Snowbound

Being pushed into an eight-foot snowdrift to avoid being swiped off
the A425 by a jack-knifing forty-ton truck was not the most pleasurable
of experiences. Besides praying that he would survive during their
sideways surfing, Trevor Marshall closed his eyes and thanked God that
it was Charlotte at the wheel. Although he would be loathe to admit it
to her, she was an excellent driver and far more likely to keep her
wits about her in an emergency than him.

The weather forecast had suggested a thirty percent chance of
intermittent snow flurries. It turned out a little differently. It was
impossible to ascertain whether or not it was the wrong kind of snow.
The only certain thing was; it was the wrong amount.

Shortly after their journey began, the flurries rapidly progressed into
gusts of those hard crystals that persistently stick to everything.
They then accelerated into the proportions of a full-blown Siberian
blizzard. Within minutes the windscreen wipers were protesting at being
forced to keep pace with the cascade.

Characteristically, Charlotte showed no signs of panic and maintained
her calm control, gently coaxing the steering wheel until the green
Citroen Xantia finally slithered to rest against a fence, with the
front end buried in the compacted drift. Once the car had come to a
halt, Charlotte instinctively pushed the selector into reverse. It was
to no avail. No matter how gently she feathered the accelerator as she
rocked the selector between drive and reverse, the wheels spun on the
compacted snow.

While Charlotte attempted to gain some traction, Trevor peered over his
shoulder and out of the rear window.

"Where's that soddin' truck gone? Stupid bastard could have killed us -
it's disappeared off the face of the earth." He was suddenly aware of
Charlotte's preoccupation with trying to achieve something practical.
"Got nothing we could stick under the wheels to get a bit of grip, have
you?"

"No." She gave the matter a second thought. "Hang on, what about the
footwell mats? They might do the job."

It was no use. Battling to get the doors open wide enough to drag the
mats out of the car, braving the freezing wind and the ravages of the
blizzard to wrestle the mats under the tyres, proved to be a waste of
energy. The only result was that one of the mats flew round the wheel
arch and the car lurching forward slightly. This sudden movement was
accompanied by a sickening crack from somewhere at the front end.

Charlotte switched off the engine and turned to Trevor. The corners of
her mouth twitched into a nervous half-smile. She pulled her collar up
around her ears and snuggled down in the seat to make herself
comfortable.

"Seems we're stuck here like a right pair of prats now, doesn't
it?"

Trevor swivelled around in his seat and stared intently at her
profile.

"Well, I'm glad you can be so laid back about it, 'cause I don't find
it one bit funny."

"So," She breathed out a long slow sigh, "Tell me, Trevor, what
alternative do you suggest? I'm all ears."

"We get out of here as fast as we bloody well can!"

Charlotte's narrowed eyes expressed her irritation.

"Excuse me, but isn't that what I've been trying to do? If you can
think of an alternative, let me hear it."

"I don't know!" Trevor snapped rather more sharply than he should have
done, then began rummaging through the glove box. "Have you got your
A.A. details?" he barked, tearing a mobile from his coat pocket.

"RAC," she said, producing a plastic credit card-sized document from
the door pocket on her side. He snatched it from her and began punching
numbers into his phone.

A series of monosyllables followed, all of them negative, in answer to
whatever he was being asked by the other party.

"Bloody waste of time that was," he eventually said, snapping off the
instrument.

"Why?" Charlotte enquired innocently, "What did they say?"

"Because we're not injured, not pensioners, have no kids with us, are
not disabled, or on medication, it seems we come bottom of the list.
They don't know when they'll get to us. Until they do, he mimicked the
person he'd been speaking to, 'stay with the car and keep the engine
running to keep warm.' Bloody marvellous!" he grumbled.

"Well, we'd better do as they say," Charlotte tried to sound positive,
"With a bit of luck it won't be too long."

She twisted the key to turn over the engine. To her delight, it started
first time. Her elation was cut short by the appearance of a cloud of
steam billowing out from under the bonnet and the temperature gauge
instantly climbing to maximum.

When the car had come to rest there had been no indication of any
mechanical damage, but all symptoms now pointed to a burst radiator - a
result of the Citroen inadvertently shooting forwards as the wheels
fought for traction. It was now obvious the engine would only be able
to provide them with warmth for a very limited period before seizing up
altogether. And, with the hot water escaping through the fractured
radiator, what did reach the heater would be insufficient to provide
the warmth they needed.

