Alice-Miranda in the Alps

by Jacqueline Harvey

  Alice-Miranda and Hugh laughed.

  ‘What?’ Millie said, looking at them.

  ‘You are a kid of today, Millie.’ Alice-Miranda grinned.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Millie smiled back. ‘But hopefully not like her.’

  ‘You can come and work for me anytime, Millie.’ Hugh wrapped an arm around each girl and led the way down the street.

  ‘I might just take you up on that one day,’ Millie replied, ‘after I open my rescue stables and write a bestselling book.’

  Hugh smiled, holding open the door of the restaurant a few shops down. ‘Just say the word. Anyway, I don’t know about you two but I can feel a pepperoni pizza coming on.’

  ‘Me too,’ Millie said.

  ‘Me three,’ Alice-Miranda agreed as they walked inside.

  Whoa, look at that course!’ Lucas exclaimed as the children trudged up the hill to the top of the Cresta Run. The idea of hurtling headfirst down an icy track on little more than a plastic tea tray and some metal runners sent shivers of excitement down the boy’s spine.

  Dolly looked at the frozen runway and shuddered.

  ‘I wish we could do it,’ Lucas said, gazing at the track longingly.

  Jacinta gripped the boy’s arm. ‘I’m very glad that you can’t. It looks deadly.’

  ‘It says here,’ Millie said, reading the brochure, ‘that women were allowed to ride the Cresta until nineteen twenty-nine, when a vote was taken to exclude them, and the general membership hasn’t sought to change the rules since. That’s so unfair.’

  ‘Why?’ Sloane asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘Do you want to have a go?’

  Millie looked down at the track just as a rider flew up over the edge, his arms and legs flailing out of control. He grabbed at the piles of loose straw that were strewn all over the ground to slow down crashing riders, before somersaulting headfirst into a row of foam barriers. ‘Mm, I think I’d prefer to have a nosebleed in a shark tank,’ she conceded with a grimace. ‘It might be safer.’

  Pippa McLoughlin-McTavish chuckled. ‘I don’t know about that.’

  The man stood up and dusted himself off, then grabbed his sled and began to trek back up the mountain.

  Jacinta shook her head in disbelief. ‘He’s crazy.’

  ‘So, what do you think, kids? Should Hamish and I give it a whirl?’ Hugh said, giving Alice-Miranda a wink.

  She winked back. ‘Go on, Daddy. You’ll be brilliant.’

  Millie considered her father. Hamish was a big man, not overweight but tall and solid. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Daddy,’ she scoffed. ‘It would be like driving a Mini Minor to the top of the track, releasing the brakes and hoping for the best.’

  ‘I’m not that big, Mill!’ Hamish said, slightly wounded.

  Cecelia Highton-Smith gulped. ‘You’re not serious, are you? The last thing we need is for the two of you to be laid up with broken bones for the next three months.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Pippa echoed.

  Alice-Miranda looked towards the starting area, where a giant banner hung over the track. Several officials wearing headsets were standing nearby and there was a man about to start. ‘Is that Cyril?’ she said, squinting into the sun.

  ‘Oh my word!’ Shilly exclaimed.

  Cecelia gasped. ‘What on earth is he doing?’ she said, clutching her husband’s arm.

  Hugh shrugged helplessly. ‘He’s on leave, so he can do whatever he wants.’ He hadn’t realised Cyril would indulge in anything more than a spot of skiing when he’d given the fellow the week off.

  The children and adults raced towards him. As they arrived at the start of the course Cyril was receiving his final instructions.

  ‘Don’t forget to use your boots to slow down. If you do go off the edge, you’ll want to try to land as far away from the skeleton as possible. Remember, those things can kill you,’ one of the officials warned him.

  ‘Why would you want to land away from your skeleton?’ Jacinta said, perplexed.

  Millie giggled. ‘That’s what they call the sled.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jacinta grimaced all the same.

  ‘Cyril!’ Cecelia called out, waving both her arms.

  The man looked up and grinned. ‘Hello there. I thought you’d be hitting the slopes this morning.’

  ‘We will after lunch but we were all curious about this thing,’ Hugh replied.

