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"The Old Man must be sickening for something," said Doyle with conviction.
"So long as it isn't contagious I don't care," replied Bodie, downing his fourth double brandy. It was not that he was afraid of flying, merely that if gravity exerted too strong a pull on their plane he did not want to know much about it.
"If man was meant to fly he would've been born with wings," intoned Doyle in the manner of one sharing a new thought. Like Bodie, he hated flying; unlike Bodie he had no inhibitions about saying so, memory dredging up details of every air disaster over the last twenty years for the edification of his partner and passengers unlucky enough to be within earshot.
"Cheer up, Icarus," said Bodie, as the seat belt sign flashed on. "We're coming in to land."
"Oh, fuck," moaned Doyle through chattering teeth. "I thought you said it would be sunny."
"Not during the night," Bodie pointed out reasonably. "Never mind, there's the car."
"Call that sardine can on wheels a car?"
"I do on the miserly expenses Cowley's allowing us. Unless you want to pay the difference?" Bodie knew matters were serious when Doyle asked the sum involved. Silenced when he heard the amount, he got into the despised Fiat Uno without demur.
Having loaded their luggage into the boot, Bodie fell into the driving seat, wafting brandy fumes around the enforced intimacy of the interior. “It’s a bit cosy, isn't it," he remarked, lunging for the handbrake and finding Doyle instead. As it was common knowledge that matter contracted in the cold he did not bother to linger. "Right, which way?" he asked, blinking into the three versions of Doyle's face, none of which were smiling.
"Well, I'd prefer you to use the exit, but it's up to you. Are you sure you should be driving?" added Doyle, who was a paragon of sobriety only when compared to his partner.
"Pos'tive," Bodie assured him with a hiccup.
The Fiat, unaccustomed to racing starts, kangaroo hopped eight feet before the engine coughed and expired.
Doyle slid as far as was possible down in his seat, his eyes growing progressively rounder during the next couple of minutes.
"That was a short tunnel," remarked Bodie.
"Tell you what, I'll drive, you navigate. You've always been better at map-reading than me," said Doyle with native cunning and an admirable calm, having watched wall-eyed as Bodie steered them under the belly of an articulated lorry which had been blocking the road.
Dawn found them high in the mountains, the Fiat wheezing and protesting as it crawled round the corkscrewing roads. The sun shining, the sky blue, the valley below was shrouded in mist, church bells and a lark singing the only other sounds.
"Wonderful, innit," eulogised Doyle, pulling over so they could enjoy the breakfast he had purchased at a farm - mime and a loudly rumbling stomach having dispensed with the need for anything but sign language and a substantial amount of cash. "And the air. Take a deep breath and tell me what you can smell."
"Goat turds," growled Bodie, who had an appalling hangover. He concentrated on wiping the squishy, still steaming pellets off his shoe and onto the grass.
"Don't be like that," said Doyle, fighting oxygen deprivation after a too-generous intake of fresh air.
"I've been thinking," announced Bodie unwisely.
"Careful, it could be habit forming."
"Shut up, you. There has to be a catch to this trip. I mean, why would Cowley send us out here on a simple escort job?"
"No job is simple," quoted Doyle. A cuff round the ear sobered him. "Don't know, don't care. Be a piece of cake."
"Really?" said Bodie grimly. "Then why did the Old Man shake our hands before we left?"
After breakfasting on black bread and goat's milk, which experience Bodie was still talking about two hours later, they embarked on the final leg of their journey. The Fiat responded magnificently to the demands made of it when it met the last precipitous stretch - particularly after Bodie got out and pushed.
"There, it wasn't so bad, was it," said Doyle. He began to whistle, ‘He'll be coming round the mountain when he comes’ between his teeth.
Resisting the urge to knock them down his partner's throat, Bodie mopped the sweat from his brow. "Not for some of us. How much further is it?"
