by Roz Marshall
Despite the decades he'd spent here, it was as if the two years away had made him a stranger, giving him a whole new perspective on his birthplace.
The memories were still there, though, dragging at the corners of his mind.
He couldn't see the house from here, but its presence loomed large, turning his attention south-west. He stood for a moment, debating with himself, questioning whether he had the strength to go there now, after his self-imposed eschewal, to face the reminders and recriminations.
He shook his head. Not yet. Not now. He shouldered his rucksack and ski bag, and trudged off towards the ski shop.
-::-
Scotland
Jude looked up from the poster she was drafting. "Have a good day, Sandy," she said to their oldest instructor, whose white beard and portly figure earned him the moniker 'Santa' – but only when he was out of earshot. He raised his hand and pushed out of the ski school hut, stepping aside to admit a young man, followed by a couple of teenagers.
"Hey!" the newcomer said, taking off his shades.
Jude smiled at him. "Good morning, how can I help you?"
"I'm from the Ski Development Trust — you're doing some work for us just now — and I just wanted to hand this in, since I was up here today with these two." He nodded back at the youngsters behind him, and handed her a cream envelope.
She raised her eyebrows. "Erm, thanks." She reached for her letter-opener.
"It's about a Race Coach Development Programme we're setting up. We'd like to invite your ski school to submit a couple of candidates for the selection training."
Before she could respond, the door flew open again and Callum came in, slapping his hands together theatrically. "Well, that's classes underway for this morning, thank goodness. Zoë turned up in the nick o' time." He noticed the visitors, and stopped short. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."
"It's okay, Callum, you should probably hear this anyway, since you're acting chief instructor just now, with Mike away," said Jude. "This young man — sorry, I didn't catch your name?"
"Neil."
"Neil was telling me about a racing coach programme they're setting up and they want us to send two instructors to the training."
Callum nodded, "Sounds good."
Neil carried on with his explanation. "You can send two candidates for evaluation. They can be skiers or boarders, but they need to be a minimum of UKASI grade two, or have FIS racing experience, but no existing coaching qualifications."
"Well, that rules most of our guys out, apart from Ben," said Callum.
"And you?" suggested Jude.
"Yeah, but I'm not that bothered about racing. Ben's your man."
Neil raised a finger. "It's good experience, if you're thinking about working towards Grade One. And we've allocated an extra place for your ski school, because of the trials you're running for us. The other schools are only getting one place."
"It would seem a shame to waste it, Callum," Jude said, and he nodded slowly. Then she realised that there was probably a catch. "Oh, Neil, can I ask, is there a cost involved? We don't have any spare money just now for training."
Neil shook his head. "No, we're a charity and we're using this as a way of developing racing skills in Scotland, so it's free to you." He opened a hand. "If you can spare the guys, that is. The evaluation is on Monday and Tuesday — I'm sorry for the short notice, but those were the only dates that the trainer was available."
Jude pursed her lips. "What d'you think, Callum? Would we have enough cover if you and Ben were off?"
"Well, Debbie should be well enough to man the office for you, so you could teach one of the ski classes? Some of the schools are still on half-term holidays but I think most of them are back next week, so we probably won't be as busy." He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe?"
Jude nodded slowly. "Neil, I think that should be okay, but I'll need to check with Ben." She held up the envelope. "I assume there's information in here about how we sign up?"
"Yeah."
Callum's brow furrowed. "I guess it's no just next week, though, Neil. What happens after that?"
"Sorry, I should've said — the Monday and Tuesday are just the evaluation, although you'll get some training as a part of it. But we're only taking one trainee coach from each ski area in Scotland, and those five nominees will be part of a year-long national development programme."
"It sounds very prestigious," said Jude.
Neil nodded. "It should be." Then he glanced up at the clock and said, "Will you excuse me? These two," he indicated the teenagers he was with, "haven't had breakfast yet, so I need to get them fuelled-up before they start skiing."
"Okay, thanks, Neil," said Jude. "We'll let you know about the coaching."
