Page 10 of Lost in Translation
Charlotte dipped her chips in mayonnaise and looked up at the clear blue sky. A picture-postcard scene, where the snow-capped mountains glistened around her and the air was bitingly cold yet invigorating. A world away from home, where the weather usually dominated conversation, but not in a good way. Too wet, too dry, unseasonably chilly or unbearably hot. Switzerland adhered to the four seasons, or so Charlotte had been told. Climate change meant things were no longer as predictable, with the locals grumbling about less snow, spring flowers appearing then being destroyed by sub-zero temperatures, and summers rivalling the Mediterranean.
Tilting her head back, Charlotte relished the warmth of the sun. Her skin tingled, and she dug out the small tube of factor 30 cream from her breast pocket. Smearing a liberal amount over her face, she went to call the boys over for a top-up. But they’d re-joined the queue, chips forgotten and drinks half-drunk.
Drifting off, Charlotte felt the tension of recent weeks slip away. She badly wanted to take off those dratted ski boots, but had neither the energy nor the inclination. Instead, she focused on her breathing, and the joyful shrieks and squeals of the learner skiers honing their craft. Charlotte doubted she’d progress beyond the basics, but that was OK. She could tag along with Dom and the boys, content to join in with the après-ski eating and drinking.
Pulling out her sunglasses, Charlotte shuffled further down in the chair. She undid her scarf and folded it up as a makeshift headrest. Letting the noise wash over her, she closed her eyes and drifted away on a sea of thoughts. Maybe it would all work out fine. Perhaps her misgivings about Switzerland were nothing more than fear of the unknown. Plenty of people moved overseas and embraced an alternative lifestyle. Who knew, Charlotte might prove a natural on the slopes, sailing elegantly past Dom and the boys like a glamorous model in a perfume ad. Speaking French like a native as she browsed chic boutiques—
An anguished cry jolted Charlotte upright.Alastair. She knew her boys’ every sound, etched in her mind from birth. Leaping to her feet, she scanned the slope, a sea of bodies big and small making it impossible to see where he was. Then Charlotte spotted him. Alastair was tangled in the bright orange netting that ran along the side of the practice piste, flailing like a fish fighting for survival.
‘Alastair!’ Charlotte yelled, her eyes alighting on Robson slip-sliding towards his brother. As fast as the hideous boots would allow, she clumped her way upwards, digging her heels in in case she tumbled backward.
‘Mummy!’ Robson drew next to her, just feet away from where Alastair sobbed and fought to free himself. Before Charlotte could reach him, an older boy skied to his rescue. He discarded his skis, knelt down, and started working Alastair free from his trap. By then, several adults had gathered around, but they gave the teenager space to continue his mission.
‘Is he OK?’ Robson reached out his hand and clasped Charlotte’s. His little body trembled, echoing Charlotte’s own judders of panic. Was he? His sobs had subsided, and he didn’t appear injured. No limbs jutting out at awkward angles, and no signs of blood.
‘Sweetie, are you OK?’ Charlotte dropped next to the junior Good Samaritan. He gave her a quick smile, before releasing Alastair from the last piece of netting.
One of the Swiss ski school staff gave Alastair a quick once-over, tickling him until he giggled. ‘He is good,’ the man said to Charlotte. ‘No need to call an ambulance this time.’ He produced a chocolate bar and passed it to Alastair, who accepted it gratefully. ‘Your first time to ski?’ Alastair nodded, and the man patted him on the head. ‘Well done. If you do not crash into the barrier once, you are not a true skier.’
Alastair accepted Charlotte’s relieved hug before splitting the bar into four pieces. He shared it out with his brother, Charlotte, and the older boy who remained seated next to him.
‘Thank you.’ The boy, who looked maybe seventeen or eighteen, broke off a piece and popped it in his mouth. ‘Alles gut.’
German,thought Charlotte, regarding Alastair’s rescuer with gratitude and curiosity. He was a striking-looking young man, with balanced features and an air of calm that belied his years. She thought of hugging him too, then reconsidered. Instead, she sat quietly and ate her chocolate. The buzz of concern had abated, everyone returning to what they’d come to do.
‘I’m so grateful for your help,’ she said. ‘I was so scared, but you dealt with it so well. Thank you.Danke.’ Charlotte hoped it was the right word.
‘It was nothing. I have had some bad ski experiences myself, but you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and—’
Start all over again.Charlotte brushed away a random tear that threatened to slalom down her cheek. How did this stripling of a lad — now she was channelling her mother — know that song? Before Charlotte could ask, he grinned sheepishly and pulled out his phone. ‘My father is a big fan of Nat King Cole, along with other oldies. He educates me in music, and I educate him in technology, like Instagram and Twitter.’ He pressed something on his phone, and the song played out loud. Charlotte sang along, the boys puzzled but happy to listen.
‘I thought Frank Sinatra sang it?’ Charlotte didn’t know much about the ‘oldies’, but she vaguely recalled her parents playing it aeons ago.
‘Ah, he did, but this is the superior version.’ The music stopped, and Alastair’s helper got up and retrieved his skis.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask your name.’ Charlotte saw Dom in the distance, phone pressed to his ear and eyes scanning the area for his family. She waved, but doubted he noticed. Alastair got up too and did an awkward high-five with his helper.
‘I’m Marcus. Very pleased to meet you, but I must go now. My father is waiting.’ He slung his skis over his shoulder and marched towards the parking area. Charlotte spotted a red car pulling in, then Dom approached.
‘What’s been going on?’ he asked, taking in Alastair’s tear-streaked face and the strands of orange netting twined around his skis.
‘Erm, Alastair had a minor mishap, but no harm done,’ replied Charlotte.
‘He smashed into the fence!’ said Robson, milking the minor drama for all he was worth.
Dom crouched down and removed Alastair’s helmet. ‘Sure you’re OK, buddy?’ he asked, tousling Alastair’s flattened hair.
‘I’m fine, Daddy, honest. A nice man gave me chocolate and a big boy helped me get out of the stupid net stuff. Can we ski some more now?’
With a quick hug from both Charlotte and Dom, the boys kitted up and joined the queue again. People were leaving, and Charlotte wanted to head off soon too. Her toes were numb, and she yearned for a long, hot bath at the hotel, followed by a nice meal.
Dom turned on Charlotte, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘I know it’s only a baby slope, but he could have been seriously hurt.’
Charlotte bit back the response that maybehe,the experienced skier, should have stuck around instead of swanning off on his own. ‘I was keeping an eye on them,’ she snapped, deciding that Dom didn’t need to know about her brief siesta. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t have done a thing to stop it, and Alastair’s fine.’
Fifteen minutes later, they called it a day and lugged their gear back to the hire car. Dom fitted the adult skis to the roof rack, popping the boys’ in the car boot. As Charlotte slid into the passenger seat, Dom’s phone pinged. ‘Give me a sec,’ he said, wandering off to the other side of the parking area.
‘Mummy, can we have Chinese for dinner?’ said Robson, buckling up his seat belt. ‘I saw a place right next door to the hotel.’