"Oh, sod this!" Trevor cursed, pumping the buttons on his mobile again,
"This is a real emergency. Let's see if we can get any help off the
police."

Charlotte eyed him warily while he made the call. The instant he hung
up, she asked, "So, what did they have to say?"

"The bloody same as the R.A.C.: They're inundated and will get here
'asap'. The ploughs are out but it will take them a time to get to
everybody. That's what they said, but the upshot is, we're low priority
and can freeze to death as far as they're concerned." He slumped into
his seat. "Have you got any travel rugs, blankets, or anything like
that in the back?"

"Yeah, and a kitchen sink,"

Trevor did not appreciate her sarcasm.

"Don't blame me!" he exploded, "I was only repeating what I'd been
asked."

Charlotte pulled at the lever and put her shoulder to the door.
Clenching her teeth, she strained against the resistance of the snow
again.

"Well ain't you a bundle of joy?" she puffed, "Talk about 'The Dunkirk
Spirit'! Trust me to end my life stuck in a snow drift with the world's
biggest bloody misery!"

"Where are you going now?" he demanded.

"To see if I can find an old cow, or something with Foot and Mouth,
that might be more optimistic than you."

The success of her battle against the door was rewarded with a flurry
of white crystals and an icy draught.

By the time she had fought her way out, Trevor had alighted and was
speaking to her across the snow-piled roof of the car.

"Look, I'm sorry for being a pain, but I can't see as there's much to
laugh about at the moment."

She ignored him and adopted an upright stance. With her hand guarding
her eyes against the glare, she studied their surroundings. A quick
surveillance of the escarpment told her there was no immediate escape.
The whole landscape was carpeted in a thick mantle of white, all but
hiding any signs of human habitation. Already the scars left by the
sliding truck had disappeared under a fresh layer of powder, which
brought with it an eerie muted stillness to the blanketed
atmosphere.

There was nothing untouched by the downfall. The car was tilted with
the offside leaning away from the road, angled against a ditch,
bordering a field laid out in allotments. The severed section of a
wooden fencing post jutted like Pinocchio's nose from the front of the
Xantia, clearly defining the cause of the ruptured radiator.

"So, what d'you reckon?" Trevor asked, nervously interrupted her
ponderings.

"There doesn't seem any alternative to staying put," she decided, "Come
on, we haven't got blankets, but we've got extra layers of clothing in
our bags." She reached into the car and removed the keys from the
ignition. "Do us a favour, Trev, and get the bags out the back, will
you?" She handed him the keys.

Trevor almost smiled. Amongst the workforce, Charlotte Allen was noted
for being a clever businesswoman, with a sound knowledge of her
industry. Although she was renowned for her approachability, it was
common knowledge that she didn't suffer fools gladly.

Trevor Marshall had worked with her for almost four years and that was
the first time she'd called him anything other than the full 'Trevor'.
But then, this was a first for a lot of things: It was the first time
he had seen the senior manager dressed in a huge woolly sweater, cargos
and clumpy walking shoes. Quite a change from the formal, expensively
tailored suits she normally wore. And her dark brown hair, that usually
flowed down just short of her shoulders in natural waves from a side
parting was, looped up into a casual bundle high on the back of her
head. All in all, right then, Charlotte Allen looked more like a
militant left wing environmental activist than the sophisticated
executive that she actually was.

Charlotte had to stifle a little sman when she saw Trevor almost
lose his footing while gawking at her and opening the tailgate at the
same time. Once it was stowed inside the car, she removed a bright red
woollen hat from her case and pulled it firmly over her head.

Bulletins on the local radio station confirmed that their ordeal was
likely to pan out for quite a while, as the rescue services were
stretched to the limit. They sat in silence for sometime as the car
became more encapsulated in snow and the temperature steadily
plummeted.

After a while Charlotte became uncomfortably aware that she was under
Trevor's scrutiny.

"All right then, what's up? I can see your burning to say something."
She told him irritably.

"D'you know," Trevor felt compelled to comment, "I'm seeing you in far
different light today?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, for a start, look how you're dressed."

