Crossed skis, p.1
Crossed Skis, page 1
Crossed Skis
by E. C. R. Lorac
First published in 1952
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
Trava2909@gmail.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
CROSSED SKIS
by E. C. R. Lorac
To our party at Lech am Arlberg, January, 1951
BARBARA — MICHAEL
JEAN — MICHAEL
MARY — TONY
PATRICIA — DICK
DIANA — FRANCIS
MARGARET — GEOFFREY
JUNE — RICHARD
JOHN
With thanks for their help and advice,
and happy memories of their charming company.
May they never Cross their Skis.
CAROL
Chapter I
1
“By the Golden Arrow arch at Victoria Station, continental side, at twelve noon, tomorrow, New Year’s Day, and don’t be late,” said Bridget Manners patiently. “You can’t mistake the Golden Arrow arch, and anyway all the porters know it. Yes, I know the B.B.C. has given gale warnings for Portsmouth, Dover and Thames, but you’ll just have to bear it. Bring your Kwells and don’t be late.”
She put down the receiver and threw up her arms in a gesture of despair. “Jane, I shall be raving before we start. Everybody’s ringing up all day, as though I hadn’t told them everything. Oh, Hades, who’s that?”
“It’s all right. That’ll be Pippa, she’s a sensible wench,” said Jane, as the door bell rang. “She just wants to hear about the last man, and probably to try on her ski-ing trousers. She’s borrowed them and she’s in a panic in case she can’t sit down in them. I’ll go to the door.”
“And I’ll go and powder my nose—it’s priority,” said Bridget.
Phillipa Brand (commonly called Pippa), a tall bonny lass in her twenties, came into Bridget’s sitting-room with Jane.
“I can’t believe it’s true!” she exclaimed. “Do you really think we shall get off tomorrow? I’ve been panicking for weeks. First it was on and then it was off, and it’s just been too hair-raising. Winter sporting! I’ve never wanted to do anything so much, and I simply can’t believe it’s true we’re going.”
“Well, we are going,” said Jane firmly. “Sixteen of us. Eight men and eight women. Biddy’s got everything taped—tickets, reservations, couchettes and hotel, and she’s worked like a Trojan over it. If anybody falls out now, it’ll be just unforgivable. What with Raymond getting married and Nigel having an appendix and Charles going broke over a new car, it looked as though we should be an eighty per cent hen party. But it’s all right and everything’s in order. Oh lord, that’s the phone again. You try on those bags while I answer it. There’s generally lashings of room in them and you’re not that buxom.”
“I’m bigger than I look—there,” said Pippa, as Jane lifted the receiver and began to chant: “By the Golden Arrow arch at Victoria Station, continental side, at twelve, noon… oh, it’s Daphne. Yes, I know you know, but we’re just making sure. What? Oh yes, Bridget’s got the last man. Nigel raked him up. Oh, Nigel has got an appendix. Yes, jolly bad luck. Twelve o’clock tomorrow. Cheers.”
Bridget, with nose duly powdered and curly hair brushed into order, came back into the room. Bridget was very pretty, but her clear-cut face was purposeful, her eyes intelligent as well as beguiling. She gave an expert glance at Pippa’s ski-ing trousers.
“Hallo, Pippa. Those are all right… quite snappy in fact. Sakes, what a time we’ve had. But I don’t think there can be any more crises now, and I saw Veronica this morning. She said Lech is all one can wish—jolly good ski-ing, not too remote and nice places to dance. So it sounds all right.”
“It sounds a dream,” said Pippa. “I’ve wanted to ski all my life and now it’s really going to happen. Do tell me about the others. It’s all been changed so often I’ve just lost count.”
Bridget sat down by the fire. “You know several of them,” she said. “Eight females—you, Jane and me. Catherine Reid, who’s a friend of Jane’s. She wants to paint, I believe. Meriel Parsons—you remember her, she paints, too, and she was on the land during the war. Martha Harris is coming with her brother—he’s a doctor. It’s useful to have a doctor in the party. By the way, have you insured your legs? I have. You never know with ski-ing. Who else? Oh, Jillian Dexter. She’s Ian’s sister and quite a lovely, I’m told. Daphne Melling was in the Wrens with me, and she comes to our Reel parties. That’s all the girls—Jane, Pippa, Catherine, Meriel, Martha, Jillian, Daphne and me. It’ll be simpler to use front names. We can all learn each other’s surnames as we go along.”