"Just down there. Sun, scenery... ‘Who could ask for anything more’ - Hang about, who put the lights out?" Doyle stopped singing to ask, his forehead creasing as he glanced up at the sky. "Blimey, they're nasty looking clouds."
His gaze on the yellow-black mass rolling ominously across Walt Disney blue, Bodie’s face drained of colour. "I think we should get a move on," he said urgently.
"You can always pee in the bushes."
"Ray, they look like snow clouds."
"Not in March. This is springtime. ‘The hills are alive, with the sound of - ’"
Bodie bundled his moronic other half into the car, turned the Fiat onto the road and put his foot down. The first snowflakes began to fall, in ones and twos at first, then sixes and sevens before a dizzying blanket descended.
"Oh shit," said Doyle faintly, closing his eyes when they were confronted by a four hundred foot drop as the Fiat took a hairpin bend too fast. "You wouldn't fancy slowing down a bit, would you? The scenery's getting blurred."
"I'd love to. Unfortunately - " The brakes unresponsive, Bodie yanked at the handbrake; it came off in his hand.
Unobtrusively regaining consciousness, it was with little surprise that Doyle realised he was not in heaven; equally, he was too cold to be in hell. He decided to play dead until he received a better indication of where he was and what was happening. The brisk motion on his legs was just reaching an interesting spot when a severe voice broke the spell.
"What on earth -? That will do, girls! Janelle, what are you doing?"
The sturdy Middle sprang to her feet. "I was only rubbing his extremities, Matron."
Grimly surveying the slim-hipped frame of the man on the floor, the tightness of whose dress left his masculinity in no doubt, Matron made a mental note to ensure that the girls' knowledge of human biology improved - although, to be fair, Janelle had been doing exactly what she claimed. Satisfied as to the innocence of her charge, Matron nodded.
"Very well. I'll take over here. Have you forgotten that today is Tuesday? In German, please. You run up to your dormitory - Jonquil, isn't it? - and change out of those damp clothes. Has a message been sent to Miss Annersley?"
"Yes, Matron. Will he be all right?"
"A brisk rub down, a nice hot bath and one of my jorums will soon set him to rights. Any aches and pains and I'll feel him up with my embrocation."
Stirred by that unappetising programme, Doyle propped himself on his elbows. "Lady, you try putting an exposure victim in a hot bath and the odds are that you'll kill him."
"Nonsense!" A beefy hand landed on a struggling-to-rise Doyle's shoulder. He collapsed with a look of pained surprise. "I'll have you know I've been looking after exposure victims for the last forty years."
Wise unto his generation, Doyle swallowed the first response which sprang to mind. "Haven't any of them screamed a bit?"
"A few," Matron allowed. "But then they don't breed girls the way they used to."
Not having noticed many changes in technique since he started perfecting the art, Doyle's wary gaze travelled beyond the short, sturdy, uniformed figure to the veritable forest of legs beyond her. While hairy, they looked female. He shut his eyes for a moment, hoping he would soon wake up and discover this was a nightmare. But the Fates were obviously busy elsewhere. Left with no option, Doyle faced up to reality as best he could.
"If it's all the same to you, we'll come round in our own good time. Where's Bodie?" He rose with determination.
"Miss Wilmot is attending to him. That will do, girls. Please use the other Splashery. Ah, Miss Annersley..."
His legs unable to support him, Doyle folded gracefully to the floor, surrendering to his fate.
Tucked up in the otherwise empty Sanatorium, Bodie eyed his partner pathetically. "How did we get here, Ray?"
"Just naturally lucky, I suppose. Car careered into a snowdrift. I came round and risked life and limb getting us out of the raging blizzard. Saw a light and headed for it. Wish I'd kept going. So much for my dreams of picking edelweiss."
"Are you sure you didn't take advantage of me on the way? I mean, me having groin strain and all."
Even from the depths of despair Doyle had to grin. "You should be so lucky. You probably got that when we fell through a side door and collapsed in the Splashery."