"Far more practical than you," she contested, challenging his stare,
"dressed to go to the races. If you'd have had something better than
those stupid loafers on your feet, you may not have come so close to
breaking your neck at the back of the car."

Trevor chose to ignore the remark and pursued his own agenda.

"But what mystifies me is, how did you know it was going to turn out
like this? I mean, it took the weather men by surprise, yet you came
dressed for it."

"Trevor, it's the weekend. I know we're on business, but I do like to
dress casually when I can. It's also winter, so I'm wearing winter
clothes."

Trevor made serious eye contact with his colleague. "The old man told
you to come, didn't he?"

"What makes you say that?" Charlotte replied nonchalantly.

"Because your whole attitude suggests you don't want to be here."

"Who'd want to be stuck in a snow drift with a soddin' whinger like
you, and no heating?" Her voice betrayed a hint of uneasiness.

"You know what I mean. You're here as a minder to keep an eye on me,
because your father doesn't trust me, isn't that the truth?"

It was the truth. With a degree in engineering, Charlotte was general
manager of her father's firm, which built specialist vehicles for all
sorts of purposes, from commercial, right through to adapted vehicles
for the disabled. Trevor, who had risen through the ranks of various
engineering companies, was head of purchasing.

Charlotte had always suspected that Trevor resented her status;
believing she was there because of who she was, not her
abilities.

That Friday evening they were on their way to a promotional weekend, at
the NEC, organised and funded by the sales department of Fortens, a
multi-national vehicle supplier.

The basic units manufactured by the supplier would be bought in by
Allen's Adaptations and modified/rebuilt to any specifications demanded
by the individual customer. This particular enterprise was to be a big
investment for the company and George Allen wanted to ensure the best
possible deal. It wasn't that he had anything against Trevor as a
person. It was merely a matter of not trusting any individual. Where
such large amounts of capital were involved, there was always the
possibility of bribery. Allen's had a firm footing in the market. To
sustain growth, George knew he had to retain competitiveness, and he
didn't want a raw deal bought by greased palms.

"Trevor!" Charlotte tried her best to sound assertive, "You might have
the responsibility of buying in the units but I have the responsibility
of working with them. George thought, between us, with your knowledge
of the market place and mine in production, we could compliment each
other to get exactly what we need at the right price. So don't go
getting paranoid on me."

Trevor held up his hands in a gesture of submission.

"OK! OK! I accept what you say. Anyway, as it's turned out, it doesn't
make any difference, 'cause if somebody doesn't turn up soon, neither
of us will be going anywhere." He paused and then smiled at her. "D'you
know, I could murder a drink of something really hot or, even better,
something extremely alcoholic."

"Well," Charlotte replied in an equally relaxed manner, "if you give me
a minute, I'll have the bar open. Would you like some nibbles to go
with your cognac and coffee, Sir?"

Accepting their lot, they settled down, listening to the radio and
making small talk about their mutual interests, which didn't extend
much further than Allen's Adaptations. They had been sitting for over
two and a half hours sensing the temperature growing steadily colder
and colder and the night growing darker and darker, when Charlotte had
a sudden flash of inspiration.

"D'you know, I think you're right. If we stay here we're going to
freeze to death." She became aware of her flushed cheeks betraying a
hint of embarrassment. "I was thinking, maybe we'd be warmer sharing
our body heat on the back seat?"

"Bloody hell!" Trevor retorted, risking a broad grin, "It's true what
they say about the 'ill wind'. Here I am practically at death's door
and out of the blue I get the best offer I've had in months."

"Don't you get ideas above your station," she cautioned him, "It's
purely self preservation and nothing else. Which reminds me, I think
we'd better call in and tell Fortens we won't be able to make it
tonight."

Their conversation continued in much the same vein as it had in the
front seats, with Charlotte eyeing Trevor thoughtfully as he relayed
anecdotes about his previous employers and rise from a panel beater to
his current position.

"Dad and you are similar in a lot of ways," she told him.

"How?" he laughed.

"Well you both rose through the ranks the hard way. He started as an
apprentice mechanic in a back street garage. Unlike me, who, according
to your thinking, was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, my father
wasn't so lucky."

"Yeah, but I bet he had a father to support him, which is more than I
did."

Now Trevor had her full attention.

"What? You never knew your father? Not at all?"

"Nope."

"But you must at least know who he was?"