  ‘What are you doing, man?’ Dolly demanded, her voice tight. Cyril seemed awfully relaxed about the whole thing, which put her even more on edge.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dolly. I’ve done it before,’ Cyril assured her.

  Cecelia turned to her husband. ‘Did you know about this?’

  Hugh shook his head. ‘Afraid not, but we might as well cheer him on.’

  ‘You should watch from the clubhouse,’ Cyril suggested. ‘You’ll have a great view of the whole course from the balcony. I’ll wait until you get there.’

  ‘You be careful, Cyril,’ Shilly warned. ‘Last time I checked, none of us was licensed to fly that jet except for you.’

  The family and friends made their way down to the white building, where they were ushered upstairs to a wide veranda which afforded a stunning view. They positioned themselves along the balustrade, looking down at the glistening snake-like track that curved its way for just over a kilometre down the mountainside.

  Cyril gave them a thumbs up, then swayed back and forth several times before hurling himself onto the small sled. He fidgeted about for a few seconds and then straightened out his body. The sled clattered down the track. The group lost sight of him as he hit the first corner, only to reappear at the top of the ice, whizzing around the bend.

  Hugh glanced at the giant stopwatch on the commentary box above them. ‘My goodness, he’s quick.’

  ‘Go, Cyril!’ Alice-Miranda shouted, and Millie joined in, cheering him on. Soon the entire group was calling the pilot’s name.

  ‘He’s going too fast,’ said an older chap standing beside Alice-Miranda. ‘He’ll never make it around Shuttlecock.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Alice-Miranda asked, suddenly concerned.

  ‘It’s where most amateur riders crash out,’ the man replied. ‘At least he’ll get to join the club.’

  Millie looked at him. ‘What club?’

  ‘Everyone who crashes at that corner joins the Shuttlecock Club,’ the man said impatiently, craning his neck to see if he could spot the human missile.

  All of a sudden the whooshing of the sled stopped.

  ‘Look! There he is!’ Lucas pointed at the figure in the air.

  The crowd gasped.

  Shilly covered her eyes. ‘I can’t watch.’

  ‘Stupid man,’ Dolly muttered, wringing her hands.

  Time seemed to expand in the seconds that followed as the spectators watched the events unfold in slow motion. Cyril hurtled through the air and disappeared into a cloud of snow.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Shilly asked, still hiding behind her hands.

  The group looked towards the commentator’s box above them.

  ‘Medics,’ the loudspeaker blared. ‘Could we get the medics to Shuttlecock immediately?’

  Shilly placed her hands across her chest. ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘He’s going to be fine,’ Cecelia told the group, hoping it were true.

  ‘Can we get to him?’ Mrs Oliver asked the man who had foretold Cyril’s fate.

  ‘Leave it to the professionals,’ the fellow replied calmly. ‘They’ve got all the equipment down there, and if he has to be taken to hospital they’ll have a snowmobile ready. Believe me, he’s not the first to come off there and he won’t be the last.’

  ‘Hospital!’ Shilly gasped. ‘He shouldn’t have been on that course in the first place. Why are men so … so … stubborn?’

  No one spoke a word as all eyes were focused on the middle section of the track.

  ‘He’s moving,’ the announcer said, looking through his binoculars. ‘Although, that shoulder seems to be at a very strang
e angle. They’re loading him onto the snowmobile and …’

  ‘Come on!’ Shilly shouted up at the commentator. ‘Don’t give us half the story, man!’

  ‘He’s raised his good arm and he’s giving the thumbs up,’ the man blurted.

  There was a huge cheer from the small crowd.

  Dolly and Shilly hugged one another, and Cecelia allowed herself to breathe again. ‘Thank heavens for that,’ she said to her husband. ‘So are you still keen to have a go?’

  Hugh looked at her sheepishly. ‘Maybe not today.’

  ‘He was never going to do it, Mummy,’ Alice-Miranda said. ‘He was only teasing.’

  Cecelia smiled and squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. ‘When it comes to your father, I can never be too sure.’

  The mosquito motor of the snowmobile buzzed as the vehicle carried Cyril to the top of the track. The family rushed down from the balcony and up the course to meet them. The wailing of an ambulance siren sounded in the distance.

