If Winter Comes

By Les Cartwright

Choosing to commute through the blizzard rather than sleep on the First-Aid Room cot, Larry Hanson heads for home. Yet a blizzard in June blows ridiculously on and on. Soon roads rural and urban become impassable and across the street is a world away. So is it Mother Nature's fault that all heat, light and electric power is cut suddenly off in a nation-wide shut-down ofthe power stations? And why - when citizens go by snowmobile to buy Kerosene - are armed Provincial Police threatening, under the State of Emergency, to shoot as looters all those approaching the hardware store?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 10, 2009
• ISBN: 9781441577023

Les Cartwright

Now in his 86th year, Les. Cartwright was born in Blackpool, England. Interested in aviation he began a Flight Mechanic Apprenticeship in 1939. Volunteering for Royal Air Force flying duties in 1942 he served as a Flight Engineer until demobilization in 1946. From that date until retirement he followed civilian employment as Quality Supervisor in both aircraft and automotive manufacture. Writing as a hobby, he wrote radio Drama and short stories for the British Broadcasting Corporation. Immigrating to Canada in 1967 he wrote short stories for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation and a three-act stage play for Theatre Aquarius, then in Ottawa, Canada.

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Chapter One

Perhaps you should be deciding now whether to try for home or spend the night on the cot in the First Aid room, said Lionel.

Spend the night in the First Aid room? Larry responded. Why would I want to do that?

There’s one hell of a snow storm blowing up. And, according to the radio, it will only get worse. If you’re going, you’d better go now, explained Lionel.

December, January, February, and March, those were the snow months in the Clementon Valley, an area that included Glebeville, Larry’s home town and the Parkindale Laboratories, forty miles distant.

Staff of The Clementon Valley Meteorological Office—known informally as ‘The Weather Men’ despite being composed of two ‘equal opportunity’ gender groups—had served the area well by promoting, through newsletters, lectures and media presentations, a detailed analysis of the weather as recorded in the Clementon area.

WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE WEATHER NOR FOR PREDICTING WHAT IS ON THE WAY, declared ‘MET TALK’, the official Weather Office brochure. OUR TASK IS TO STUDY AND ANALYSE. HOW YOU USE THE ANALYSIS IS UP TO YOU.

Without exaggerating to create sensation or minimizing to lull into apathy the meteorological staff has bonded with the people locally because their analyses, while meticulously professional and truthful have, with one exception, painted a picture of weather consistency.

Records of the Meteorological Office over two decades revealed that the Clementon area, while enduring a major storm every year, saw each one fall dutifully within the December through March snow season until the year 1989. Two storms struck in that year, the latter one shattering a perfect consistency record by occurring in late April. The appearance of two storms in the same year was troubling enough, but a storm in April was considered sufficiently damaging to the consistency record for it to be awarded the unofficial and contemptuous title of ‘Freak’.

For the good news advocates who saw Clementon as a burgeoning ski resort, it was convenient to ‘forget that single long-ago blip on a Weather Office chart of probability’ and concentrate instead on the positive meteorological data published over the years.’ In their view, Lionel’s announcement of a June blizzard was ridiculous and should be disregarded.

For ‘The Weather Men’, their Swiss Chalet style office of statistics besieged by doubters, it was no more than a stupid rumour, resulting in a tremendous wastage of their time. After all, how can a Meteorologist answer such irrelevant questions as: ‘Did the radio people get it all wrong? or ‘Is this one of Lionel Bewson’s Practical Jokes’?"

Larry Hanson, hearing of noisy disturbances, smiled a wry, humourless smile as he did whenever Lionel and the Practical Joke appeared together in the thought stream. Relishing both thought and memory, he slipped his mind back three months to the day when Lionel arrived at Parkindale Laboratories to take up his appointment as Departmental Head of the Quality Department.

Entering through the long office corridor and to the main factory area, his head moved from one notch to another in jerky, thirty degree moves around the walls and then, with head tilted, along staggered roof bays.

Yes, he’s wondering, Larry mused at the time. He’s wondering why all the windows are in the roof and none in the walls; a sure sign that our new man is possessed of a restless and innate curiosity.

That was something Larry could understand, for he too, on first arrival had been intrigued by the strange design of the building. Only after lengthy and persistent investigation had he discovered that it had a history harking back to 1943 when the Canadians built it for the British, who in turn partnered the Americans in some undisclosed aspect of The Manhattan Project; the first Atomic bomb production. All the windows in the roof and none in the walls was a requirement of security, foiling spying eyes and cameras.

