Like a heavily-encased astronaut stepping on a Siberian-scaped moon, gravity pushing him around the storm and, hardly able to see, Lance wished for windscreen wipers on his visor, a minuscule motor to turn them, as well as heated clothing like an aviator’s as he worked at cold dust and pale blue by the spadeful coming up in woolly slabs and going high to left or right, the snow light compared to soaking worm-laden soil. An intense ache along both arms slowed him, though there would be no honour in resting until they got the van clear and made everybody safe. Cold sweat under his leathers weighed, which was why he thought he might be on the moon, his blood running and his stomach warm, though the body turned so sluggish he wanted to lie in the snow and sleep.
Wayne navvied the spade, gripping the handle, pushing well under, drawing each swaying load towards him and upping it clear. Snow is my worst enemy. Everybody loves me except the snow. They think I’m handsome but the snow shouts that I’m ugly. Snow doesn’t love me because I hate it. The only thing to do with snow is make a fire and chuck it on till it melts away, then it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t love me.
Because I’ll never get to the end I’ve got to go on, but you can’t tell in the dark how much is left. If I make a neat roadway at the same time I might push through to sunshine and green pastures. Sweat saves blood, but what I’ve leaked already matches the blood in my body three times over, enough to sink the bloody Bismarck, though I’ve got to go on till I drop, which I will in not too soon if I don’t have a break, I’m even ready for a basin of Fred’s stew, except he’s put that old man’s corpse in, thinking waste not want not, looking at it with that glassy left eye as he stirs it up: as long as I don’t break my filling on a button.
They leaned on their spades — cripples and supplicants, wounded soldiers, phantom gravediggers — Keith fixing them in the headlights. Close to dead beat, the last of their stamina was called for. Snow swirled a film over the macadam so far uncovered and, both standing to guide him in, he drove forward, and as he slowly passed they presented arms with their spades like two busby-headed swaddies on guard in Whitehall. In their exhausted state they were laughing, and so was he, out of gratitude at them making fun of the common plight for his and their enjoyment, in defiance of the blizzard, and mocking whatever the explosives in the van could do.
Such an assessment might be sentimental, a summary of his liking for traditional values and the comfort they gave, the refuge they provided whether real or not, yet he didn’t care, because in the charade their innermost spirits were sending a signal they knew was acceptable. Nobody could see, the noise overshouted it, and when he laughed again so did they, as if to say: What are we doing here, and what the hell’s going on?
They were digging again, if more slowly, knowing that before they could draw the van back till it was head to head with his car they must clear a track behind. He prayed no spade would make a spark, strike the van, metal against metal. Perhaps in their weariness they would curb their new enthusiasm, but he tapped Lance for the spade, who refused and cut another slab from the bank.
Neither would Wayne allow him to take a turn, not caring to have his motions broken. This was his job, not some posh shagbag’s up from London who had never held a spade in his lily-white hands, tough nut or not. Wayne hated work, but wouldn’t give up a job once begun till it was finished. If somebody else did a bit in between he wouldn’t be able to say that he himself had done it, and if he couldn’t say that, what would have been the use in starting?
Miniature clouds of snow drove at their coverings, no defence but to shake the head and stumble like the moving semi-frozen stones they were turning into, doing what had to be done before sinking under the weight growing heavier and heavier from the inside. They excavated, shifted, stacked, and stamped down with their boots. Steel claws gripped Keith’s feet as if he wasn’t wearing socks, let alone boots and two thick pairs inside. When there seemed nowhere else to put the snow he moved the van so that they could shove it from front to back in the space they had made.
He unclipped both bonnets and slotted them safely open, his own battery neat at the terminals but the torch showing the van’s corroded to a sickly, almost glowing green. He scraped them free with his penknife, hoping for enough live acid and distilled water within to conduct the jolt to its destination. Positive to negative to make a circuit, he unravelled the jump leads, sorted the black and red ends, and fastened the croc-grips with freezing fingers.
The dashboard glistened red in the wilderness. Jump the red light and you might be dead, but this was friendly and comforting, a means to an end, a red eye you drove through the spot-middle of to get into action. The engine gagged with life after a few spasmodic jumps, power unhealthy and threatening self-extinction any second. He told himself the odds were too great, but he must keep such ruminations to himself and go on working, mentally thanking them for every effort, as if they were doing it for him alone. Tackling one problem at a time, you didn’t think much about those still strung in line ahead like differently shaped and coloured beads waiting to be sorted. You took the setbacks and, prime mover, kept the end in sight, so he put his head down and went on to consider the next hurdle.
A stench of smoke and petrol filled the van. Spades clanked across the windscreen, erasing harder nuts of snow, till the wipers — reluctantly — took the rest. Changing into reverse, the engine slugged dead, but it was easy for Lance to bypass the ignition because, at fourteen, up to no good one day, Albert Green explained the mechanics of hot-wiring, doing it like the best teacher: by example. They were topped and tailed by the flashing blue lights and screaming horn of a Jam Sandwich. His father was an old Desert Rat, no less, who with the rest of his tank crew had shaved and trimmed up to look dead smart for the drive into Tripoli. He had grovelled before the local powers, wearing his suit with the permanent medal ribbons, a believer in war and justice, to prove that he loved Lance his son, a man who always had a good morning smile to any passing copper, and if he hadn’t then Lance would surely have landed something more than two years on probation.
He kept a blank slate ever since, and if once or twice he had been close to another scratch of red chalk due to his biking forays, he wondered nevertheless what the old man’s face would look like when he learned that his son had been blown to bits, as he himself nearly was a few times in the war.
Keith eased the engine, coaxed it to a roar whether or not vibrations jostled the van’s frail insides. If they deserved a medal, and they surely did, what bit of flesh would the Queen pin it on? The laugh got him into reverse and several yards towards the clear, turning sufficient progress of degrees to aim for the gate. Headlamps picked up needles of wandering snow, their way blocked by a bank that even a plough would find hard to shift.
Snow was semi-solid water, an ever-present enemy you had to vanquish. Man would always vanquish, a fight without quarter and even to the death against the earth which had never been anything but his enemy, otherwise how could you believe in God?
Daniel fought his way, made a track for Sally to follow. It was no use turning to see if she did. The demon’s howl blocked his ears, so maybe she wasn’t there any longer, had gone back to betray him a second time, or had given in by accepting the warmth of endless sleep.
Like thin wet carpets, his clothes drew in the cold and stored it to send to the soft marrow at the middle of his bones. Drifts were crust-hard in places, and sometimes sinking as if he were unable to stop until engulfed, he would flounder in panic, but quickly right himself, as if even in such visibility he was being observed by everyone in the world.