The Red Mitten

by Stuart Montgomery

  Then she followed him into the maelstrom that the hotel called breakfast-buffet. The subdued mood caused by the hotelier’s words had already gone. Guests milled around a dozen tables that were laden with food. Some people knew exactly what they wanted and travelled at high speed. Others were hesitant and uncertain, like old folk in supermarkets, and would set off for the porridge or the bread or the boiled eggs, then change direction abruptly and veer off instead toward the cheeses and cold meats, before deciding that what they really wanted was a coffee.

  Cally and Richard did the rounds and got to their table in time to enjoy watching Neep thread his way through the crowd. When he reached them he was carrying two plates piled high with an impressively varied collection of food.

  “I’ve been on carbohydrate safari”, he exclaimed as he sat down. “These are my trophies.”

  “I think some protein has slipped through your defences”, Richard said, looking at one of Neep’s plates. “If I’m right that’s cheese. Next to the jam.”

  Cally suspected there was pickled fish in there as well. But from its appearance it might equally have been road-kill.

  “Skier’s breakfast”, Neep said. “Anyway, sorry I’m a bit late. I was fiddling with the radio in my room, trying to get the news in English. But in the whole of Norway there seems to be only one radio station and this morning it’s broadcasting Desert Island Ski Waxes, in Norwegian. And have you tried the TV? Last night I could get just two channels. One had an ancient episode of Taggart - There’s been a murrderr - with the original Taggart actor, Mark McManus, and a teenage John Hannah as the ridiculously unconvincing lead baddie. The other channel had a film about cod-fishing in Lofoten. And it was just that – a load of old cod.”

  “Fishing for cod might be a more noble profession than you give it credit for,” Richard said. ”Anyway, you’re not so late. The hotel has been vandalised and the dining room has only just opened. It seems to be a protest about the sports event they’re running this weekend.”

  Neep nodded. “Elin mentioned the sports thing yesterday, and I thought she was brave to run it. If my paper reported on an event like that in a Scottish hotel, I guarantee we’d get some choice submissions to the letters page. Send the immigrants back to Bongo-Bongo Land. It’s what Princess Diana would have wanted. He paused for a moment and then said, “All the same, I wouldn’t have expected vandalism.”

  He looked down at his food as if wondering where to start. “Anyway, Richard, have you told Cally about our suggestion?”

  Now Richard appeared to have found something important on his own plate. “No. We’ve only just sat down.”

  Cally noticed a look of irritation on Neep’s face, but it passed quickly. He turned to her and said, “Richard and I had a chat last night and we think we should all take turns at leading. I suggested you might start the ball rolling by taking today’s stage, as far as the cabin at Storhøliseter. You’re probably the strongest skier among us and your navigation is good, so I thought you should get the top job. You okay with that?”

  Cally took time to answer, didn’t want to seem too eager. “Yes, if you both think so.”

  “That’s settled then.” Neep fell silent, but something in his manner made Cally think he wasn’t finished.

  Finally he sat up straight and put his hands on the table. “I see I’m not very good at this. Sorry.”

  He made an effort to compose himself and started again. “Cally, last night you mentioned the old days, when you couldn’t . . . do so much for yourself. We all remember those days but, like you said, they are gone. Finally gone.” He shot a glance at Richard. “And even if it takes a while for Richard and I to get used to that, we need to make the effort. And there is no time like the present. Quite apart from anything else, I don’t want to spend the whole of this ski tour on my best behaviour – like some kind of responsible adult in charge. I want to be able to relax, to treat it like a holiday. So I think we all need to start acting more like equals. Do you know what I mean?”

  Cally hadn’t prepared for this.

  It had been the kind of thing she had been hoping to hear at the end of the trip, not right at the start, and she didn’t know how to respond. Part of her wanted to say, Neep, that’s fabulous. Now please give me a signed statement that says in your view I’m now completely cured and I’ll get on the next flight home and not trouble you anymore. But a stronger part intervened, a defensive reflex honed by years of living in care homes, and what she actually said was, “Yes, I do know what you mean. And I think it’s a really good idea.”