“Do you know them all?” asked Pippa.
“I know most of the shes and some of the hes,” replied Bridget. “Malcolm Perry’s coming, he’s a schoolmaster and he was ski-ing somewhere last year. Tim Grant’s a pilot, I believe, and Derrick Cossack’s in the Navy. Frank Harris and Gerald Raine are both doctors. There’s an Irishman named Robert O’Hara, I don’t know anything about him except that he’s a very good dancer, and I don’t know Ian Dexter either. He’s only just down from Cambridge. The last man is Neville Helston. Nigel raked him up for us at the last moment. I don’t know the first thing about him, but Nigel says he’s O.K., a pretty fair skier and keen on dancing and he’s travelled a lot. He rang me up, and he seemed very keen to come, so that’s the lot.”
“I think it’s marvellous of you to have organised it all,” said Pippa, and Jane put in:
“I think it jolly well is. Nobody knows what a sweat it is getting a party together like this. People say they’ll come and then say they can’t, and you book rooms and cancel them, and wrangle about reservations, feeling all the time that it’s all quite futile.”
“And when you’ve just about decided to drop the whole thing, it all starts taking shape and people behave beautifully,” said Bridget. “I do hope it’s fun. We had a gorgeous time at Scheidegg last year, and I’m dead keen to do some more ski-ing. It should be rather amusing to have a party who don’t all know one another.”
“Are we all meeting at Victoria tomorrow?” asked Pippa.
“No, not quite all,” replied Bridget. “Timothy Grant is flying to Zürich, his airline’s giving him a lift. The Irishman may be travelling by a later train. He seemed a bit vague, but he knows his way about, so I left him to it. Most of us are going second class and I’ve got couchette reservations for twelve, so we shan’t have that awful business of sitting up all night. Two of the men are travelling third class to save money. It’ll be pretty grim for them, sitting up all night on hard seats, but I suppose they think it’s worth while. I’d rather them than me. It’s a perishing long journey to Austria, and those continental thirds are simply grim.”
“Do we go right through in the same train?” asked Pippa. “Calais to Lech, wherever Lech is.”
“It’s in Austria,” said Jane, “and the station for Lech is Langen. We drive from Langen to Lech, it’s higher up than Langen. We leave Calais at half-past five and get to Basle about seven the next morning. We change at Basle, and get a Swiss breakfast on the Austrian train. Cherry jam and croissants. Glory, how nice! I adore meals in Switzerland.”
“Talking about meals, Jane and I are taking some food with us,” went on Bridget. “Dinner on the train costs an awful lot, no matter what currency you pay in. You can get food tickets this side and pay in sterling if you want to, but the tickets cost fifteen shillings, and fifteen bob for a meal on the train always seems a bit steep to me.”
“Fifteen bob for dinner? Save us,” groaned Pippa. “I’ll bring my own food, sandwiches or something.”
“Don’t cut sandwiches, they get dry,” said Bridget. “Bring a loaf and some butter, and some hard-boiled eggs and ham if you can get it. And a big Thermos with lime juice ready mixed, because the trains are frightfully hot and you’ll get terribly thirsty. We shall have lunch in the train when we leave Victoria, and you can get tea on the boat.”
Pippa gave a wail. “Lunch on the boat train just before a Channel crossing with the worst gale of the year blowing? What a hope.”
“It’s only about an hour’s crossing and there’s no need to be sick,” said Jane firmly. “Take a Kwells and make an act of faith…”
“Mountains…” murmured Pippa. “Faith may move them, but it won’t make my lunch stay put if—”
“Don’t be morbid,” said Bridget firmly. “And remember, twelve o’clock at the Golden Arrow arch. We’ve got our registered baggage to cope with, and it always takes longer than you expect, so although our train doesn’t leave until one, we’re going to meet at twelve. So now trot home and sleep well and dream of ski-ing down the nursery slopes at Lech.”
