‘igloo’ -
Noun:
a refuge from parents,
a shelter for misfits
(definitions according to Nirvana Green)
One
I fling my skis down on the snow.
“Have a good lesson, love!” Mum says.
“Find someone to speak French with, Nirvan-ah!” Dominique says, in full French step-mum mode as she fixes me with her ice-blue husky-dog eyes.
“Enjoy debutants, Niv!” Claude crows over his shoulder as our mums sweep him off to the intermediate group. Barely four-years-old but true to form, he’s mastered basic skiing in two days.
I won’t! I sing-song in my head to each command. Not a hope in frigg of me enjoying this afternoon.
Which if they thought about me for even one second, they’d realise.
A thick curtain of snow closes behind them. I raise my eyes out of this murky valley - somewhere up there are the Alps I’m longing to see, the mountains Grandad is also waiting to hear all about. My dream of a white Christmas is the kind where the snow actually stops, revealing frosted pine forests and toothy crests under blue skies and a tangerine sun.
Little children start to gather nearby, waiting for our instructor, Moustache, nicknamed by me and Claude for obvious reasons. He’s late, again, thankfully.
I scowl down at my rigid plastic ski boots. Am I really gonna clamp myself to two metal strips just to slide down a bit of ice? On repeat, the only view the back of the kid in front of me, for twoooooooooo hours?
But ski lessons are expensive, a pesky voice in my head reminds me.
Yep, but I didn’t ask for more school, more timetables, ski uniform. Or even this surprise holiday that means I’ve had to abandon all my plans.
My little brother’s no longer around to keep tabs on me. So, if I can cut real school, I can sure as frigg cut ski-school.
This is my Christmas Eve too!
As I clap my skis together over my shoulder, they feel less heavy than when I carried them down from the chalet and over the road. And now, even with the ridiculous weight of my boots and the ridiculous heel-toe walk their rigidity forces you into, I’m starting to feel cheerful.
I dump my skies and helmet from hell at the wooden racks next to the only restaurant in the village. My heart as well as head’s lighter now, lighter the further I get from the gaudy plan of all the pistes and ski pulls scarring this poor, invisible mountain.
As I clump my way along the ice-rink of a car park, I have to watch my every step.
A pair of black snow boots appear bang in front of my toes.
I look up, ready to mumble Pardon.
But this woman blocking my way is glaring into me from dead, expressionless eyes, all the more striking because the rest of her face is beautiful – creamy skin and full lips.
“Imbécile!” she snarls. “Fait attention!”
I open my mouth. What the ...?
But the French won’t come. Instead, I shake my head, sigh and shift heavily to my left.
More eager than ever now to escape the ski resort, I trudge on past all the pistes towards the edge of the village and a track I glimpsed when we drove in two days ago, signposted Route Forestiere. Perhaps I’ll actually manage to get to the forest in the time I’ve got.
And just maybe, if I’m really lucky, a view. That was the only bit that really appealed to me about this ski trip, and I haven’t seen a mountain yet!
My heart gives a little thrill: the track’s untrodden, draped with soft, smooth white, which squeaks underfoot as if in protest. Being the first, though, soon turns out to be a slog in these boots but I refuse to be held back by them, even when it gets to the point of heaving myself up deep snow, step by heavy step.
An uphill struggle is how it’s felt for months now, ever since I started veering away from the Niv that Mum and Dominique want me to be. I’ve had to learn the hard way not to let anyone stop me doing what I really want, especially when my parents actually banned the thing that means the most to me. Which is why, so far, it’s had to be a secret, that application poised for SEND before the end of the year. I’m reaching out for a future that fits me, no matter what they think. But time’s running out now: I’ve gotta tell Mum my plans before we get home.
And she’s not going to like it. AT ALL.
I’m sweating under all my layers as the tall, red snow poles poking out of the snow to mark the sides of the steep path now turn me left, back towards the village. The calls of ghostly skiers reach me and I must be getting near the top of the lift pull cos I can hear the clunk of metal on metal of the drag-poles.
And finally! As the route elbows away from the village again, the edge of a pine forest! Below this point, many of the trees have been felled for ski runs. But here white arms reach out to me in welcome, their deep sleeves so different from the bared-branched silver birches of my happy space at home, my secret workspace in the woods.
Four days ago, it was a glittering range of colours, medallions of lightly frosted leaves among pewter trunks, all under a tangerine sun Grove’s where I can be my real self, creating something that will really matter. It’s also where I expected to be for most of the Christmas holidays, hanging out with my best friend...
But now, as I step towards the pine trees, the falling flakes are light as feathers on my cheeks, even dryer somehow.
And what’s that? Tucked right into the side of the path so it’s almost in the wood itself?
I laugh out loud. It is. It really is. Curving up out of the snow.
An igloo!
I’ve never seen a real one before. Intrigued to see how it’s made, I stride towards it.
