Between Fire and Snow

The door opened into the waiting room. Its amber walls reflected the
glow of the blazing fire. The iron cast work protected the flames, and
formed the barrier between the reality that one could breathe in, and
that one could conjure up amongst the splinters, embers and the sparks
that could push away the seeker.

A chill wind, unkindly, unknown to a generation came into the room, the
flames rose, and died as the door was shut. A large man, the station
master, his arm outstretched, ushered in a young woman - slim, fair,
not the usual attire, white and black were her colours, her head
covered by a hood. She was in service, but not to the station.

Well Miss, I mean sister, I mean?. You come this way my dear, it's the
only warm place left in the station.
The conductor, bowed his apologies, and put the passenger's bags over
by a large leather sofa that faced the fire.

She, nodded, smiled politely, shook herself of the ice that lay around
her coat and put out her hands to the fire.

The station master, his calling to protect the stone and rails of the
station, no matter what the weather, faded into the darkness that
merged with the rooms extremities. Outside a wild storm began to smirk,
raising its lips, as a cat that wants to purr, though this purr could
scar and bleach even the rocks built the granite station.

The woman, a sister, a nun, one who had sat, communed, even given her
virginity to God, now felt alone. She heard the bray of what was coming
in; she had walked a mile from the convent as the clouds had gathered,
the frozen path, the laden branches of snow, and the twists in the
shadows as each tree spread itself as white sails to chance.

As her eyes scanned the room, a shiver went through her, the senses on
stalks as she realised someone else occupied the same space. In the
corner, a body, boots, a hat and blanket stirred. A fellow passenger
caught like her no doubt in the snow. No matter. She wanted warmth. Her
belly also hungry!! She held up her hands above the grate, its
patchwork of curves, spirals and sharp edges, burnt, indented by the
years of exposure showed almost a map of who had shared this
room.

She pushed off her coat, her habit now showing in the dampened lights
of the room. Her feet were cold, her fingers fumbled. She gazed around,
and found some logs on the side, a whole pile, dry, almost brittle. She
threw one or two on the fire, the sparks and crackle of the new
additions making the room come alive with noise.
She yelled,
Bit her lip, the corner of her mouth bled and so did her hand, as a
splinter sunk its point into her palm.

You alright me dear, a deep baritone came from the side of the
room,
She swung around, and saw that the blanket had been drawn back with a
man's face; mid-30's staring at her, his large green eyes as bright as
the fire.
My hand, she replied, clutching the wrist.
Stepping over, his tall body knelt beside her.
She watched as his hand circled her, moving the thumb, palm, his touch
soft but firm.
This will hurt a tiny bit.
The nun winced, as he plucked the splinter with a tiny pair of
pliers.
From his pocket, he pulled a fresh clean handkerchief and pressed the
wound..
There, now, it should be alright now, not as bad as it looked, he
grinned.
Thank you she replied, and again stared at his eyes, his fair and
unkempt hair, quickly she looked away realising she was staring.

He breathed life into the room
So are you heading to Plymouth the man enquired
She laughed, then stopped short, yes, if I get there.
He took in her figure and appearance, a rose, a well bred rose, not of
his class, not of his breeding; even so she was pleasant, not snobby
like the others.
Are you heading abroad, she enquired, she stared at his large bag, and
the blanket,
I am, due on the boat to Sydney.
And you?
I'm due to leave for my mission in Kenya.
A long journey, he parried
Yes, a week or two.
Certainly better than this hell. I mean, forsaken place, he
chuckled
Its ok, I'm glad to leave myself. She smiled, even giggled as a young
girl.
Her body shook, shyness, hunger and curiosity gathered in pace.
He looked at her, and could see that she was hungry. Have you
eaten?
Well, I had?
Be honest? I thought nuns don't lie! His deep Cornish voice sold his
identity. He put his hand on her shoulder and smiled.
Her eyebrows lifted in a huff, but she gave that attractive grin again,
but in a little sheepish way. He was so forward, rough, polite and
giving, too many contrasts!

Yes, I am actually?but
Her words bounced off nothing, as the man was across the room digging
in his bag.
As he returned, he waggled some slices of bread and brown paper
containing cheese, its aroma touching her nose, even from 10
paces.
Peasant Food!!
Surely you need it, and?.
I thought the Christian ethic was to share,
Yes well, it is,
Well be quiet then, and enjoy,
Well really, are you?
Here you go, He took a long stick, from the side of the fire, and
shoved on a piece of bread,
You toast these, and I'll prepare the filling.
By the way, my name is John, John Stevens.
His hand outstretched to make her acquaintance
Yes, Martha, Sister Martha,
Is that your given name, or one you adopted?
That is the name the church has given me. Her throat gnarled with
annoyance,
So what's your real name then?
Why won't you accept, this is my name.
Now you wouldn't call me Harold, if I was born as John would you? He
jested
No, but this is different.
Is it?
She could not swallow. The impertinence of the man.
Are you as rude to everyone?
I don't mean too. Just like to get a straight answer, that's all.
There was silence.