“Heaven!” cried Pippa.
“—or head first in a snowdrift,” said Jane. “Until you’ve tried ski-ing, you’ve just no idea how many different ways there are of falling, or how many places on your anatomy you can collect bruises. You have been warned!”
2
New Year’s Day, 1951, was as dreary a day as an English winter can devise. It dawned with a bitter wind, while rain and sleet drove in a mixture of perishing misery across the drab London streets. At nine o’clock, a half-hear
Jane Harrington and Meriel Parsons stood nobly by the Golden Arrow arch at Victoria, counting up their party, giving advice and information about registered baggage, while everybody said the same thing: “Thank heaven we’re getting out of this, into the sunshine.”
The thought of sunshine over the mountains in contrast to the filth and gloom of London animated the whole party as they made their way to the boat train platform, all laden with miscellaneous baggage. All had boots slung around them somewhere, some had skis, though most of the party intended to hire them. Bridget was busy handing over railway tickets and introducing everybody to everybody.
“Jane, Meriel, Pippa, Daphne… Oh, do you know Malcolm Perry and Derrick Cossack? Jane, have you seen Martha and Frank? Oh, and there’s Gerald, and that must be Jillian and Ian… How many’s that? We’ve got seats all together in the same coach. Do get in, everybody. Jane, count them in. Is this one of us?”
“Miss Manners? I’m Robert O’Hara. What a day, it’s like night with the lid on. I only just made it. I thought my taxi would never get across.”
“Is that the lot?” murmured Jane to Bridget, who was still standing on the platform.
“No. The last man hasn’t come yet… I do hope he’s not letting us down,” said Bridget. “We’re rather a pleasant-looking crowd, aren’t we? The Irishman’s a big lad, isn’t he? and I like those tweeds of Pippa’s.”
“You’d never know he was an Irishman, he doesn’t sound like one,” said Jane.
“He may be a North American Indian for all I know about him, but he looks all right to me,” said Bridget. “Who’s this? Our lost lamb? He’s cut it pretty fine.”
A tall dark fellow came running up the platform. “Miss Manners? I’m Helston. Sorry I’m late, my other train was held up in the fog. Nigel sends this with his love.” “This” was a box of chocolates.
“Thanks a lot, get in, we’re all in here,” said Bridget.
The other flashed her a grin: “Awfully sorry if I held the party up. It was just one of those things. But it’s all right now.”
They scrambled in, and Bridget and Jane set to work on further introductions: “Neville Helston, Malcolm Perry—Jillian and Ian Dexter, Martha and Frank Harris… Robert O’Hara. Glory, we’re off, we’ve really done it! Fifteen of us on this train and the sixteenth flying. I never believed we’d really get off.”
“I’m very grateful to you for letting me come,” said Neville Helston to Jane, who replied:
“We were very glad you could come. It squared the party, and we all think it’s better to have even numbers of hes and shes, for dancing as well as sociability. You do dance, don’t you?”
“Yes, rather,” replied Neville, and Jane added: “Oh, good. That’s the dining-car men. They’re going to give us our lunch in here, it saves trailing along to the dining-car. I’m simply starving. Goodness, what’s that?”
There was a crash farther along the coach, and the dining-car boy had started laying the tables, and Ian Dexter gave a howl of woe.
“My bottle of rum— Hell! it’s smashed. I do call that a perishing shame. I brought it to cheer the party en route.”
“Bad luck,” called one of the others, but Ian turned indignantly on the dining-car attendant:
“Look here, you smashed it. You jolly well ought to provide another one.”
“I never touched it, sir, it just rolled off the table,” said the boy, looking thoroughly scared.
Bridget Manners intervened here, in a voice of cheerful common sense: “Don’t be an ass, Ian. I saw it happen. It just rolled off. The boy never touched it, it’s not his fault at all.”