The original choice of site within Parkindale’s isolated forest area had already guaranteed maximum privacy for the war venture and Larry had learned that Parkindale Laboratories—a commercial enterprise without government or political connection—had long ago leased the empty factory so that their Top Secret product could have the same protection.

When first seen by the existing staff, Lionel caused quite a stir, the buzz of conversation increasing as it became clear that, at thirty he was much younger than many of those who would be counted among his subordinates.

Mavis, borrowed from Personnel to help as Lionel’s Secretary said: ‘He fascinates people. They watch in open-mouthed worship—there is no other word for it—as he traces the computer circuitry and talks to himself. They marvel at his being so young, so clever and so odd.’

The second level of comment concerned the way he expressed himself, using odd mannerisms and phrases that could only be described as eccentric. Eccentricity, after all, is most often associated with age and Lionel—though he had all the attributes of the stereotypical professor—was yet young.

And then, within two weeks of his arrival, it was widely rumoured that the new Head of Department was addicted to the playing of Practical Jokes on those around him.

Assessing his own relationship with the new Head, Larry had to consciously dismiss all resentment he felt on learning that the company would not be promoting from among existing staff. The days of the healthy resume buttressed by many years of service and loyalty to the company were gone. Now he had to accept that—in line with the rest of the world—the company would use a new set of values to select new leaders.

It need not have been Lionel . . . could well have been some other.

But Lionel really was ‘in a world of his own and oblivious to the mundane concerns of those around him’. That, in a world of ‘virtual reality’ seemed to be acceptable as a qualification. For at least the next two decades, it had been decided, reality, both actual and virtual within computer-dominated Parkindale Laboratories would be centred on Lionel Bewson.

Still following Lionel’s progress back to the office, Larry found Michael, the young Trainee Inspector watching with him.

See, said Michael, he walks with more of a jog than a walk. Always staring at the floor and acting out whatever he happens to be thinking about at the time. He looks, well, he looks so funny. To which Larry, ever eager to educate disrespectful youth in the courtesies of industrial life, had lectured sharply, You mean peculiar, not funny. But he’s also a fully qualified engineer with a degree and that in itself is admirable. And yes, he is eccentric but for that he’s more to be pitied than blamed. To have a weakness without the ability to control it means he has a terribly heavy cross to bear.

Larry found it ironical that, having defended the right of a colleague to be different, he would now have to find a way to counter that colleague’s Practical Joke when he himself knew little about jokes, practical or otherwise. Determined to give concentrated and uninterrupted thought to the problem Lionel had posed he shut himself inside the deserted Drawing Office, took a blueprint from the filing cabinet and faked interest in its technical content.

What is a Practical Joke? he asked himself.

‘Use of the word ‘practical’ means it is not oral or theoretical’ he mused. ‘So it’s not really a joke. It’s something you can perform or entrap another into performing. It’s a trick, like the British April fool.’ Exultantly declaring, "Ah, April fool, now that’s something I do know about," he reached for the dictionary.

April fool, the dictionary told him, one who is light-heartedly imposed upon by others on April 1 as being sent on some absurd errand.

Thus brought back to mind was April 1st in Larry’s fifteenth year of life and the first year of his Engineering Apprenticeship. Edgar Royston, the assigned Engineering Instructor and Mentor in Engineering Practices both technical and cultural was about to send his student on an absurd errand. Larry, I am having trouble re-assembling this pump, he said. Would you go to the Machine Shop and ask Foreman Ash if he would please lend me a glass hammer?

And so the ritual began, Foreman Ash re-directing the youth to the Tool Room Supervisor who, apologising for not having the ‘special tool’, passed him on to Storekeeper Squirrel who was reputed to have ‘all kinds of weird instruments squirreled away in his store. And so on and so on until the Department Heads, chanting, There is no glass hammer, April fool . . . April fool, sent back to the mentor a shamefaced April fool.

It would be futile now to recall whether or not he had felt foolish. He could perhaps have been hurt to think that ‘because he was only an apprentice’ he had been considered fair game for embarrassment. But had he been embarrassed? Or, at that time, had he been that rare example of the wiseacre species who knew exactly what the game was, yet ‘played along’, accepting the ridicule in order to end and be done with such foolishness?

Taking all things into consideration Larry decided that while feeling foolish, hurt or embarrassed would be unpleasant; to suffer ridicule would be the greater indignity.

Was that what Lionel was trying to do . . . mock a subordinate by publicly ridiculing him as a fool? Would he—as in the April fool trick—send his victim on some absurd errand and then taunt him? And should Lionel succeed in sending his victim’ on some absurd errand’ would the taunting be lighthearted—as in the April fool trick—or would it be bitter?