-::-
New Zealand
The bell above the door tinkled and Mike stepped into the shop with a tentative, "Hello?" Stripped-pine shelves overflowing with colourful sweatshirts, chrome rails stuffed with practical outerwear, and wall-mounted racks bedecked with glossy skis and snowboards were designed to tempt winter sports enthusiasts to part with their hard-earned dollars. But this particular winter sports enthusiast was a prodigal, not a purchaser.
Robert glanced up from where he was leaning on the counter, an open magazine in front of him. He raised a hand, "Hey, mate!"
Mike stepped forward, expecting a handshake, but it was as if he'd been gone for just two minutes, not two years.
Robert pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. "She's in the workshop. Head on in."
Mike pushed through the beaded screen from the main shop into the workshop, and saw his sister, bent over a workbench with a snowboard clamped to it.
She looked up at the sound of his footsteps. "You made it!"
"Yeah. How's Dad doing? My phone's battery is dead so I couldn't phone from the airport." He went over and kissed her cheek, and received an answering hug.
"I spoke to the hospital," she looked at her watch, "about twenty minutes ago." Lines creased her face, and he saw shadows under her eyes that he didn't remember being there before, and grey threads dulling her rich auburn hair. "They said he'd had a 'comfortable' night, but he's still not regained consciousness."
That isn't a good sign. "I should go and see him. Are they allowing visitors?"
"Not until three o'clock. So you should at least have some food. And maybe a shower, if you want?" She wiped her hands on a towel. "We'll go to the house. Let me just tell Robert where we're going."
Scotland
BEN DRILLED THE last hole in the snow and pushed the finish timer in, then looked back up the Creag Dheighe run. The red and blue slalom poles criss-crossed the slope in a seemingly meandering pattern, but he knew he'd set a fair course, one with a good rhythm to it, that wouldn't be beyond the capabilities of an inexperienced racer. He nodded, satisfied with his work, and looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes to go. Time for a quick cup of tea in the café, then.
Crossing the car park at a jog, he peered through the fogged-up windows of the café to judge whether the length of the queue would give him time to get a brew. Just.
Clutching a steaming mug and a sugared donut on a paper plate, he scanned the chattering crowds, looking for a free seat. He spotted one at a table by the window, where two teenagers were sitting with a handsome guy who looked like he might be their older brother. "Is it okay if I sit here?" he asked them.
"Yeah, knock yourself out," replied the brother.
The girl turned to him and said, "You're from White Cairns, aren't you?" She nodded at the badge on his uniform jacket.
"Aye, that I am."
"We're supposed to be meeting one of your guys," said the older guy.
"For a lesson?" asked Ben, taking a gulp of his tea.
"No, for some racing," said the girl.
Ben chuckled. "What a coincidence! That's what I'm doing today. Are you here for the trials? I'm Ben, by the way."
She nodded. "Yeah, me and Kane are." She nodded at the boy opposi
te, and added, "I'm Trudy," with a shy smile, "and that's Neil." She indicated the older guy.
"They're our pocket rockets," said Neil.
"Our?" said Ben. Evidently he wasn't their brother after all. Which, now that he looked more closely, was obvious. The girl was slight, sallow and brunette; the boy was stockier, with a coffee-coloured complexion and a shock of dark hair. But, whilst Neil also had dark hair, his curls hinted at Italian parentage, and the set of his shoulders suggested someone who spent a lot of time keeping fit.
"The Ski Development Trust," said Neil.
Ben palmed his forehead. "Of course! It's you guys who're organising the trials today." He picked up his mug. "I've obviously not woken up yet!"
Neil smiled at him, and nodded at his own cup. "I know what you mean. I can't function in the morning until I've had at least two cups of coffee." Then he looked at Ben curiously. "You look familiar." He narrowed his eyes. "Wait, did you used to be a racer?"
Ben felt the colour rise in his cheeks. He was glad his tan would cover most of the signs of his embarrassment. "Uh, yeah."
"Did you do slalom or downhill?" asked Trudy.