The boy gave Bridget a grateful glance, and she turned again to Ian: “I think it’s plain bats to take drinks from England to France. Drinks are about the one thing which are certainly cheaper in France than England.”
“Oh, I know,” said Ian, “but the rum was a Christmas present. I thought it might act as a restorative to anybody who feels a bit dim after the Channel. Glory, don’t I just about reek of the stuff?”
“Smells fine, but lord, what a waste!” groaned O’Hara, as the aroma of rum filled the coach, sweet and stimulating and yet a little sickly.
“Is that bad joss?” inquired Helston, while Malcolm Perry sniffed the warm smell with an appreciative grin.
Jane turned to Helston: “Of course it’s not bad joss, it’s baptising the party, like christening a battleship.”
“I think we’re going to have fun on this trip,” murmured Malcolm, as Battersea Power Station slipped past and the train gathered speed on its way southward.
“South for sunshine, south for ski-ing, south for snow,” said Bridget, and the Irishman added: “South for steak, south for sirloin and south for sufficiency, or a surfeit. Eat till one busts and meat at all meals. How I do loathe what’s called the meat ration.”
“That’s the last thing I want to hear about the meat ration until we come back to England,” said Jane firmly, studying the big Irishman with a thoughtful eye.
Neville Helston smiled at Bridget. “We drown all our cares in the Channel. Once over, everything’s glorious,” he said.
Bridget rather liked the half-shy smile on his thin dark face, and sensing that Helston still felt a bit shy among all these vociferous travellers, she said:
“Well, we had a glorious time at Scheidegg last year, and I don’t see why this shouldn’t be just as good. Have you grasped everyone’s names yet? I’m still in the state of hoping I’m giving the right name to the right person.”
“Don’t you know them all?” he asked. “I thought you were all friends.”
“Well—friends of friends,” replied Bridget. “There are several I’d never met before: Robert O’Hara, and you and Derrick Cossack, and the man who’s flying—Timothy Grant. He’s probably got there already and bagged the best bedroom. We haven’t all got rooms in the hotel, some of us are parked out in chalets. Are you particular about ‘sleeping-in’?”
“Not a bit. Park me out,” he replied. “Now let me see if I can cope with all these names. Front names permitted?”
“Oh, yes. It’s so much easier,” she replied.
“Right. Now, three dark girls—Bridget, Pippa and Catherine—or Kate.”
“Kate. She paints, I believe.”
“And three fair girls, Jane, Daphne… and…”
“Jillian. She’s the youngest of us all. Jane shares digs with Meriel and Daphne lives in the country. You’re doing rather well.”
“And two midway girls… the ‘Ms’—Meriel and Martha. I haven’t got the hang of the men yet, but who’s the big tough?”
“Robert O’Hara, an Irishman, and Malcolm’s pretty large, too.”
“O’Hara,” murmured Neville. “He doesn’t look like one, or sound like one.”
“No, and I don’t think Malcolm looks like a schoolmaster,” replied Bridget, “and neither do you look like a Civil Servant, although Nigel says you work in Whitehall in a government office.”
“A government office? Not this trip, anyway,” he laughed, and Bridget replied:
“It’s like being let out of school, isn’t it? I think we all feel the same—and getting away out of this foul weather’s just too good to be true.”
“It’s good… and it’s true, too,” he replied.
3
By the time they reached Dover, most of the party had got to know each other’s names and compared notes on previous winter sports experiences. Those who knew the ropes explained to those who didn’t how the ski-ing schools were organised, about nursery slopes and ski lifts, about hiring equipment and reckoning currency, about costs of this, that and the other in Swiss francs and Austrian schillings. Jane said afterwards that she felt more and more with every minute that passed that ordinary work-a-day conditions of life had become unreal and far away. The immediate present seemed to blot everything else out. It was difficult to believe that half the party had only met the other half a couple of hours ago, because they seemed to be making a whole already, a group of happy excited people who took one another for granted and whose conversation turned on what they were going to do in Austria rather than what they did at home. The general effect was of spontaneous light-heartedness, a desire to please and be pleased.