"You what?"
"The womens’ bog to the likes of you and me."
"You can't call these women. Not as we understand the term." Bodie spared his other half a confiding glance. "If it wasn't for the fact we're already shacked up together, what I've seen of this lot would put me off women for life."
"Is there a compliment struggling to get out?"
"If it makes you happy to think so."
"Have a kip," suggested Doyle, snuggling down under his plumeau. "Unless the blizzard lets up we're marooned here. We may as well make the best of it."
Bodie gave a pathetic sniff. "‘It was the best of times, it was the - ’" Unable to remember any more, he abandoned his literary pretensions and fell asleep.
"The question is," said Miss Annersley, the Head Mistress, gravely, "what shall we do with our unexpected visitors. We cannot keep them locked away like criminals."
There was silence in the staff common room, the male of the species, apart from the token neuters who married old girls, being outside the recent experience of the Chalet School.
"Couldn't they stay in the San.?" suggested Rosalie Dene, a very old girl.
"Out of the question," said Matron briskly, arriving in time for Kaffee und Kunchen. "Janelle has caught a nasty cold. I'm afraid it may go down onto her chest."
"There is a spare room in the staff quarters," suggested Miss Ferrar, taking a cup of creamy coffee and one of the twists of delicious fancy bread.
"No, my dear. I don't think that would be at all suitable," said Miss Annersley kindly. "What if one of the girls were to stray upon them? How I wish the telephone lines weren't down! Joey Maynard would know what we should do."
"We shall just have to do the best we can. The Chalet School has come through greater challenges than this," said Miss Wilson with a cheery smile. Co-head and an intimate friend of Miss Annersley's, she had providentially been marooned by the blizzard while visiting her old colleague.
"What a comfort you are, Nell. Yes, of course we'll win through."
Matron snorted. "Then we shall have to do something about their style of dress."
"We must try and move with the times," Miss Annersley reminded her gently.
The alien thought attracted looks of surprise from all present.
"I have it!" exclaimed Miss Wilmot. "Leafy is empty save for Nemeh and Cherry. If we popped them into the spare staff room - as Seniors we should be able to trust them - Mr. Bodie and Mr. Doyle could sleep there. The only other rooms on that floor are the practice rooms, which we can easily keep an eye on."
"Excellent," approved Matey. "I presume you will be introducing them to the school at Mittagessen."
"I suppose I must," sighed Miss Annersley. While the school prided itself on producing strong women, able to rise to any crisis, they had always tried to shelter the girls from the seamier side of life.
And thus it came to pass that Bodie and Doyle found themselves being escorted into Leafy dormitory. It was a gay sight which met their bewildered gaze. Each of the cubicles had curtains of fresh cretonne whose cream ground had a patterning of leafy sprays running all over it. The rug by the narrow bed and cushion in the wicker chair repeated the design and so did the couvre-pied on the bed and the counterpane, which they removed and folded under Matron's eagle eye.
Grateful for his army training, Bodie fought to keep his expression grave as Doyle had to refold his after some severe strictures from Matron on the topic of a tidy mind.
"The bathroom is next door. We take lukewarm or cold baths - and no loitering," she added severely. "In the morning, before you bathe, please lift the mattress so that you form a hump in the middle so that air can pass under it. And open the top vents in the window. Every other day you must turn the mattress so that it wears evenly."
It was doubtful whether Cowley would have recognised his top agents as they gave dispirited nods.
"As your luggage is irrecoverable as yet, soap, towels and toothbrushes have been provided for you. I am afraid we cannot offer you a razor."
Remembering the hirsute legs covered by sensible woolen stockings which abounded, Bodie believed her. "Thank you," he managed. "I always wanted to grow a beard." His attempt to charm wilted for lack of encouragement.
"You will not, of course, leave this floor at any time without an escort," Matron added.