  ‘Good Lord, Cyril, you were flying,’ Hugh said with a grin. ‘Pity you stacked it.’

  ‘Looks like that’s the end of my Cresta ambitions,’ the man said wryly.

  ‘You were awesome,’ Lucas said. ‘Did you know you were on track to beat the record?’

  ‘Seriously?’ Cyril looked at the lad.

  Sep nodded. ‘We couldn’t believe how fast you were going.’

  ‘Neither could I. I lost my footing not long after the start and then I just couldn’t get it again. Thank heavens for that corner or I think you might have been scraping me off the barrier at the end,’ Cyril joked, then winced as two medics began to examine his injuries.

  ‘We’re going to have to pop that shoulder back in,’ one of them said.

  ‘And you’ll need to go to hospital so they can check if you have a concussion,’ the other added. She directed Cyril to watch her pointer finger as she moved it from side to side.

  ‘I’ll go with him,’ Hugh said, watching the medics ready the snowmobile.

  ‘No, sir, leave it to me. I’ll look after him,’ Dolly said, bustling forward. ‘You go and enjoy your afternoon on the slopes.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Shilly offered.

  Dolly shook her head. ‘He doesn’t need both of us. I’ll make sure he’s okay, then head straight back to the hotel.’

  ‘Excuse me, how far away is the hospital?’ Cecelia asked the track marshal.

  ‘Only a few minutes,’ the man replied. ‘Faster if they put the siren on.’

  ‘And is it far from Fanger’s Palace Hotel?’

  ‘Not even a minute,’ the man said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Cecelia smiled at him. ‘Well, at least Cyril doesn’t have to be taken down the mountain.’

  Dolly headed over to the waiting ambulance and climbed into the back with Cyril. He had been given some strong medication to relieve the pain and was now telling Dolly a long story about how he used to race billycarts with his brother as a boy.

  Nina took the key from the small timber cupboard in the kitchen where every key for every lock in their rambling old house was neatly lined up, labelled and hanging on a hook. Labelling had been one of her mother’s obsessions, which was just as well as her father wouldn’t have had the first clue where anything was without it. She raced downstairs and through the red velvet curtain that partitioned the museum from the rest of the house. Nina unlocked the wide timber door, making sure to leave it open. Her father would not be home for a while yet.

  The girl walked among the cabinets with their strange and wonderful workings. Most of the instruments in the museum were so rare that they didn’t exist anywhere else in the world. She stopped in front of her favourite piece.

  Nina thought back to the time when she was just five years old, visiting the market fair in Basel with her grandfather. She had been so excited to take the long journey by train, to wander past the colourful stalls and exotic foods. She remembered rounding the corner and seeing it for the very first time. A timber-and-glass case with miniature musicians – men and women dressed in once-fine clothes, monkeys with tarnished cymbals and ballerinas in moth-eaten tutus, their faces dull and grimy from the spectre of time. The sounds it made were terrible too. She had blocked her ears at the ghastly clash of percussion and organ pipes. She hadn’t known why they had travelled so far until that very case was delivered to their door several weeks later.

  For months Nina watched her grandfather work on it, first pulling the whole thing apart, then painstakingly putting it back together until, finally, it was perfect. Her mother had sewn new clothes for the figurines so they were once again suitably attired. The spinning ballerinas with bright eyes and rosy cheeks stood alongside monkeys with plush fur and gleaming cymbals. Nina’s father had looked in on the pair’s progress from time to time but he knew nothing of the inner workings of such contraptions. Sebastien Ebersold spent his days outdoors on the mountainside unlike Nina’s grandfather, who had been a watchmaker – a man who understood the precision required to restore such splendid creations.

  The unveiling had been spectacular. Her grandfather, wearing his lucky black hat, had called the family down one evening after dinner. Nina had leapt about all over the place as excited as the day she’d first spotted the cabinet in the market.

  ‘Is it ready, Opa?’ she’d said. ‘Is it really ready?’

  ‘I think so.’ He’d smiled at her, then walked around to the side of the cabinet and pulled the handle.