Only briefly, as John, began to wave two different pieces of cheese in
the Sisters face,
Cheddar, or Double-Gloucester he beamed,
Please don't rush to decide!
Her throat eased
It's actually Susan,
I don't have that one he declared,
No, I mean.. She caught his humour and pushed up her bottom lip in
distain!!
My name at birth was Susan Fitzsimons.
Her pronunciation, crisp and clear, gave her class and bearing
away.
Well Susan, It's lovely to meet you, and as it's late, I think we
should eat. Don't you?

The next two hours seemed to go on forever, the pile of logs slowly
going down, as the Susan and John's conversation went from low tones to
laughter, hands moved in explanation of travels, childhood experiences
and the things that had brought them to this place. Susan listened
attentively, as John told his experiences of the last ten years, as tin
miner, a volunteer in Spain in 37, then on to the war as an engineer
and finally para-trooper. All the time she scanned his clothes,
noticing the thick brown bomber jacket its fur interior and the
handmade boots of Spanish leather. It was his face that kept her
attention, the clean, sharp, young but chiselled looks. On his lapel, a
little red and black star, a small emblem of his past and the way he
viewed the world. Like her, he, also had committed his life to symbols
and emblems.

He moved on to her, why had she chosen the faith and why Africa. Her
story as exciting as his, the daughter of gentry, growing up in Kenya,
boarding school, finishing school in Switzerland, working as a nurse,
and then the church. John never interrupted, he like her focused on her
face, the slim neck, the long lips, the sharp nose, a picture of wealth
and breeding, but similarly a welcome of humility and gentleness that
seemed to hold the air around her. Susan was much a picture of
contrasts and opposites as his life had been.

She became consumed by the whirlwind of tea, cheese and this Tin-miner,
adventurer and Samaritan that had awakened a thrill in her stomach.
Those large green but experienced eyes, were throwing her attention far
too much, she even began to stutter, mix her words. A girl of 16 would
be more confident than her. His long, soft but strong hands offered
another slice of toast, her third. As she reached out, her fingers
intertwined at an angle with his, her face glowed. He coughed, 'humph!'
similarly affected, and let go. He was about to change the subject,
when the door rushed open and the wind struck the fire and their
faces.

It was the station master. He was gasping; a panic was ordering his
life. There was an emergency, a bus had crashed nearby, and the driver,
had managed to make it to the station. No one was around, only him, and
the lines were down. He had sent up a flare, but it would be a while
before anyone got here through the snow.
The nun and the traveller rose
We need some medical supplies of some sort, Susan said.
Right miss. He rushed out.
Susan? John ushered. He threw a large jumper, a thick cotton shirt, a
pair of trousers and a big scarf in her face.
Yer better get this on ya, otherwise you'll freeze.
She was about to complain, then realised that her morals and virtue
were not needed now.
Turn your back then?

When John turned, he saw a whole new woman, the habit had gone, and a
tomboy stood before him, with a flush of short red hair on its
head.
"What a transformation he gawped,
Haven't you seen a nun in civvies before?
He said nothing, only smiled.

The conductor came in again, with a series of large trench coats, and a
canvas bag.
Right, are we ready to go, the snow is coming in again, if we don't go
now, we'll get blinded by the blizzard.
By the way my name is George, the stationmaster boomed.
Susan and John blurted their name.
Well nice to meet you, shall we go!!
The cosy room was left behind, as the three ventured out into the
frozen cold, with the stationmaster holding an oil lamp to lead the
way.

Though south, the station stood on the edge of Bodmin moor nasty if in
the best of winters, desolate and forlorn, many a stray having lost
their life. Following the frozen rail lines, with large drifts of snow
gathering on and off the tracks, the three trudged on in the face of
vicious gales, their faces being scratched with sharp claws as the
storm heightened its screeching.

These temporarily blinded Susan, not knowing where her feet went, she
slipped and fumbled on the floor, as she wiped her eyes, a hand grabbed
her arm and dragged her up. John, pulled her close,
Come on me dear, keep them feet plodding.

Up ahead, they could see a black shape, a bus, near on its side,
resting above the line.
As they approached, a bearded man with a large coat came down the steps
to greet them.
Are you ok, George boomed
We have a few injured, mostly cuts and grazes, though this cold is no
good, cried the driver.
They entered the bus, and found around 20 people in different stages,
of shock and pain. One person, had blood coming from his head, and
another, covered in some cloth, around her leg.
Susan wasted no words, and set upon the head injury.
Its alright she soothed, bathing the wounds with some surgical
spirit.
John marvelled at her spontaneity, the woman just sparkled in
adversity.