"G.S. mostly, actually," said Ben. "I wasn't heavy enough for downhill."
Trudy nodded sagely, then asked. "What's the race today?"
"I've set a giant slalom course for you. I thought G.S.'d suit most people." Trudy nodded again, and Ben realised that Kane had been silent throughout the conversation. He turned to the boy and asked, "Which d'you prefer, Kane?"
Kane's head jerked back and his shoulders tensed, before he managed to stutter, "S-s-slalom."
Ben gave him a half-smile of encouragement, and nodded. "You'll be fine with the G.S. course. Slalom would've been hard work on the steeper part, so I decided to be kind."
"Thanks Ben," said Neil. "Now, Trudy, stop bothering Ben with questions so he has time to drink his tea before work."
Ben took a swig from the mug, and then looked at his watch. "Rats!" He took another gulp and stood up. "I need to run!" Folding the donut into the paper plate, he stuffed it in his pocket. "I'll keep this for later. See you guys at the top of Creag Dheighe!"
-::-
Ben waved, to indicate to the racer at the top of the hill that he was ready for them to begin.
A few seconds later, a small figure shot out of the start and started to weave down the hill, in and out of the blue and red slalom poles.
As the skier zoomed through the finish a minute later, Ben recorded the time and the racer's bib number in his notebook, realising as he did so that it was Trudy, the girl he'd met that morning. She was good. There were some ragged edges to her style, but those could be worked on. Raw talent was something you either had or you didn't, and this girl had it in spades.
Before he could signal to the next racer, a swish of snow behind him made him look round.
"Hey, Ben, how're they getting on?"
"Oh, hi Neil, um, fine mostly. But I'm in a quandary."
"How so?"
"Well, if I go purely on time, the best skiers won't get selected, if you're just wanting two girls and two boys. There's not a lot in it, but Trudy in particular shows a lot of promise. However she's not quite as fast as I think she could be."
Neil nodded slowly, and leaned on his ski poles, looking up the hill at the course. "Would she do better if it was pure slalom, maybe?"
"Perhaps. The sun's softened the ice a little so it'd be easier now. But better skis might help her, too."
"Okay, let's stop for lunch after this run, and if you could re-set the course to a slalom, we could see what happens in the afternoon? I'll go to the hire and see if I can rustle up some better skis for her."
"Right, that sounds like a plan." Ben consulted his watch. "Let's re-convene at two o'clock?"
-::-
New Zealand
It was hard to reconcile the pale, ethereal face and withered body under the starched hospital sheets with the vibrant, earthy man of Mike's childhood. How has he changed so much in such a relatively short time?
As if she'd read his mind, Lauren said, "Now this has happened, we're thinking that he maybe had another slight stroke about six months ago that nobody picked up on." She lifted the frail hand, carefully avoiding the cannula tube that was taped to the man's paper-thin skin. "He'd had a fall in the house and, at the time, I was just glad that he didn't break anything. But afterwards, he wasn't the same, and then he had this bad one early on Thursday morning." She sighed. "At first, I thought it was a blessing that I was there to find him and get help, but now…" she tailed off.
Mike sunk into the second visitors' chair. "What are the doctors saying?"
"Not much, really. They just do that thing where they look at you over the top of their glasses and say, 'we're doing everything that we can'."
Now that he was closer, Mike could see speckles of grey stubble peppering the old man's cheeks. "Do they not even shave him? He would never be seen out in public like this!"
Lauren gave a slight shake of her head. "The doctors say he's not aware of what's going on round abouts him. So he won't care."
Mike clenched his jaw. "Are his shaving things here?"
"Yeah, I think so." She scrabbled in the bedside cabinet, and produced a toiletry bag.
Before she could hand it to Mike, the door opened and a man in a white coat bustled into the room. "Ah, Mrs. Cole, glad you're here, I wanted to have a word." Around his neck he wore the international symbol of the medical profession, a hanging stethoscope — largely irrelevant and seldom used in these days of electronic wizardry, but useful as a badge of office and shorthand introduction.