Its builder has picked a good site – level, with the hope of a panorama from its stubby tunnel, yet still camouflaged till you’re right on top of it. Sheltered by the friendly trees, it’s also not that far from where the piste-basher shoves the excess snow into a low wall, a great source of compacted bricks.
Exactly where I’d have built one.
No sign of anyone having been here recently. No footprints other than mine. Maybe kids were on a ski holiday, like me, then had to abandon it. I skim my hand over its snow-clad roof, loving its gentle roundness after the straight metals of skis, poles, lift tugs.
I take my gloves off to pull out my phone – Sab’d love to see this. Stepping back, I try to capture the igloo and its entrance in the middle, with the pines waving behind. But I’ll have to send it from the chalet later, on Wi-Fi.
On my knees now, I peek into the tunnel. The aqua-tinged light and pure dry smell make me smile all over again. Dragging my boots behind me, I crawl inside.
Once I’ve turned myself round to face front, I sit upright, my legs straight in front of me.
Instantly, I’m in a sound-proofed cocoon, the world on pause. The snow-whirling wind, clatter of skiing, the fog-grey are left far behind. Here, all is still, calm and clear. And it’s amazingly warm for an icehouse! But then, of course, that’s why Eskimos build them. I sweep a layer of flakes off my hair.
Tipping my head back, I inspect the dome. Despite the heavy snow out there, brighter edges define each of the bricks. That says to me they don’t meet as tightly as they could – I might redo them some time.
I hug myself: another time I’ve followed my instincts instead of any supposed grown-up's agenda and found something amazing! Here I am, inside but outside at the same time. Or the other way round. And utterly private. I close my eyes, taking in my igloo’s fresh smell, its silence, its secrecy.
At last, a space just for me.
A place to be free.
“Er, bonjour?”
Two
The frigg! Is nowhere sacred?
My eyes open to meet a pair of brown ones, between a Roman nose and a black beanie. And their head and shoulders are sticking into my space.
“Bonjour,” I huff.
Now what?
“Ceci,” he says,“ce ç’est mon igloo.”
His igloo?
My brain scrambles round for the French to say Then drag me out cos I really like it in here!
And isn’t there some rule about squatters’ rights and possession?
But not even four years of sharing Claude’s bi-lingual up-bringing help much with this situation! I rehearse some French words I can find in my head; clear my throat.
“You cannot be the owner of an igloo. Unless it is in your own garden.”
Raising his eyebrows and with a half-smile, he looks more amused than convinced.
“It was me who built it,” he counters.
I glance upward. “The roof could have been better.”
A dimple pings in his right cheek. “Yet already it has already lasted three weeks. Since the first snow.”
His French actually has separate words, so I can understand quite easily.
“Oh! Then you live in the village?”
My own French seems to be flowing fine when Dominique’s not hovering to correct it.
“Ba oui. Jean-Louis Jaboulay. Seventeen,” he adds.
A jolly-sounding name! I sniff. He looks at me expectantly.
“Nirvana Green, on holiday, sixteen.”
“Nirvana!” His mouth shrugs, mock-impressed. “Quel nom!”
“Oui,” I sigh, “ç’est trop!”
‘Ultimate Bliss’ definitely too much! Mum clearly had no idea what I’d turn into.
We look at each other. Stalemate.
I bite my lip. “Er, if you ...er ...” I nod towards the entrance to suggest he retreats, “I will leave.”
Maybe I’ll have to build an igloo of my own next time?
“Peut-être,” he starts.
Perhaps what? I wait.
“Perhaps … you want to share?”
I look into the space next to me – it's only a small igloo, no more than his stride, I’d say.
And everything Mum’s always drilled into me about being alone with strangers in remote places runs through my head.
I twist my mouth to one side; follow my instinct. “Maybe just for a few minutes.”
Given he has half the space I had to turn in and he’s quite a bit bigger than me, it takes an awkward manoeuvre for him to get himself in and facing forward. Then it’s him who gets to stretch out his longish legs – also in padded trousers, walking boots almost at the entrance.
He removes his hat and shakes off the snow between us, revealing very dark, slightly wavy hair. I’m such an –ish girl in comparison with my slate-blue eyes and autumn-coloured hair, as Grandad puts it.
As he turns to me, I catch a trace of outdoors, the mountains. “Alors, Nirvana, why do you need an igloo?”
Sounds like an interview for igloo rights! And need one? But I know what he means – even though I didn’t know it was going to be here, it was – is - exactly what I needed.
I point to my boots. “I’m avoiding my ski lesson.”
The simpler answer.
His dimple’s instantly deep. “I don’t like skiing either.”
“But you live in a ski resort!”
“I can ski – most French children have to learn. But I find it too much hassle, too fast.”
“Me too!” I agree. I’ve always loved the outdoors but to see my surroundings, never sport for the sake of it. “You can imagine then, why I need this igloo to hide from it.”
He nods, still smiling.
“And you? Why did you build this igloo?” Since you live locally, I think.