Accepting that he was indeed dealing with a Practical Joke and that the joke concerned a June blizzard, Larry prowled the Drawing Office floor browsing for motivation in Lionel’s few words. If this was not some kind of set-up for one of his gags what possible reason could there be for Lionel bringing the ridiculous story of a blizzard in June?

Anyone anxious to confirm or deny Lionel’s story would need to find a window through which to assess the weather—Lionel knew that. But Lionel also knew that the only windows—those in the roof—were completely inaccessible. To fulfil the absurd errand in search of the summer blizzard Larry must go outside with Lionel in full cry behind him; he must be ‘caught in the act ‘and publicly ridiculed’.

Stretching his legs before crossing them at the ankles, he locked his fingers into a clasp behind his neck, lay back in the office chair so that, in a semi-recumbent position, he strained the spring-loaded back support to its limit. Relaxed, the ache between the shoulders diminishing as raised muscles pulled against each other, he closed his eyes and declined the sleep he could have used had his mind not been in turmoil.

So this was the infamous Practical Joke, giving childish satisfaction to a brilliant mind and aggravation to others. There must be a way . . . there had to be a way . . . of learning about the weather without going outside. Security was so tight, allowing no contact with the outside world from the beginning of the shift to the end and with all the doors locked except the ‘Emergency Exit’ through the Annexe. Yet it had been done, if he could only remember when and how.

The situation had previously been easier, anyone needing to assess the weather simply looking out at the Emergency Exit. But that was previously, when there was no Practical Jokester on the staff. To do the same thing now meant passing the office where Lionel would be sitting with a laptop at his desk and the office door open to the corridor’

And would he leave it at that, his face wreathed in a smirk of satisfaction because his so-called joke had been successful? Would it be enough for him to have demonstrated that his victim was HAD . . . duped into checking out a stupid-stunt story? Or would he go further? Was it his intention to have Larry run outside to check the weather while he, Lionel, called out: Hey, take a look at Larry! He’s outside looking for a blizzard. Can you believe that? He’s outside looking for a blizzard . . . in June.

Reclining in the office chair with his eyes closed, Larry pondered the problems Lionel would have pursuing a career while obsessed with the Practical Joke. What a pity if—by allowing the so-called joke to disrupt his work or disturb relationships—he wrecked what was seen as a ‘more than promising Career’. In the few weeks since he joined the company, he had made few friends, but neither had he made enemies. He was, Larry believed, both an enigma and a loner. But—even in his joker role—he could not be described as vindictive.

Resolved to end the uncertainty, Larry sprang to his feet and walked briskly toward the exit corridor, only acknowledging with a brief nod of his head those who greeted him on the way.

Already, Lionel waited in the office doorway. Busily entering data into a hand-held instrument he did not look up as he said, So you decided to try for home, Larry?

Larry stopped but did not turn toward Lionel, did not raise his eyes from the floor. How could he provide an answer he had not yet framed in his own mind? How could he tell the truth; that he had been at his wits end trying to recover from a twenty-four-year mass of minor and major recollections the one thirty-second glimpse of the weather he had seen, and quickly forgotten, from inside the Parkindale Laboratories?

Carefully wiping the Data Recording Instrument with a chamois cloth before returning it to the carrying case and slipping it into the top pocket of his Lab Coat, Lionel seemed to be preparing to follow down the corridor. The expression on his face said, Well, are you going or not? while his casual stance said, No hurry, I have lots of time.

Nervous, anxiously striving to control his heavy breathing before it could become obvious Larry forced a weak, strangulated laugh from his throat. Tell you what, he gurgled, before I do anything . . . anything at all, I’d better go to the washroom.

Good thinking, said Lionel. You have a difficult drive ahead. But don’t take too long. That storm will get worse by the minute.

Larry heard him, took the advice and quickly entered the washroom, locking the door behind him. Hurrying across the tiled floor he lowered the toilet seat, stood on it and then adjusted position so that one foot was on the corner of the wash basin and the other on top of the flush tank. Straining upward, he managed to get his eyes level with the bottom arc of the whirling extraction fan. But the venting slats being only partially open, cut down the daylight entering the vent tube at the far end so that nothing of significance could be seen.

Guessing and hoping that the small lever he could see was the control for limiting or increasing ventilation, he precariously strained until only his tiptoes clung to the wash basin and flush tank. He pulled hard. Suddenly, after being locked in the same position for months the slats were fully open and admitting daylight.

The view was that seen through the wrong end of a telescope when the lens is held too far from the face. He needed to get closer but doubted that the whirling fan would grant permission unless switched off. So he looked around the walls for a switch and found it half hidden behind a locker filled with washroom supplies. Throwing the switch to cut off the fan he also cut off the light. It was a dual-purpose switch!