"Nope. From what I've gleaned, I was the product of a one-night stand -
or at best, a very short relationship. So my mother had to bring me up
on her own with no financial support from him. That's why I didn't have
the benefit of a university education, or anything like that."

Charlotte had never felt any great warmth for Trevor. She had always
thought him a self-opinionated, egotistical chauvinist. Because he'd
been married to her secretary, she was privy to the details of the
messy divorce. But with this recent revelation, she could not help
feeling a degree of empathy. "I'm sorry, Trev, I didn't realise."

He noted that 'Trev' again and shrugged, "Why should you? Maybe it's
for the best. Who knows, I could wind up with my own company one day
like your dad."

It was gone two the following morning when the rescue services found
them still huddled together in the back seat of the snowbound Xantia. A
quick medical check established they needed nothing more than warmth
and a place to rest.

The demands of other stranded travellers left just one room available
at the small hotel, which they were swiftly ferried to. Trevor was less
put out by this arrangement than Charlotte, and joked, "Well, this just
gets better and better by the minute."

Due to the late hour, only hot tomato soup and cold beef sandwiches
could be rustled up from the kitchen. However, before the weary couple
turned in for some much needed sleep, they savoured a couple of cups of
piping hot coffee, swilled down by several large brandies.
The brandy left them feeling a lot more relaxed and, after shedding
their outer layers; they flopped onto the double bed, side by side,
with their backs to each other. Within a matter of minutes they were
fast asleep.

* * * *

Trevor had no idea how long he had lain there when he sensed
Charlotte's arm draped over him. They were both single, professional,
and in their early thirties. He couldn't say he wasn't tempted. There
wasn't a male employee at Allen's Adaptations that wouldn't have given
his right arm for an opportunity like this. But although he couldn't
put his finger on why, he felt extremely uncomfortable about exploiting
the situation. God knows what anyone in the office would think of his
timidity. Perhaps Charlotte would be disappointed by his performance
(or lack of it!) but that didn't matter.

* * * *

Margaret Allen enjoyed having Charlotte round for a Sunday lunch but
she was growing increasingly concerned by the exchanges between her
husband and daughter.

"Dad, I'm telling you, it was like one of those scenes from an old
Doris Day movie. We didn't go near each other," Charlotte told her
father over the roast lamb, "Anyway, I'm not a teenager anymore. What I
choose to do has absolutely nothing at all to do with you."

"I just don't want any scandal getting around the factory floor,"
George explained, rather unconvincingly

"George," Margaret eventually intervened, "if you've got a minute, I'd
like a word with you." She turned to Charlotte. "You wouldn't mind
clearing the table, would you, love, while I have a word with your
father?"

Charlotte was visibly relieved by the opportunity to escape her
father's intrusive questioning. His disappointment at the cancellation
of such an important event was understandable - the bewildering aspect
was his unnatural interest in Charlotte's relationship with
Trevor.

Margaret slammed the bedroom door shut behind her and leaned her weight
against it.

"George!" she snapped angrily, "Just tell me what the bloody hell was
going on down there. Don't tell me, nothing!.. I haven't seen that look
on your face since I found out about that floosie you were having the
affair with in Liverpool. What was her name?
Valerie&;#8230;er&;#8230;"

"Marshall," he helped her out.

"That's it. Having a right old time, weren't you, while you were
supposed to be&;#8230; No!.. Tell me it's not true!" She raised her
hand to her face in disbelief. "It's her son, isn't it? Why the hell
didn't you say something sooner?"

George fingered his collar nervously.

"I didn't tell you because I didn't know. I had no idea she had a
child."

"So when did you find out?" Margaret demanded, hands on hips.

"I didn't know a thing until I interviewed that young man for the job
of purchasing manager. It was when I checked his C.V. that it came to
light."

"But still you chose to give him the job and keep your little secret to
yourself." Margaret persisted. "My God, George, you sent them away for
the weekend together - her not aware of who he is. Can you imagine the
heartbreak it could have caused if anything had happened?"

George cleared his throat and gazed at his shoes.

"I never dreamed anything could happen. At work they seem so
standoffish with each other."

"So why did you give him the job in the first place?"

"Margaret, he's my son. God knows I've done nothing else, so helping
him out when I could didn't seem any big deal."

* * * *

THE END