  Even as the words were coming out of her mouth she thought they sounded pathetic.

  In spite of Neep’s subsequent efforts, the exchange had an awkward, dampening effect that persisted throughout breakfast. So Cally was relieved when they finished eating, and then finished making up their packed lunches, and could finally go outside - to give her the chance to check the start of the route, and to give them all the chance to take yet more pictures for Neep’s slideshow. He was determined to show the stay-at-home club members what cross-country skiing was all about, he said, especially the ones who seldom actually went skiing on real hills but only seemed to be interested in the sessions on the dry slope at the edge of town.

  When they went past the reception desk the hotelier was talking with two policemen. Near the main door there was a smell like petrol, and a fit looking grey-haired man in a red parka was scrubbing at graffiti on the outside wall. Cally was just about to take a picture of him when Neep grabbed her arm and led her and Richard away from the door.

  When they were out of the old man’s hearing, Neep stopped. “We need to be careful with the cameras or we’ll upset the local people,” he said. “The graffiti says “Ut”, which I guess means “Out”. But it also says “Utøya” which is the name of an island where there was a terrorist massacre just a few years ago. We gave the story a lot of coverage in the paper and I wrote a piece about the economic implications. It’s one of the worst incidents Norway has ever suffered in peacetime.”

  He turned to Cally. “I think those passport forms that we had to fill out yesterday are related to it, part of the new security arrangements. When I was talking to Elin about them I had the impression that the Norwegians still have a lot of mental scars from Utøya.”

  Cally said, “I saw ‘ZZ’ painted on the wall. What does that mean?”

  “It’s not ‘ZZ’. It’s ‘77’. That was the number of people killed by the terrorist – a man called Anders Breivik who is now in prison in Oslo. Most of the victims were teenagers on a trip to Utøya. Breivik walked round the island for several hours, shooting them in cold blood. But some other people were killed in Oslo city centre on the same day, by a car-bomb he had planted as a diversion. His idea was that if all the police were called into Oslo he would have free rein on the island – and he was right. The whole thing was racially motivated, and immigration was a big factor. The kids were youth members of the Norwegian Labour Party, which Breivik blamed for allowing the country to be overwhelmed by foreigners. So to paint ‘77’ and ‘Utøya’ on the wall here, just before an event for immigrant kids, is hugely offensive.”

  They walked along the car park, as if trying to distance themselves from such horrific events, trying to re-focus their minds on the tour, the lovely weather, the fine scenery.

  Cally took refuge in her new responsibilities as leader. She stopped by the flag poles that she had noticed yesterday and looked down over a kids’ play area and on to the hotel’s ski piste, the one the downhill skiers used. It descended gently at first then steepened on its way to the lake that she knew was called Olstappen. She could see that the cross-country ski route to Slangenseter went where she expected it to go, into a forest to the left of the piste.

  She took a few pictures for the slideshow and then turned to watch Neep scampering around and getting a sequence of images of a lovely old house, all dark wood but with white balconies and window-frames. Then a family came along: two
parents on skis, a toddler and a dog. The mother was attached to the dog, a big spaniel, by a rope fixed to a belt round her waist. The father was attached to a pulk-sled by long metal rods fastened to a waist-belt. Sitting in the pulk, the toddler looked cool in dark sunglasses. Neep set about capturing the family scene from every possible angle.

  Richard, by contrast, seemed really unsettled and after a few minutes he went off to get their equipment out of the ski stall.

  Finally Neep had enough photos and he and Cally started to make their way back along the car park. As they did so, the hotelier came out of a side door with a young Asian man.

  A very good-looking young Asian man.

  They were holding hands. They stopped beside a flashy car and treated themselves to a clingy sort of hug and a tonguey sort of kiss. Obviously very close friends.

  Cally looked to see how Neep was adjusting to this new information.

  Not well. He fiddled with his camera then stomped off, saying he just needed a few more pictures.