"It's Mrs. Hollis," Lauren corrected him.
"Ah, yes, of course. And this is…?" he raised his eyebrows at Mike.
"My brother." She nodded in their father's direction. "His son."
"Ah, good, that's useful. I can talk to you both at once." He took his glasses off and waved them in the air as he spoke. "We need to discuss your father's ongoing treatment." He put the specs back on and tilted his head so he could look over the top of the lenses. "We're doing everything that we can to keep him comfortable. We've been giving him I.V. fluids," he flicked a finger at the plastic bag suspended from a stand and dripping clear liquid down a tube and into Patrick's hand, "but, as you can see," he lifted the bedcover to reveal Patrick's legs, "it's caused severe oedema—"
"Excuse me, can I ask, what d'you mean by oedema?" interrupted Lauren.
He removed the glasses again and looked sideways at her. "Swelling, Mrs. Cole, swelling. Fluid accumulates in the tissues due to the poor circulation and causes the oedema you can see here." He waved an arm of the spectacles at Patrick's legs. "So, from a medical standpoint, I'd recommend that we discontinue the artificial hydration," he replaced the blanket and settled his specs back on his nose again, "and continue with the palliative care."
"Palliative care?" said Mike. "But surely he's not at that stage yet. People recover from strokes all the time."
The glasses came off again. Mike was starting to think of the doctor's naked face as 'bad cop'. "Mr Cole, I'm afraid that thirty percent of patients who suffer an ischemic attack will die within a year. Ten percent won't even make it out of hospital. And your father has had a severe bilateral cerebral infarction, which rendered him unconscious immediately. Quite frankly, it's unusual for a patient suffering such a serious head trauma to survive this long." The specs returned. "Now, we could continue the liquids, but that can result in other complications such as pneumonia," the specs were waving in the air again, "which is why I'm recommending that they be discontinued."
There was silence for a moment while Mike and Lauren digested this medical gobbledygook. "If I'm understanding you correctly," Mike translated, "you're basically saying he's dying anyway so why prolong it with fluids?"
"Ah, yes, I suppose you could put it like that." He pulled out a small blue cloth and started polishing the lenses.
Mike looked across at Lauren, and could te
ll from her expression that she hadn't been expecting this news.
"But he could still recover from the stroke!" she said. "Why would you stop giving him liquid? He needs to drink! He might get better tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month."
The doctor shook his head. "His coma is so deep I'm afraid he's highly unlikely to awaken. And the tests we've done on his brain function have not indicated a positive prognosis, should he recover." He lifted a hand as if to remove his glasses again, but seemed to change his mind and adjusted them instead. "I'm afraid it's probable he's suffered severe brain damage from the haemorrhage. I'm sorry." For the first time, he looked almost sympathetic.
In the silence that followed, Mike could hear all the tiny sounds of the hospital room, even the dripping of the fluids from the bag hung beside his father's bed. He cleared his throat. "Could Mrs. Hollis and I have some time to discuss this? I've just flown in from the U.K. and it's a lot to digest."
"Ah, of course, of course." With a sniff, the doctor bustled out of the room.
Lauren turned to Mike, her eyes brimming with tears. "We can't just give up on him like that. He might still recover." She scrunched some of the blanket in her hands. "This is our father. We need to give him a chance, don't you think?"
Mike looked at the old man in the bed, and frowned. What would Dad want? If it were him lying there, he knew he wouldn't want a life as an invalid — or worse. But how could he know what his father would have wanted? "Did he ever talk to you about situations like this? Maybe in relation to someone else — a neighbour, perhaps, or a friend?"
Her head started to shake as she thought. "No, not that I remember, sorry."
"It's hard to know what he'd want."
"But it's only been a few days. He might still get better."
Mike could see the hope in her eyes. False hope, probably, but she was right; it was very soon. The old man deserved some time. It was the least they could do for him. He nodded. "Yeah, I think you're right. It's too soon. Let's ask them to give him another week on the fluids and then we can re-assess the situation."