WILLY ENJOYED STALKING too, so that was his excuse for not coming to Klosters that year. He preferred to stay behind at Granny’s estate in
Norfolk, twenty thousand acres we both adored: Sandringham.
Rather shoot partridges, he told Pa.
A lie. Pa didn’t know it was a lie, but I did. The real reason Willy was staying at home was that he couldn’t face the Wall.
Before skiing at Klosters we’d always have to walk to a designated spot at the foot of the mountain and stand before seventy or so photographers, arranged in three or four ascending tiers—the Wall. They’d point their lenses and shout our names and shoot us while we squinted and fidgeted and listened to Pa answer their daft questions. The Wall was the price we paid for a hassle-free hour on the slopes. Only if we went before the Wall would they briefly leave us in peace.
Pa disliked the Wall—he was famous for disliking it—but Willy and I despised
it.
Hence, Willy was at home, taking it out on the partridges. I’d have stayed with him, if I could, but I wasn’t old enough to assert myself like that.
In Willy’s absence, Pa and I had to face the Wall ourselves, which made it that much more unpleasant. I stuck close to Pa’s side while the cameras whirred and clicked. Memories of the Spice Girls. Memories of Mummy, who also despised Klosters.
This is why she’s hiding, I thought. This right here. This shit.
Mummy had other reasons besides the Wall for hating Klosters. When I was three, Pa and a friend were involved in a gruesome accident on the slopes there. A massive avalanche overtook them. Pa narrowly escaped, but the friend didn’t. Buried under that wall of snow, the friend’s final breaths must have been snow-filled gasps. Mummy often spoke of him with tears in her eyes.
After the Wall, I tried to put my mind to having fun. I loved skiing and I was good at it. But once Mummy was in my thoughts, I was buried under my own private avalanche of emotions. And questions. Is it wrong to enjoy a place that Mummy despises? Am I being mean to her if I have fun today on these slopes? Am I a bad son for feeling excited to get on the chairlift alone with Pa? Will Mummy understand that I miss her and Willy but also enjoy having Pa briefly to myself?
How would I explain any of this to her when she returned?
Some time after that trip to Klosters I shared my theory with Willy, about Mummy being in hiding. He admitted that he’d once entertained a similar theory. But, ultimately, he’d discarded it.
She’s gone, Harold. She’s not coming back.
No, no, no, I wouldn’t hear such a thing. Willy, she always said she wanted to just disappear! You heard her!
Yes, she did. But, Harold, she’d never do this to us!
I’d had the very same thought, I told him. But she wouldn’t die either, Willy!
She’d never do that to us either!
Fair point, Harold.