  The flashy car drove off and Elin waved till it was out on the road. Then she caught up with Cally and said, “I hope you’re feeling better this morning? You really looked dreadful last night.”

  Cally said, “I’m much better, thanks. I just needed a good night’s sleep.” She thought about adding, You should try it yourself some time. However, when she saw Neep coming back she changed the subject. “But tell us, who is that handsome man with the glamorous sports car? Are you married to a film star?”

  She hadn’t meant to rub Neep’s face in it. Not really.

  “If only! My boyfriend isn’t a film star. But he has quite a well-paid job.”

  “Not journalism then”, said Neep, with a touch of sulkiness.

  “He flies helicopters. You might see him later today. He’s doing a course for the electricity network company, training another pilot to inspect the power lines.” Elin looked at Neep with renewed interest. “So you’re a journalist?”

  Neep straightened up, as if he could see what was coming. “Yes. I work for a Scottish newspaper.”

  “I can email you some high-resolution images of the hotel and the area, if you’re planning to write an article about your tour. The publicity would do us good.”

  “That’s nice of you, thanks. But this trip is strictly holiday. Anyway, mainly I write about business and finance. Plus a little bit on private investing – stocks and shares. But I can put you in touch with our advertising department if you like.”

  “That would be really kind of you,” Elin said. “But perhaps it can wait until after your tour.”

  Romance over, Cally thought, as she walked brightly back into the hotel.

  * * *

  When the Scots deposited their spare kit in Elin’s store room, in black plastic bags that Richard had brought for the purpose, it was still only quarter past nine. They were now ready to go, so Cally led the way through the car park and stopped again by the flag poles. Nearby, the old man who had been cleaning paint off the wall was adjusting something at the back of a big caterpillar-tracked vehicle. Cally recognised it from the hotel website as the machine that prepared the cross-country ski tracks and the downhill piste. She guessed the man was behind schedule because of the graffiti.

  That gave her an idea, a way to make amends for her clumsy words at breakfast.

  She brought the men together and pointed off to the left. “Our route goes down that track. It zigzags through the trees and it takes two kilometres to get to the lake, which is at the bottom of the piste. And it looks very nice. But there is an alternative that might do even more to cheer us all up.” She pointed straight ahead. “The downhill piste hasn’t been prepared yet, so we could have first tracks.”

  Then she took a breath and said, “But only if you think you’re tough enough.”

  Richard and Neep exchanged a theatrical sort of look, then tightened the straps of their rucksacks and clipped into their skis.

  Cally led out in a shallow traverse, took them past the kid’s play area and then tried a couple of wedge turns to get the feel of the piste. It felt nice. New powdery snow on a firm base, the Scottish weather people would have called it, though it was a description they rarely had to use. There was a greater chance of seeing the Loch Ness Monster. Cally was much more accustomed to what the ski-club members called combat conditions: ice at the top of a hill, crusty slab in the middle and frozen mud at the bottom. But on this Norwegian snow she found she could manage rough parallels, even with the extra weight of the rucksack. She was linking wide-radius turns when Richard shot past, shouting “Come on, tough guy!”

  So she caught him and then they went down side by side in a steeper and steeper line, leaving two wavy ribbons in the powder. The row of tall trees at the bottom of the hill seemed to race up toward them. The hiss from the skis accentuated the sense of speed.

  Cally glanced across at Richard, wondering if he would be first to pull out of the descent. Then she concentrated on powering down the fall-line, making her turns as narrow as possible, surprised by just how determined she was to beat him. Finally, with the trees getting dangerously close, she down-weighted hard, set her edges into the slope and came to a stop.

  Breathing heavily she leaned on her poles and looked up the hill.

  Richard had pulled out a long way back.

  Now he skied down to her, finally smiling – and smiling broadly. He reached out a hand for a high-five before they continued to the bottom of the slope.

