Cold Comforts

I knew this shortcut was a bad idea as soon as we slowed down to twenty miles per hour. In retrospect, twenty miles per hour was fine, because we’ve been stationary for three hours and now my stomach’s complaining like a blocked drain. It sounds like it’s got a voice of its own and it isn’t shy about speaking its mind.

#

Late night Christmas shopping is never a great idea on an empty stomach. Jenny and I met up in town after work on Christmas Eve, each clutching our lists of necessary purchase suggestions. We’d left everything to the last minute, and we were up against it yet again. The shopping centre in the heart of town was our best bet for gifts and maybe a quick bite to eat? 

Jenny looked at me, shook her head, and sighed. 

Maybe she’d eaten? Probably not. She was a woman on a mission. 

The queue for the Sauciehall Street car park wasn’t a problem when we arrived. We edged our way up the ramp as the six o’clock radio news warned of incoming snow. By the time we arrived at a free space on the sixth floor, large white flakes were drifting past outside. A cheery Glaswegian radio newsreader cautioned his listeners against westbound journeys to the coast and beyond. It was no consolation to us that he’d completed all his festive preparations. He was unaware of our current circumstances and wished all his listeners a happy holiday. 

The elevator descends and pauses at every floor with deliberate disregard for our urgency. It waits with patience as we collect gaggles of shoppers at every stop. It occurs to me that everyone else in the city must have opted to join the eleventh-hour stampede. We weren’t alone in our pursuit, which was a comfort, but it didn’t make our retail purgatory any easier. We discussed our gift list and worked out a strategy for buying the required items; Port and Stilton, napkin rings, wine glasses and the usual collection of assorted surprises for the table. With care and attention, we gathered the first few presents, but noticing the time we speeded up our foraging to snatch up presents for all our relatives and friends. We dashed from store to store, grabbing last minute winter wear essentials, irresistible electronic novelties, must-have deals of the day and never-to be-repeated special bargains. 

We shopped until we couldn’t carry anything else and trudged past weary sales assistants glugging hard-earned cups of steaming coffee as they closed their outlets and rammed down their protective metal window shutters. 

No chance of a quick snack, love? 

Jenny was adamant. We should get going because we had a long night ahead of us. It was a big mistake hoping we’d have time to eat. I should have learned from the previous year’s experience and bought a sandwich after work.

#

It’s been five hours since we made any solid progress on the West bound motorway. No one knows any details. There’s no information on the radio to tell us what’s happened. We’ve all nudged over to clear the way for a fleet of emergency vehicles. Jenny’s guess is that there’s been a terrible accident. Surely a collision would be straight forward to remedy? Maybe it’s a fuel spillage from a tanker? Or chemicals maybe? Who knows?

I get out to stretch my legs and brush away handfuls of snow from the windscreen. The man from the car behind approaches me, rubbing his upper arms to keep warm. 

“This is a Christmas none of us will forget,” he says, cursing and clapping his gloved hands together. “Where are the authorities when you need them, eh?”

“I’m sure they’re doing everything possible to---”

“You know what?” 

“Well I imagine that---” 

“I’m going to give them a piece of my mind, that’s what.” 

With that said, he fumbled for his electronic key fob. His iced-up car bleeped twice, and he set off by foot in a westerly direction.

“What on earth was all that about?”

“He’s had enough, love.”

“Haven’t we all?”

#

I assumed our new neighbour intended to discover what’s happening. He marched off down the hard shoulder over an hour ago, but failed to return. We guess at this point that he’s not coming back anytime soon. 

#

The flurries of snow have increased in frequency and settle everywhere. We’re struggling to see out of the window when a dark figure with a Maglite heads towards us. There are shouts from further up the line, and he waves his arms in a beckoning motion. A cloud of exhaust billows up from the car ahead and I rotate the ignition key. The engine sputters and starts on the third attempt. We slide across the lanes and shuffle into line behind the vehicles in front of us.

“Thank heavens,” Jenny says. “Let’s leave this road at the---”

“Yeah, of course,” I say, gripping the wheel. “The next exit’s not far off.”

#

Three hours later, we’ve joined another endless queue of festive stragglers in a rural gridlock. It was optimistic to imagine a shortcut would be quicker or offer fewer obstacles. A blue flashing light behind us is forcing its way through our tightly packed flock of metallic sheep. We’ve embedded ourselves in drifts of unploughed snow and our windscreen wipers are struggling to keep up. The ambulance’s siren is insistent and we need to make way. 

“There’s space over there,” Jenny says, gesturing towards the roadside. “In front of that entrance.”

The car bumps over the snowy verge and slides diagonally towards the wooden, five-barred gate. The line of traffic has stopped moving again and a shoal of emergency vehicles trundles past. I turn off the engine and stare at the fluffy white clumps landing on the glass in front of me. Last year’s frenzied shopping expedition was exhausting, but nothing like tonight. The car’s digital time display indicates it’s almost six o’clock and there’s a hint of greenish daylight behind us.

“Merry Christmas, love…” she says, rubbing my shoulder with her gloved hand.

“Not quite what we’d planned.” I smile and lower my aching head to rest my weary brow on the steering wheel. 

“Hey there,” she says. “I got you a present.”

“You beat me to it, Jen.” I say and grin as she passes me a squashy lump wrapped in a brushed metallic paper covered in silver snowflakes. 

“Here’s to a happier New Year.” I kiss her cold cheek and reach behind my seat and hand her my seasonal offering in return. We both attack the cheery packages and laugh out loud.

“Snap!” we both say together, admiring our new woolly knitwear. 

“Very tasteful.” I say and chuckle. “A bit on the big size, perhaps.”

“At least it’s not got reindeers prancing about on it.”

“I’m famished, Jen,” I say, shaking my head.

“We could open my father’s vintage Port and nibble some cheese if---”

“He won’t mind.” I nod and bite my lip. “He never drinks the stuff, anyway.”

“You dig out the bottle and I’ll find those glasses for your Uncle Tom.”

“Did you get those twinkly tree lights as well?”

“They’ve got batteries included, of course.”

“Of course,” I smile as my stomach rumbles in expectation. “What seasonal gimmick doesn’t have its own power?”

Before long, we’ve decorated the inside of our car with lights, glittery decorations, jolly cards and piles of ripped paper. My stomach’s gurgling noises are soon quelled and we enjoy the benefit of our warm new jumpers. The Port and cheese provide relief from our hunger pangs and they are a welcome distraction from the storm outside our metal shell. It’s as if we’re a couple of tipsy turtles cowering in a customised casing.

#

I jolt awake to a rat-a-tat-tat on our windscreen. A gloved hand appears in front of my face. It clears away a gap in the snow. I nudge Jenny as a ruddy looking face peers inside our wintery cocoon.

“You can’t leave your car here,” says the fellow.

“Sorry, who are---”

“You’re blocking my gate, see.”

“Oh, sorry,” I say, reaching for the ignition key. “We had some trouble and---”

“You’ll want towing back onto the road, I suppose?”

“I think that…” I struggle to turn over the motor. “We could use your help---”

“You’re not the first this afternoon,” he says. “I’ll hook you up and pull you clear.”

#

Jenny’s mother opens the front door and greets us. 

“Merry Christmas to you both,” she says, ushering us inside.

“You wouldn’t believe what time we---”

“You must be starving?” She frowns and takes our coats. 

“You know his stomach only too well,” Jenny says, removing her new scarf.

She laughs and steers us toward a roaring fire. “Nice jumpers, you two.”

The End