Doyle stepped on his partner's foot to stifle whatever witticism Bodie had been about to offer, rightly suspecting it would not be appreciated.
"Of course not," he said, all wide-eyed innocence.
Only partially mollified, Matron nodded. "I shall leave you to settle yourselves. I shall have to see if I can't find you a comb," she added with a pointed look at Doyle's hair. "Mittagessen is at 1300 hours. Someone will come to fetch you."
"That's all right," said Bodie easily. "We're used to finding our own way around."
"Visitors - particularly male visitors - do not wander unescorted around the Chalet School," said Matron frostily before she left.
"Get the feeling she thinks I should've been castrated at birth," mumbled Bodie, sitting down and crossing his legs protectively.
"Don't put ideas into her head," begged Doyle. "What's Mittawhat'sit?" he added, slumping onto the edge of his bed in contravention of the rules, unconsoled by the fact he had been allocated a cubicle by the window.
"Don't ask me."
"I thought you were the expert in German?"
"I thought we were men not mice. Look at us."
Doyle looked, his mouth twitching despite his misery. "You do look cute."
Bodie was dressed in gentian blue corduroy breeches that were four sizes too large for him round the waist and four inches too short, thick woolen stockings, heavy climbing boots and an overtight gentian blue pullover.
"I won't tell you what you look like," Bodie growled. "Just be grateful they didn't find us those lederhosen they were talking about."
Doyle fell silent.
Their formal introduction to the pupils of the Chalet School over, Bodie and Doyle recovered their appetites enough to fall upon their lunch of a creamy onion soup followed by slices of stuffed veal. Sweet consisted of thin leaves of delicious pastry, served with a jam sauce.
"Can I use your 'phone?" said Doyle when Bodie had finished his fourth helping. "Our office will be concerned about us."
"You certainly can. The question is, may you," corrected Miss Annersley, a tall lady with a pleasant, clear-cut face. Her wavy dark hair shone with hard brushing and her blue eyes, which had never required spectacles, were smiling.
Doyle concealed his incomprehension behind a weak smile.
"Unfortunately the lines are down. I presumed you two were on holiday," she continued.
"Not exactly," hedged Bodie.
"Perhaps you would care to hear what we propose until the weather clears enough for you to continue your journey."
Bodie rolled an apprehensive eye in Doyle's direction.
"As it looks as though you will be here for some days yet we wondered if you would care to join in as many of the school activities as is practicable."
Horror-struck, Doyle recovered the power of speech first. "That's very kind of you, Miss Annersley, but won't we have a disruptive influence? Bodie and I will be quite happy recuperating."
"I could do with a few days in bed," murmured Bodie wistfully, gaining himself a sharp poke from Doyle and a look of disapproval from Matron, who had no time for malingerers.
"His injury," added Doyle, patting his lap discreetly and causing a soft sigh to drift through the Spiesesaal at this reminder of forbidden fruit.
"A little exercise will be just the thing," said Matron, unwittingly voicing Bodie's thoughts. "But perhaps you would be wiser to have a rest this afternoon before the evening's excitement. Oh, Mr. Doyle, I have something for you."
Following her formidable figure, they returned to Leafy, where she handed Doyle a hair brush. "No, no, Mr. Doyle. Don't pat your hair. Mr. Bodie, what are you doing in here? You know visiting another's cubicle is not permitted. I beg your pardon, Mr. Doyle, I didn't quite catch what you said."
Hidden in his own cubicle, Bodie grinned as he listened to his partner receive instruction in the arcane art of hair brushing.
"At least fifty strokes a day. Start at the crown of your head and draw the bristles down with a firm, steady stroke. Go all round your head and if you do it rightly, your scalp should be tingling by the time you've finished. Get the strokes right and the rest will follow."
Eyeing his groin, Bodie gave a sad sigh, aware that there was a fat chance of their being able to act on the latter part of her advice.
