WINTER WONDERLAND by Belinda Jones Page A

attempt a wave back at Annique. Of course I choose the precise moment that we hit a bump and out I come, performing an inelegant backward roll and then tumbling messily through the snow, wondering if I will become a human snowball by the time I reach the bottom.
    Only I don’t keep rolling, I snag on something – a branch perhaps? Wow. I catch my breath. That was pretty hairy. Best try to get to my feet – I don’t want to get run over by the next snowmobile shuttle or some off-track tobogganer. But it’s not quite as simple as that – the snow here is too deep. I lose my footing, unbalance, and fall back with a hefty Doomf!
    For a moment there is peace. I am in a white cocoon, a snowy grave pit. All I can see is the pale silken blue of the sky above me. I wonder if I’ve broken anything, but as I test for movement in my limbs I inadvertently invite a tumble of snow upon myself. Oh no. What now? Stay still and freeze, or attempt to get upright and risk causing my own personal avalanche? The snow is easily above head height, so even if I could get to my feet, how exactly would I claw my way out?
    ‘Help!’ I cry, and then realise I should probably call out in French, though ‘ Aidez-moi! ’ sounds so weak. Surely Gilles and Annique saw what happened and are on their way? I hope there’s not too much of a fuss. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble for trying to spare me the hike up the hill.
    It’s then I see the face of an angel – a white fluffy angel with black eyes and a black nose. He peers down on me with a look of bemusement as much as anything.
    How exactly do I convey to him that I need rescuing? The only word I can think of is ‘ chien ’ and, of course, Lassie. I do hope he has something in common with his collie counterpart because he’s taken a good look at me and then turned and left.
    I wait for a clue as to what to do next but I can’t hear anything – the upper world, the one I used to be a part of, is now muffled by snow. But it’s okay. I’m not going to panic. The snowmobiler would have realised his cargo is missing by now. Any minute—
    ‘ Ça va? ’
    A new face appears on the brim of my pit. His hair is a wind-ruffled chestnut, his skin tone a natural outdoorsy tan, and I’m not sure if he has a goatee so much as those soft whiskers that casually frame the mouth and line the jawline. He’s the kind of guy I picture sitting beside a campfire in a well-worn check shirt, beer in one hand and a tattered novel in the other.
    But for now he’s in a padded parka looking down at me.
    ‘I fell in the snow and now I can’t get out.’ I state the obvious.
    He takes a step closer and a clomp of snow drops and bursts upon my chest. He raises his hands – ‘ Pardon! ’ And then studies me for a moment before disappearing.
    Am I to become the town spectacle? Seconds from now will the opening of my pit be trimmed with curious faces mistaking me for another piece of Carnival art.
    But instead he returns with a rope.
    ‘Take this and hold on tight.’
    I wrap it around my hand but don’t fancy his chances of being able to haul me out.
    ‘You should probably cover your face.’
    ‘Sorry?
    ‘Use your scarf to wrap your face, in case there is anything sharp in the snow. And keep your eyes closed.’
    This is sounding more hazardous by the minute.
    ‘Ready?’ he says.
    ‘What do you want me to do?’ I ask, wondering if I should be trying to scrabble up the bank of snow with my feet, attempting to gain traction where there most likely is none.
    ‘Don’t resist, just let the rope do the work.’
    I wonder if I should tell him my weight, let him know what he’s up against, but before I can speak I hear him cry, ‘ Allez, allez! ’ and suddenly I am in motion, yanked upwards, arms wrenching at their sockets, roughly ploughing face-first through the snow.
    And then everything stops.
    I feel him turn me onto my back and gently lower the scarf so my mouth is free.
    ‘Can I open my