“This imperfect igloo?” he teases whilst rifling inside his padded jacket and extracting a paperback which he brandishes like a magician. “For reading.”
His tone implies this is the most obvious place for it – some sort of miniscule outside-inside library. His book cover features a medieval-looking guy on the cover, with a ruff, a beard and a black hat.
Les essaies de Montaigne
“You know this philosopher?” he asks.
Who’s he kidding? As if I’d know any philosophers! That familiar feeling creeps in, of inferiority – being on the outside of things I should know.
Then I remember. “No, but I know Ruskin. He was an English philosopher and painter.”
It’s because of my Art GCSE unit on Ruskin that I’m so eager to see the mountains, including Mont Blanc and the glaciers he drew so vividly.
“I don’t know the English philosophers,” he’s saying, “because I study German instead of English. So what luck you speak French, Nirvana!”
My heart grows as for the first time ever, I’m not ashamed of my French, even though I’ll never sound like Claude: without it, we wouldn’t be speaking at all. And when I don’t get something quite right, he manages to find a natural way to say it back to me as it should be.
“Ruskin,” I start, trying to find the words, “he thought beauty ... she is for everyone, and ... essential?”
“Essentielle, oui,” he confirms.
“What is the philosophy of Montaigne, then?” I ask him.
“His essays are on many themes. In the one I have just read ...”
I find myself watching his lips as his French, soft and light, dances off them; how his dimple operates like a punctuation mark, flickering every time he likes what he’s talking about.
“... Montaigne says, When I walk alone in the beautiful orchard, I bring my thoughts always back to the orchard, to the sweetness of it ... When I dance, I dance. When I sleep, I sleep.’”
Sounds like this Montaigne lad, from way back when, was ahead of the mindfulness wave. Dead easy in an orchard, anyway.
I smile at Jean-Louis over the top of his paperback. “When we are in … the igloo, we bring our thoughts always back to the igloo.”
“Exactement, Nirvana,” he says, putting his book back in his pocket.
I close my eyes again and try re-focus my mind on the igloo. It’s no longer silent because of the soft breathing of this lad right next to me.Yet somehow, I’ve still got more room than since we arrived in the Alps.
Yikes! How long have I been zoned-out? Don’t want to overstay my welcome. But when I open my eyes, Jean-Louis smiles at me. He is very smiley in general, up-beat.
“I should go,” I say, reluctantly. “Ski school will be ending soon.”
He shoves his hat back on.
“Does it ever stop snowing here?” I ask him, as we stand for a moment in front of the igloo, gazing into the murkiness. “I came up hoping for a view of the mountains.”
“Ba oui. Tonight, the skies will be clear, I assure you.”
I catch my breath. “For Christmas Eve night.”
He opens his mouth, hesitates, opens it again.
“If you can come back later, Nirvana, I will introduce you to the mountains.”
He says it as if they are his old friends!
I bite my bottom lip to reign in a smile.
“What time?” I ask.
Three
The best part of skiing, whether or not you’ve actually done any, has to be the après-ski. For a start, all the torturous ski stuff’s well and truly out of sight and mind - in the drying room under the chalet.
Inside, we’re all in our jolliest Christmas moods, having done exactly what we wanted with our afternoon. And I did, after all, find someone to speak lots of French with! Not only during my ‘ski lesson’, but later too!
From the luxury of my double bed, I report back to Sab, starting with my igloo pic.
NIV: Instead of skiing, chillin …
She’s already typing. I can just see her on her bed, propped up against the headboard. A complete movie-buff – anything and everything - she’ll be watching some film on her laptop while her parents think she’s working.
SAB: Co-el! Well built!
My fingers hesitate. But I can’t take the credit.
NIV: It was already there actually.
SAB: Uh-oh! Beware Goldilocks situation.
I laugh at one of her trademark comparisons. I swear Sab has a sixth sense too, though she credits her freaky ability to read people and situations from observing behaviour in dramas. In fact, that’s why she watches them, she says, and it really does seem to explain why she’s so good at marketing her family’s business.
NIV: No bears - just a local lad.
Now she pauses! Half of me wishes I could take it back, safe from the Sab micro-scope.
SAB: Hot? Even in the cold?”
NIV: S’not like that. Gonna show me the mountains when skies clear tonight. Shh!
SAB: Right, so, note to self: secret, starlit tryst NOT a date
Woah! I groan. Now I know I’ve been too free with my phone thumbs. Everything about Sab is sharp: eyes, nose, elbows, but particularly this extra sense. She’d fit right in at M15. Even though she can’t read my body language and voice, her mind’ll be working overtime on every little thing I write - and don’t write.
NIV: No biggie – cept, fingers crossed, the view!
But lads are A BIG THING when you go to an all- girls’ school. Just less so for me – I’ve encountered a fair few in my bunch of Saturday jobs, and more recently, at Hackspace for my woodworking. Some are fun to graft with, a few have asked me out. I’ve never met anyone like Jean-Louis before though.
