes, you’ve guessed it, all things I experienced with Cole.

  Nostalgia only works for those with the luxury of never having seen the humdrum reality of how things would have turned out. And even though Stellan ran off and broke my teenage heart, I still manage to remember him making me supremely happy and being an utterly delicious human being. If I don’t let myself think about how it ended, I can accurately claim the relationship was one hundred per cent blissful, until it suddenly wasn’t.

  I put the diary back where it belongs in the box marked ‘university’, folded away with the photos and Stellan’s T-shirt, and I shove the box into the back of my wardrobe. It’s been fun, in a way, looking back, but I’ve done so much of that lately. Stellan could be anywhere in the world now (goodness knows, he spoke so many languages, he’d be employable pretty much anywhere), and of course, he’ll be in love with someone, and no doubt he’s a devoted daddy too.

  I shut the wardrobe door. It’s for the best that I leave the fantasy of Stellan in the past where he belongs with the scatty, happy, drunk-with-love nineteen-year-old Sylvie. The grown-up me is going on a cosy retreat with her best mate to the land of Christmas trees and snow trails, husky dogs and hot spiced wine, and I’m so excited I doubt I’ll get any sleep tonight.

  Chapter Seven

  Hello readers, Nari Bell here!

  It’s late, and I have an early flight to beautiful Finnish Lapland tomorrow, so this’ll be a quick one.

  After a conversation with S, my closest friend, I got thinking about Finland and one national stereotype in particular I feel like busting open…

  But first. Researching this trip I discovered the following: A UN report has found for the second year running that Finland is the happiest country in the world (based on quality of life stuff, wealth and schooling). It’s also the most forested place on the planet. Trees = happiness, no surprises there. It is also the safest country in the world (low crime, safe roads, good hospitals, that kind of thing). People don’t mind paying higher taxes to get these things too. It all sounds pretty perfect to me: beautiful place, and kind, generous people.

  Then I found a survey, and OK, it was a dodgy looking thing from an online news source from a decade ago, but it said that Finnish men who date women are twenty-five times less likely to tell their partner they love her within the first six months than Swedish men. I’ve also discovered that Finnish women are increasingly marrying men of other nationalities. Can the two be connected? Are my Finnish sisters getting sick of non-committal, undemonstrative boyfriends and hooking up with hot Americans, sexy Scots, or those declarative Swedes who are, allegedly, dropping the L-bomb all over the shop?

  So, I dug a bit deeper, trawling dating and travel forums and YouTuber blogs so you don’t have to, and there did seem to be plenty of anecdotal evidence supporting the theory that Finnish blokes really are more reticent about talking about their feelings, and this can be pretty frustrating for their significant others.

  When it comes to generalisations about this kind of thing I’m cautious, but curious. I know the idea’s blown out of the water by the mixed demography of Finland that shows us this tiny population’s a melting pot like any other European place, a huge variety of languages are spoken there and, I guess what I’m saying is, there’s no monolithic Finnish Man. And yet, Disgruntled Girlfriends of The Internet are telling me their Finnish boyfriends need to get with the programme when it comes to sharing their feelings. They describe attractive, calm, reserved, respectful, taciturn men who love nature, value solitude, have a connection to the land and the seasons, love to feed people, and are prone to joking at your expense as an easy way of showing affection. So, all in all, these Finnish Men, whoever they are, if they even exist, sound pretty good.

  Now, you know I left my dating blog behind a long time ago, and I’m determined to get the travel lowdown on Lapland for you all, but if me and my friend, S, happen to discover if there’s any truth to the myth of the shy Finnish fellas, all the better. Check back soon for an update when I’ll be touching down in snowy Inari.

  #NariInInari #Girlsholiday

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Just look at this place!’

  Nari lifts up one side of her sleep mask in acknowledgement of my excited dig at her elbow. The flaps have just opened and the loud clunk of the wheels coming down somewhere underneath us finally jolts her to full wakefulness.

  Low mountains brood over the Lappish plains. Stretched out in the grey-blue expanse below are the strange shapes of fir trees bent under the weight of snow and what I first assume are white roads, before realising they’re frozen rivers. From up here it looks as though there are no motorways, no streetlights, and no buildings as far as I can see, just miles and miles of wide open, infinite space.

  Back in Castlewych you can’t walk for ten minutes without railway lines or canals dissecting your path. The town’s horribly cut up by B-roads and claustrophobically cut off by motorways, housing developments, and the out of town shopping centres that are slowly replacing the real, old town centre. This place, on the other hand, seems endlessly wild and unpopulated. Everything looks barren and alien, and our flight is making its descent into the strange snowy world.