  Neep soon joined them, grinning in spite of the white patches on his clothes. “The shame of it!” he said. “Beaten by a soppy girl.” He dusted the snow from his backside. “They say that if you don’t fall it’s a sign you’re just not trying hard enough.”

  They had stopped close to a rustic signpost. While Neep was sorting himself out, Cally took the chance to check her position on the map. Just beyond the trees was the lake, Olstappen; she could see the flat expanse of snow on its frozen surface. On the signpost, one wooden arrow pointed to Bergbu, a lunch-hut maintained by the hotel, eight kilometres distant. The other pointed to Slangenseter, now five kilometres away.

  Neep studied his watch. “A sign back at the hotel said Slangenseter was seven kilometres. So it has taken us five minutes to do two kilometres. That’s twenty-four kilometres an hour. So if we keep going at this speed we’ll reach the hut at Storlhøliseter by ten o’clock.”

  They all laughed. The gloomy thoughts of guns and massacres had gone and they were back in holiday mood. And Cally had finally shaken off the after-effects of last night’s drama. She felt good, partly because her first decision as leader had turned out so well. But mainly because skiing always made her feel good - even the dry slope sessions which Neep liked to mock, and which in the bad old days had only appealed to her because they gave her a plausible reason for being out of Crombie for several hours without supervision.

  She put the map back in her pocket, looked round to make sure the others were ready and then led the way along the track toward Slangenseter.

  Chapter 9

  Frederik Voldbakken loved Espedalen Mountain Church on sunny days, and he loved it most of all on sunny days in winter. For then the sunlight seemed to gain energy from the snow that lay thick on the ground, and it would come surging in through the big window behind the altar and add a warm hue to the sloping wooden walls of the nave, illuminating them all the way up to the roof apex where they joined.

  The nave’s distinctive triangular design was echoed throughout the building, in large structures like the bell-tower but also in the smaller decorative features - even in the shape of the door handles. Some people said the three-sided motif represented the Trinity. Others, including Voldbakken, preferred to think of it as the eye of God.

  Voldbakken had arrived early to prepare for a meeting of the Espedalen Initiative Group, an organisation he had set up several months earlier in his capacity as pastor of Sør-Fron parish. Until an hour ago he had been particularly looking forward to prese
nting an update on this weekend’s sports gathering at Vesterheim hotel, for it had been one of the group’s ideas - albeit on a majority vote - and it had been looking good. However, an hour ago he had phoned Elin Olsen for the latest numbers and she had told him about the vandalism.

  With Elin’s unfortunate news weighing on his mind, Voldbakken was now tidying the meeting space and putting out chairs. This was really the sexton’s responsibility, but the man was not as diligent as might be hoped and the pastor often did it himself. He believed that if the place looked welcoming, it would encourage people to keep coming to the meetings. And maybe it would encourage them to get involved with other projects to help regenerate the area - or at least slow the decline. Norway’s total population might be increasing, but it was mainly coming from immigration, and it was Oslo and the big towns that were seeing the growth. Here in the mountains the numbers had fallen to crisis level, and if the community didn’t start acting in unison then soon there would be no community left. The latest rumour was that the primary school was under review. And surely the local-transport subsidy couldn’t last much longer? Yesterday Voldbakken had watched the afternoon bus go past with only two passengers.

  As part of his preparations he was making an extra flask of coffee. Coffee was always a useful tactical resource in meetings, and this morning it would be especially handy, given what Elin Olsen had told him. There was no way he could prevent the discussion of the vandalism becoming heated; the sports weekend had been contentious from the outset. All he could do was let the argument run its course and then take a well-timed refreshment break before trying to get the meeting back on track. That would use up half the coffee. The rest would be for when the discussion became really heated, as it inevitably would when they reached the main item on the agenda.

  Presently the group members started to arrive. The pastor was pleased to see the owner of Tronablikk hotel, Vidar Lien, for Vidar was a relative newcomer to the valley and his enthusiasm was still strong. And it was nice to see the manager of the local activity company, Finn Andersen, who had phoned a few days ago to ask if he could join the group.