In the dark and climbing he praised the energy conservation. Washroom in use: Vent and Lights ON. Washroom vacant: Vent and Lights OFF. Very economical I’m sure. Except when someone leaves and forgets the switch.

Wary of overtaxing Lionel’s patience out in the corridor Larry though perched awkwardly, struggled to get his eyes accustomed to the dark by staring and waiting and staring and waiting again. It was as though the tips of his fingers and of his toes belonged to someone else so that, for relief, he played games, seeking answers to impossible questions: If this is what I did once before to see outside while still in the building, why did I do it? And how did I contrive to forget it? But his eyes—fully acclimatized—identified the white, diagonally slanted lines streaking across the other end of his ‘telescope’ and told the truth. He was seeing driven snow in his own home-made kaleidoscope! AND THE SNOW WAS FALLING THICK AND FAST.

Lionel Bewson, he said, I . . . we . . . the people of Clementon Valley owe you an apology for it is not Lionel Bewson who is the joker in this particular pack but Mother Nature.

Hurriedly escorting Larry through the Annexe and to the Exit, Lionel spoke in tones he had not used before. Larry, he said his voice little more than a whisper, there is a belief that no two snowflakes are alike, that each one is unique. I have the same belief about snowstorms. No matter how many impossible storms you have survived, there will be something about this one that is beyond your experience. Watch out for it and take care. Now go Larry, go. And don’t mess with Mother Nature.

Starting out, Larry recalled previous occasions when he had battled the elements all the way home, and he knew that he was taking a risk. It would have been more prudent to surrender to the cot in the First Aid Room. But, with nothing seeming safe any more, he was filled with an urge to run for cover. He supposed many people instinctively felt that way in times of crisis, seeking support from familiar surroundings and people.

Many Londoners—during the Blitz—huddled together beneath the staircases in their own homes in preference to the underground shelters provided by the authorities. Some did so in order to prove that—unlike the Troglodyte people of ancient times—they would not be compelled by their enemies to live underground or in caves. Of the others—those evacuated to the safer countryside—many soon returned on personal initiative, choosing to run the gauntlet together, at home.

Having thought that one through, Larry felt the warmth of home comforting him just because that was where his thoughts were, for he had always felt that any man who left home to go to work in the morning had the right to return for supper. Surely it was only natural for him to crave Margaret’s company; for him to reassure her that all was well; for each to bolster the other’s confidence as they lay, arms embracing, with the wind howling impotently outside.

The boys too must be considered. Neither Mathew, at twenty nor Peter at eighteen, would admit to any feeling of insecurity if Dad was away from home, but the confidence so valiantly professed would be only superficial. Oh sure, they would put on a show for their mother. They would try, too hard, to be outwardly calm. They would pretend it was of no importance that they had never, in all their lives, known a time when Dad was not there to lean on. Yes, he owed it to them to make the effort.

Conditions for driving were as difficult as any he had experienced, a limited range of vision through the driven snow being just one of the problems. Added to that was uniformity, the sameness of highway and surrounding features as everything—fields, soft shoulders, ditches and road markings—lay disguised and hidden beneath the one communal sheet of white. It was like flying blind, descending through cloud or fog without benefit of radar. And yet he felt comfortable.

After all, he mused in a mood of self-congratulation, Larry Hanson was no stranger to white-outs, having survived at least a couple every winter since 1965.

There had been times when to venture onto the highway against the advice of police and weather experts was foolhardy at best and suicidal at worst. But he did it and, with undeserved good luck triumphing over bad judgement, survived.

On occasion, it had been close. It was close in March, of 1978 when only a snow bank piled up by the plough halted a skid off the highway and into a thirty-foot deep ravine. Far more disconcerting than the prospect of a thirty-foot drop was the knowledge that the ravine was to the north, while he was heading east . . . driving on the Left side of the road.

It was with a mixture of relief and trepidation that he hastily took the snow shovel from the trunk, cleared snow from around the front wheels, backed up and continued on his way, the sense of alarm increasing each time a vehicle passed in the opposite direction. Four cars and two trucks—six drivers—all unable to see more than a few feet ahead, all with brakes almost useless on the icy surface, and all miraculously spared the shock of meeting a Pontiac head on!

Others, of course, were not so fortunate. The morning-after scene of rear-end collisions and ditched vehicles all along the highway testified to that. And so did the lament of Gordon Wise, a colleague from work, who, after a similar bout of disorientation, was unable to extricate his car before the snow plough swept aside and buried it completely. Joy and relief at not being inside the car at the time were quickly dispelled when an officer of the Provincial Police promptly