  Nari barely glances towards the window. She’s such a seasoned traveller. She even remembered to slather on moisturiser and down a bottle of mineral water as soon as she buckled her lap belt, and within minutes she was sleeping soundly, even during the bumpy six a.m. take off through blustery Manchester sleet. I tried to sleep too, but ended up uncomfy, crick-necked and grumpy, so I’d reaching for my batte
red old copy of The Kalevala, once a treasured possession during my nerdy early-teen obsession with Scandi myths and legends. I’d struggled to read more than a few verses in the low light of the noisy cabin, so I gave up, watching old episodes of Friends on the in-flight entertainment system instead.

  Nari looks fresh and rested as the plane smoothly touches down and she slicks on lip balm and ties her hair back. I know I look a fright but it hardly matters, we’ll soon be covered from head to toe in bulky snow gear.

  As the plane door opens, the entire fuselage fills with icy arctic air and everyone, except the Laplanders travelling home for Christmas, exclaims at once.

  Soon we’re walking across the airstrip, breathing in the strange mixture of frigid air and jet fuel. Note that I didn’t call it an airport. There’s a terminal building – basically a large-ish glass shed – and that’s it, the only building for what looks like miles around.

  As I slide my feet along, trying not to fall over on the icy tarmac, I pull my pink bobble hat down over my ears and stuff my thin undergloves and snow mittens on as fast as I can. The cold is already biting and I’m shivering.

  So this is snow. Real snow. There are ten-foot drifts of the stuff piled up at the sides of the runway. How the hell did the plane land in this? And how come this place stays open in these conditions when Heathrow seems to close after the lightest dusting?

  There are Christmas trees alight with white bulbs lining our route into the terminal and they’re glowing in the strange darkness of the morning. I check my phone thinking that time has stood still since our take-off in England and it’s still somehow six o’clock – judging by the dark emerald sky shot through with cranberry pink, and the strange muted glow of a waning crescent moon half obscured beneath the horizon. I’m astonished to find it’s nearly eleven, local time. Back home it’ll be almost nine and light by now.

  Even though it’s oddly gloomy and there are curiously fine, glittering snowflakes falling rapidly from the sky, I’m struck by the feeling of the heavens stretching out above and around us, and my lungs seem to be expanding and my back straightening as I raise my head and look up. I’ve never been more aware of where I am on the planet. This is the kind of North that makes Manchester grimness seem positively equatorial and balmy. We’re up in the stars here.

  Entering through the glass doors and into passport control, everything is quiet, clean and calm, nothing like the hideous scrum this morning at Manchester airport, and the horror of the security hall. Was any place designed to be less Christmassy and exciting for travellers than that? This, on the other hand, feels serene and if not effusively welcoming, at least comfortingly inviting. I see Nari trying to coax a smile out of the serious official with ice-blue eyes who’s examining her passport inside his glass box. He’s immune to her flip vivacity it seems and I catch a flicker of surprise on her face as she gives him up as a lost cause.

  My heart sinks a bit as I approach the only baggage reclaim carousel in the airport. There, straddling the suitcases, riding round and round and flapping their green and white candy-striped arms are three rosy cheeked elves. The bells on their drooping red hats tinkle as they greet us. One of them pats me on the head as they glide by on the conveyor belt.

  It’s mid-morning, I haven’t had my first cup of coffee yet, and there’s just NO NEED for this kind of forced jollity, and, hell no, is that a reindeer over there? Yep, another elfy toerag has arrived and is leading a very pissed off looking reindeer in a halter. He looks like he’s been dragged reluctantly from a cosy shed somewhere and he’s making angry huffing snorts through fuzzy nostrils. He has an antler missing but they’ve decorated the remaining one with silver tinsel. He and I exchange sympathetic, un-Christmassy glances. I know how you feel, babe.

  Last Christmas, I’d have been over there posing for a selfie with Rudolf, grinning like a child on Christmas day. I used to love this kind of thing, but I’ve lost it this year. I hope this trip helps bring the Christmas cheer back. Once upon a time I had it in spades. Mum drilled it into me as a kid with her amazing year-round Christmas planning. She really went all out for Christmas. Looking back, I wonder how much of that was to do with me being an only child and Mum trying to make each year extra special for me. She’d buy posh crackers and discounted decorations in the January sales and squirrel them away for December. I’d catch her in her bedroom curling ribbons and wrapping gifts all autumn long. She always made sure I had a new party frock for Christmas Day, and we’d do the rounds of Santa’s grottos in the Chester department stores. Even though I knew none of the Santas we saw were the real thing, I was still convinced they somehow had a direct line to The Big Guy himself, so I made sure to be as good as gold while we queued up.