  It had begun slowly as though the figurines were awakening from a deep, enchanted sleep. The tempo gradually quickened and the men, women, ballerinas and monkeys were soon twirling and prancing and strumming and plucking as the tune took hold.

  Nina remembered how her grandfather had tears in his eyes as he watched the tableau come to life. Nina and her mother danced a jig arm in arm and her father stood shaking his head, wondering at his father-in-law’s skill and his wife’s eye for such fine detail.

  That was long ago, when all had been right in Nina’s world. Tourists would come to see Lars Dettwiller’s Mechanical Musical Cabinet Museum filled with violinas, orchestrions, symphonions, organs for grinding, musical chairs and all other manner of automats. The museum was a renowned Alpine attraction, no doubt helped by its location across the cobblestoned street from the most beautiful hotel in all of Zermatt, the Grand Hotel Von Zwicky. The Baron and Baroness visited often and recommended the museum far and wide. There was always something new arriving from a far-flung corner of the globe, often in pieces, tarnished, broken and neglected, until her grandfather set to work restoring it.

  But then almost a year ago, just after her tenth birthday, Nina had arrived home from school to find her grandfather sitting opposite her father at the kitchen table; the old man’s eyes wet and his face ashen, her father looking like a ghost. Nina would never forget the moment she discovered her mother had died. They called it an aneurysm, but she called it the end of the world.

  Her grandfather closed the museum the very next day and had not stepped foot in it since. They had lost him to despair. But surely, Nina thought, the music box had been a sign that Opa wanted to live again – she just had to help him find the way.

  Her father was wrong. Opa shouldn’t go to a home where old people ate their suppers at four in the afternoon and sat around all day, suspended in a no-man’s-land between life and death. She knew about those places. Her father’s mother had been in one. Nina didn’t remember much about the woman but she could recall the building and its antiseptic smell, as if she had gone there a thousand times, instead of just the two visits her parents had taken her on. She wasn’t going to let her grandfather suffer the same fate.

  Nina looked at the dusty orchestrion. ‘Are you ready?’ she asked the figurines.

  The girl walked to the side of the machine and pulled the lever. Slowly, as always, the performers took up their instruments and the tune began. She stared through the glass at the motley band of players and crossed her fingers. If h
e heard them, she thought, maybe it would be enough to bring him back to them.

  Millie and Alice-Miranda were riding the chairlift to the top of the run. After lunch Hugh and Hamish had decided to take the children up onto the mountain while Cecelia and Pippa did a bit of shopping. Mrs Shillingsworth had opted to go for a leisurely walk in the village to see if she could spot the famous Heidi hut and leaning tower, both well-known landmarks.

  ‘I think my turns were getting better on the last run,’ Millie said.

  ‘You were fast,’ Alice-Miranda said as she clacked her skis together, sending a little shower of snow onto the slope below.

  Millie wrinkled her nose as a stiff breeze blew an overpowering fragrance towards them. She pointed at the stylishly dressed woman with a mane of bouncy brunette curls in the chair in front. ‘Do you think her perfume’s strong enough?’

  Alice-Miranda sniffed the air. ‘It is a bit much, isn’t it?’

  ‘It smells like cloves mixed with something else I can’t stand,’ Millie said, trying to think what it was.

  ‘Ginger,’ Alice-Miranda suggested.

  ‘Urgh, that’s it,’ Millie agreed. ‘It’s gross.’

  The woman had spent the entire ride whining loudly as she tousled her hair and fiddled with her headband while the man beside her talked nonstop on his phone. He was gesticulating wildly and at one point almost dropped his stocks.

  The woman’s strongly accented baby voice floated on the wind as she turned to face the man. ‘Vincenzo, when are you taking me shopping? You promised me diamonds.’

  ‘Not now, Sancia,’ he hissed. ‘I am working.’

  She pouted her bee-stung lips at him. ‘But you are always working. I want to go shopping.’

  Millie and Alice-Miranda looked at one another and giggled.

  ‘Vincenzo,’ Millie said, perfectly mimicking the woman’s Italian accent, ‘when are you going to buy me the world?’

  The girl hadn’t thought her voice would carry forward at all and was shocked when the woman swivelled her heavily made-up face to glare at her.