"Gosh! It must have been jolly thrilling for you!" said the pert Middle who was attempting to teach an unwilling Ray Doyle the intricacies of English country dancing.
"You look bags better!" said another girl frankly. "Your friend, too!"
"Monica, you're the absolute edge! You know slang's forbidden. What will Mr. Doyle think!"
"That it's time he had a rest," he said, leaving the floor, where another girl thrust a glass of what turned out to be homemade lemonade into his hand.
"You must excuse the Middles," said the Head Girl, Jack Lambert, whom, despite her appearance to the contrary, Doyle was reliably informed was female. "They goggle at everything like kids at a Sunday school treat. Oh, wizard! We're to have progressive games next! Isn't this a school with bells on!"
Giving a sickly smile, Doyle buried his nose in his glass and prayed for bed-time.
"Any more regressive games and I'm going to - "
"No you're not. And get out of here," hissed Doyle. "What if Matey was to find you in my cubey?"
"Oh God, listen to you. Ray, you've been overdoing it. You're starting to talk like them. Have a lie down till it wears off. I want to go home," Bodie added pathetically. "Home's Cowley bawling us out, you feeling me up and some mad axe-man trying to decapitate me. I know where I am at home."
"I don't reckon we'll ever get home," said Doyle dolefully. "I think we died in that crash and got sent to hell. I dunno if I can stand much more of this. And I can't stand having to do everything when a bell tells me too. We can't even have a hot bath, never mind a cuddle."
"Course you can," said Bodie, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Then he heard the familiar clump of Matron's footsteps and fled.
Thanks to her insistence on making an hourly check on their dormitory throughout the night, Bodie forgot all thoughts of any nocturnal cohabiting.
oOo
The next morning a glance out of the window was enough to show them that there was little hope of escape, snow falling heavier than ever.
"And don't forget today is a French day," said Doyle as they used the front stairs, a privilege usually accorded only to the staff and prefects.
Signing his response, and severely disconcerted when Miss Wilson, who was behind him, asked him to explain its import, a chastened Bodie followed his partner into the Speisesaal for Fruhstuck. They both flinched at the noise of three hundred young ladies eating, before quailing under the assessment of six hundred eyes.
Doyle, who considered himself something of an expert in French, could not understand why his accent caused Mlle. to blanche, then flush an unbecoming hue when she realised what he was saying. Beaming happily in the background, Bodie drank his glass of creamy milk and rediscovered the joys of Franglais.
"C'est trop ghastly! Nous ne pouvons pas parler at all," he announced, losing a little of his smug complacency when he was forced to say the correct phrase until Miss Dene was satisfied.
"Brace up, you'll soon get the hang of it," she told him comfortingly.
With the depressing feeling she might be right, Bodie gave a mournful sigh.
The blizzard was entering into its third day when Influenza struck, laying a number of the staff low. Desperate times requiring desperate measures, Bodie and Doyle found their services co-opted, their protestations about their lack of expertise ignored. The snow having eased long enough for their clothing to be retrieved from the wreck of their car, they went about their business with more of their usual assurance.
Bodie's offer to supervise a class in the gymnasium was received with gratitude - although by unspoken agreement he was given charge of no female over the age of thirteen. However, his duties were abruptly curtailed when he was overheard commanding one pigtailed youngster to haul the lead out of her arse.
His mumbled explanation that he had been a sergeant in the SAS did nothing to thaw the ice in Miss Annersley's manner. Only an afternoon during which he single-handedly washed and dried every piece of dirty china and cutlery, thus freeing the kitchen staff for a much needed rest, thawed her icy demeanour.
Doyle came into his own when the girls learnt that he had spent a year in Art College. Having explained all about the Hobbies Club which made objects for the annual sale to support free beds for poor children at the Sanatorium, the prefects set him to painting china. Perilously close to hysteria by now, Doyle obeyed them fatalistically.
All went splendidly until Jack Lambert took a close look at the figures encircled by a passable floral wreath.