But John had other concerns, how they were going to get the passengers
off.
George, we got to get this lot out of here, otherwise, there'll going
to freeze.
Ah I know lad, its chilling up now.
Well, we'll have to do ferry shift to the station, maybe take the most
injured first.

We need a sledge of some kind to pull the injured in.
Ah, we do!!
Their eyes scanned the bus.

Within 30 minutes, John, had commandeered a large brown trunk, with the
letters S.B stamped on the top. Empty of its contents, and opened, with
both sides facing the snow, they had their sledge.

With the worst off in the trunk, John began strapping the rope George
had found around his shoulders, and George, did like wise. Susan helped
any others who were unsteady on their feet. The winds were unrepentant,
determined to prevent the party from reaching cover.
.

John had never seen such a winter, not during his years in Spain, at
least there was no bullets flying around this time, any the less deadly
was open to question.
He looked beside him and saw Susan's eyes catch him.
You alright?
Fine, but I'd prefer to be in Kenya.
Wouldn't we all,
They laughed together, holding the fantasy of warmth in their
minds.

Up ahead, they could make out the lights of the station, and a few
others that were hovering nearby. Some of the locals had managed to
make it to the station, bringing food and blankets.
A couple of voices rang out, and then the lights began to move towards
them.
Soon George could make out familiar faces and tones, and they were
surrounded with about five or six people. Soon, everyone was on the
platform, and going into the waiting room. They entered a still blazing
room, the half eaten toast still hanging next to the fire guard.

The phone lines had been repaired by the dawn, and as the sky began to
change colour. Most of the people had been taken to local houses to
wash up, and the pub had taken a few also. The only two remaining in
the waiting room was the nun and the ex-soldier, who were lying by the
fire.

John's eyes opened and saw the first light coming throw the window. His
shoes were rested against sofa, Susan's next to them. As he wiped his
eyes, he felt a strain on his arm. Holding his arm and cuddling up on
her side was the sister, her rumpled hair buried into his jumper. He
stared down at her, her long neck exposed, and the white of her
shoulder. Her other arm was around his waist.

Come-on sleepy, we'd better raise, I'm hungry. He kissed the top of her
head.
Susan's left eye opened, and she rubbed her face more into his
arm.
Mmmhh!, is it morning?
Yes my girl it is.
Both eyes opened together, and Susan shook her head and
stretched.
She realised her position, and removed her arms slowly and
hesitantly.
Ummhhh!! Sorry, I'm?. her faced grew apple colour again

The door, opened, and George came through, with a large tray of tea,
toast, with eggs and bacon covering them.
Thought you two might be hungry, he beamed.
They've put on a bus, as they've cleared the road at least to Plymouth
anyway. Be here in an hour or two. So time for you to eat and sort your
things.
He rested the tray, and turned off out to the platform.
John didn't realise how hungry he was, and Susan just chomped in, the
manners of her calling gone to that storm hours ago. She was unafraid
of her familiarity with John. She joked and laughed, as though they had
been together for years.

By eleven am, they boarded the bus. The snow piled up on the roadside,
the grit and sand forming a clear line towards the horizon, an open
road. Within two hours, after stops and starts, they reached Plymouth.
Ice loomed around the port, but the sea was clear, and despite the
frozen anchor ropes and mast heads, steam was being brewed for sail.
Susan had rung ahead to her sponsors and friends in the city. As John
and Susan left the bus, a couple of penguin coloured figures came down
the platform to meet the Sister. She was now in her habit, almost
unrecognisable from the previous night. John had seen different, habit
or not, he'd glimpsed if only fleetingly the Susan that'd lurked
beneath the cross, covenant, and that shell that was Sister
Martha.
She leaned sharply into him
Enjoy Australia - she whispered sadly,
Watch yer step my girl. Don't get bitten by a lion? His hand gravitated
towards arm.
Beat snow any day? her hand surreptitiously touched, and intertwined
with his.
She moved off to the hugs and kisses of her fellow Sisters, who were
waiting near by.

A full moon had risen over the Tamar, its shine coursing the river down
to open sea. On the deck of the St Anne, John looked out to his
destiny, and the banks of the Cornwall that he was leaving behind. He
alone occupied that rail, eyes focused on furrows of white that was
forming from the ships bow. He wondered if he'd see Susan again.
The anarchist and the nun, a couple made in heaven, he giggled loud to
himself.
He was unaware of the figure that walked towards him, large coat and
woolly bonnet that covered its head.
As he held the bars with his gloved hands, another pair of woolly
fingers crossed his, and then a voice breathed into his ear.
You know I've never seen a Kangaroo!!