  I heave a sigh as I scan the room, looking for Nari. She’s already wrestled her suitcase from between the knees of a particularly excitable elf and is marching briskly for the exit, presumably to see if our taxi’s waiting. My case is nowhere to be seen so I step back from the carousel and wait it out.

  A gaggle of screaming children have gathered around a lady elf dressed in an inappropriately skimpy elf-frock. She’s handing out sweets from a basket. I notice a few of the mums and dads helping themselves to the sweets too. I could do with a chocolate. I guess I don’t qualify for one, as I don’t have kids with me.

  Through the glass, I can see a coach out on the road, its engine idling, ready to whisk the families away to their various resorts and the Christmas of a Lifetime spent searching for Santa, singing carols in hotel restaurants, leaving out bowls of porridge for magical elves on Christmas Eve, and excitedly tipping out the contents of overstuffed stockings when the Big Day finally arrives.

  It comes out of nowhere and hits me in the gut as I watch the misty-eyed parents snapping photo after photo of their children’s awestruck, elated faces. I’m all alone here at the top of the world. No husband, no babies. My own mum and dad are miles away and I suddenly miss them so, so much. Meanwhile Cole’s at his mother’s house with his gorgeous, pregnant trolley-dolly girlfriend and Patricia’s probably snapped up the entire range of The White Company newborn clothes already, and oh, how they’ll laugh and chatter about the new life waiting to come into the world and what a perfect daddy Cole’s going to be…

  One of the elves has put her arm around my shoulder and is giving me a gentle hug. She must think I’m overwhelmed by the magic of Christmas and their enchanting Lapland welcome, but honestly, I’m just tired and grouchy and feeling sorry for myself. The nice lady elf in the too-short dress stuffs a handful of her candies in my coat pocket with a wink that tells me I’m not the first recently dumped woman to blub in her arrivals lounge, and I give her a grateful nod before grabbing my errant suitcase and making a run for the taxi.

  ‘Please don’t tell me it’ll all be like this,’ I say to Nari who’s waiting for me outside.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like Christmas on uppers and cooking sherry. It’s too much.’

  Nari just laughs. As the driver helps her load our cases into the boot, I look around.

  So this is Lapland. It’s absolutely glacial and I’m aware that my thick jersey trousers, perfect for chilly days in Cheshire, are never going to cut it here and my legs are prickling with cold.

  We seem to be on a raised plain overlooking lowlands on all sides. Lights from a small city bleed into the late dawn light far in the distance to my left.

  ‘Is that where we’re going?’ I ask the driver, who is, oddly, wearing little more than jeans, jumper, and a thin beany hat despite the arctic chill. He chuckles knowingly to himself.

  ‘No, you’re going that way.’ He points a gloved finger along the road to our right where the dark lowland stretches on and on into nothingness and the road seems to disappear in a swathe of white.

  As we drive I share the nice elf’s sweets around and I think about the waterworks back at the airport. Those happy families really got to me, but it’s not like I want to have Cole’s baby, not now, obviously. A
nd I don’t even resent him having a family of his own. If anything, I hope he falls head over heels for that little baby and he gives it all the love and care he couldn’t find in his heart for me and our hypothetical future rugrats.

  It’s just that babies were all part of our plan, you see? Get a house, get a job, get married, and hopefully be lucky enough to get a take-home baby one day, giving Mum the excuse she’s been itching for to knit a thousand pairs of pastel booties and tiny matinee jackets. But when your plans are all torn up and chucked back in your face it takes a while to readjust.

  For the immediate future I have no plans other than to make no more plans. I’m simply determined to enjoy this holiday and hoping it does the trick of putting some more distance between me, Cole and the past six months… and if I can bring back a little Christmas sparkle, all the better.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the two silver sixpences Mum gave me as I dropped my parents off at the airport ahead of their American adventure.

  ‘Here you are, Nari,’ I say, as I hand one over. ‘A talisman for a happy Christmas.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Now this is more like it!’ I squeal as I barge around my cabin, flipping lights on and opening cupboards.

  Nari’s behind me in the doorway. She’s accustomed to luxury travel, but I get overwhelmed at the opulence of a Premier Inn breakfast buffet, so this spacious, wooden cabin with its fur rugs and roaring fire feels really special. There’s a kitchen with a proper stove and a huge fridge stocked with food for our arrival.

  ‘Thank you, Stephen the Sex God!’ I exclaim as I peer at the bottles through the glass door of the wine cooler.

  Nari’s joined me now and is nodding with a knowing smile. ‘He did promise us a few extras, remember?’ Her eyes glaze over and a devilish grin forms. I know she’s thinking of all the ways she can thank him for his generosity come their New Year rendezvous in London.