"I say, that's spiffing, Mr. Doyle! But I'm afraid naked Greek athletes are out. You're obviously an expert on the period because I have never seen that particular pose depicted before. What exactly is that man doing to his companion?"
Having strolled over so that he should be on hand in case of trouble, Bodie contrived to knock the small dish onto the floor, appropriating the incriminating portion just as Miss Ferrars came over to them.
oOo
"Something," announced Miss Wilmot in a decided tone as she clumped into the Staff Room, "will have to be done about Mr. Bodie and Mr. Doyle."
"What have they done now?" asked Miss Annersley a trifle wearily. The Middles' slang was already showing the robust influence of the men in question.
"Oh, it isn't anything they've done. I could soon put them in their place," said Miss Wilmot forthrightly. "No, it's the affect their presence is having on some of our more impressionable fourth years."
Those few staff members yet to be smitten with 'flu exchanged uneasy glances. After all these years surely sexual awareness was not going to taint the hallowed portals of their beloved Chalet School?
"Tell us the worst," invited Kathy Ferrars, sitting chummily close to her best friend.
"Well... Oh, dear. This is rather awkward. It's just that... Their dress isn't what our girls are used to and... I caught Jessica Lang watching Mr. Doyle walk down the corridor with a look I can only describe as - "
"Have a cup of tea, dear," said Miss Annersley hastily. "I am delighted to say relief is at hand. You know Joey always kept up her morse code, well, we've been in contact and she has agreed to take Mr. Bodie and Mr. Doyle in. What a blessing that girl is."
There was a reverent silence broken only by a sad sniff from Miss Ferrars who had quite enjoyed the sight of Mr. Doyle, whether advancing or in retreat.
"Joey is a wonder!" exclaimed Miss Wilson.
"Three cheers for Joey!"
"Quietly, my dears. Yes?" Miss Annersley said to Miss Wilmot.
"It's wonderful of Joey, of course. But with Jack away and... Are Mr. Bodie and Mr. Doyle gentlemen?"
"Of course not. But they are Civil Servants." The sound of the National Anthem seemed to echo in the room for a moment.
Still recovering from the news that the school they had been seeking had closed thirty years beforehand, and with the horrid presentiment that they might be called to undergo death by Chalet School all over again, neither Bodie nor Doyle were in very buoyant moods. Their spirits were not improved by the sound of the Chalet School's beloved old girl and their hostess to be. Experience having taught them to expect the worst, they eyed Miss Annersley warily, having learnt the hard way that her idea of a treat was not necessarily theirs.
"Apart from her large family - she and Jack have a family of eleven - she writes three books a year. School stories and historical novels."
His gaze sliding to Doyle's, Bodie found the same thought mirrored on his partner's face. Surely they had suffered enough; the fates couldn't be cruel enough to send them to a pink-chiffoned Barbara Cartland clone.
Sweating in their nailed boots, breeches, windbreakers, pullovers, hoods and the shawls Matron had insisted on tying over their chests, their coloured glasses perched on their foreheads, they stared aghast at their hostess. While no Cartland clone, Josephine M. Bettany, author and Mrs. Jack Maynard, was heavily pregnant and dressed in a style which would have been old-fashioned thirty years ago, her grey hair sporting a schoolgirl fringe and huge earphones of plaits.
"You poor lambs! What a time you've had of it! Welcome to Freudesheim! No, please don't thank me, I love having visitors! As soon as you've unwrapped yourselves we'll have tea and a coze in the Salon," said Joey in her golden voice.
Understanding now what was meant by the phrase bell-like tones Doyle took an involuntary step backwards, his ears ringing.
"What's a coze?" muttered Bodie out of the corner of his mouth.
"I dunno. But I bet we don't enjoy it," returned Doyle, who had found himself dreaming fondly of his sessions with Macklin; he would have happily kissed Towser - even, god forbid - Cowley, if it meant he was back amongst all that was familiar. Killing people was quite an attractive alternative to his present life.
Entering the Salon to see a sea of childish faces, Bodie resisted the urge to turn tail.
Given that he was trapped under twelve stone of friendly St. Bernard Doyle had to stay where he was.
"Bruno! Bad boy! He likes you, Mr. Doyle!" Joey informed him with a merry peal of laughter.
Fighting his way free of dog hair and saliva and aware that Bodie was trying not to cower behind him, Doyle essayed a pale smile while mentally counting children. There seemed far more than eleven.
"And now you must meet my family. Eleven are my own, including the trips and two pairs of twins. Then there are my five adopted children. We’re hoping to improve on that figure after the stork has been," Joey added coyly. "I'm determined to stay ahead in the baby stakes. I'm miles ahead of my dearest chums and I've even beaten my sister Madge, Lady Russell, to flinders. After you've had tea and told me what you think of my beloved Chalet School I'll take you up to the nursery for a spot of baby worship."
Trying to cut out the sound of her voice, Bodie thought wistfully of black magic rites under a full moon.
Doyle suffered the indignity of having a small boy deposited on his lap without a murmur, of the view he was so wet from Bruno that a little more liquid, from whatever source, couldn't hurt.
Diluting Mrs. Maynard's relentless stream of reminiscences about her undistinguished school career with tea and innumerable cream cakes, Bodie nodded politely at regular intervals and waited for her to run out of breath. It seemed to take a long while.
"...I'm still a Chalet School girl at heart!"
A day or so here might not be so bad, he told himself. At least there was plenty of food and a library to escape into. Bodie's enthusiasm for the library waned when he discovered it contained nothing but Joey Maynard’s own works and those of like-minded ladies. In desperation he selected ‘Cecily Holds the Fort’ when the family disappeared to change, informing Doyle after twenty pages that if Cecily had tried holding something more interesting she might improve no end.
"You should've tried ‘Gwendoline Comes Up Trumps’," Doyle told him. "It's shorter. I dunno how much more of this I can stand, mate. It was easier being eyed up by thirty twelve year olds in baggy knickers than having our ear bent by her. And we've only been here two hours," he added pathetically.
"Makes you wonder what Dr. Jack must be like, doesn't it," agreed Bodie with a grin. "Cheer up. I copped a look at our room. Be grateful she's got a house full. We're sharing - room and bed. A double."
"It’s a bit late for nookie. I’m still recovering from the kick in the goolies that little bleeder Felix gave me," said Doyle, so miserable even his curls were drooping. "My first trip abroad this is. I tell you, Bodie. I'm not stepping foot outside Britain again. Never."
"All right, sunshine," Bodie consoled. "Hang about, was that a phone I heard? Quick, let's ring Cowley, get a car organized and get out of here."
"What if it starts snowing again?"
"Then we'll be found frozen to death, locked in a deep embrace in the middle of a snow drift. Anything's better than this."
Despite their eagerness to be gone, which they covered under the guise of important Government business, it was a couple of hours before they could make good their escape, shrugging off the warnings about mud slides and flooding in the accelerating thaw.
"You wouldn't want to find yourselves at another school," said Joey merrily, a little disappointed to be losing a fresh audience for the stories she had been boring her friends with for the last forty years. "Not that you could be this lucky twice. There's only one Chalet School!" she declared robustly. Her daughters cheered.
Their two hearts beating as one as they drove away, Bodie and Doyle exchanged a silent glance, hoping fervently that she was right.
She was and she wasn't, as they discovered. Bodie having taken the wrong turning in the darkness, they found themselves high in the Alps, stranded at the Chalet School's finishing branch for the week it took for the flood waters to subside.
Never one to hold a grudge when he had Bodie to hold instead, Doyle held on for dear life. Was it his fault, he told Bodie with wide-eyed innocence, that Bodie happened to have a delicate throat.
THE END