All that had taken a little over ten seconds and Ballard had been carried not much over a hundred feet.
McGill waited until there was no further snow movement and then skied to the edge of the disturbed scar of tumbled snow. He scanned it quickly then, jabbing his sticks into the snow, he removed his skis. Carrying one stick and one ski he walked carefully into the avalanche area and began to quarter it. He knew from experience that now time was of the utmost importance; in his mind he could see the graph he had been shown a few days earlier at the local Parsenndienst Station — the length of time buried plotted against the chance of survival.
It took him half an hour to explore the area and he found nothing but snow. If he did not find Ballard he would have to begin probing with little chance of success. One man could not probe that area in the time available and the best bet was to go to find expert help — including an avalanche dog.
He reached the lower edge of the slide and looked up indecisively, then he squared his shoulders and began to climb upwards again through the centre of the slide. He would make one quick five-minute pass and if he did not find anything by the time he reached the top he would head back to the ski lodge.
He went upwards slowly, his eyes flickering from side to side, and then he saw it — a tiny fleck of blood red in the shadow of a clod of snow. It was less than the size of his little fingernail but it was enough. He dropped on one knee and scrabbled at the snow and came up with a length of red cord in his hand. He hauled on one end which came free, so he tackled the other.
The cord, tearing free from the snow, led him twenty feet down the slope until, when he pulled, he came up against resistance and the cord was vertical. He started to dig with his hands. The snow was soft and powdery and was easy to clear, and he came across Ballard at a little more than three feet deep.
Carefully he cleared the snow from around Ballard’s head, making sure first that he was breathing and second that he could continue to breathe. He was pleased to see that Ballard had followed instructions and had his arm across his face. When he cleared the lower half of Ballard’s body he knew that the leg, from its impossible position, was broken — and he knew why. Ballard had not been able to release his left ski and, by the churning action of the snow, the leverage of the ski had twisted Ballard’s leg broken.
He decided against trying to move Ballard, judging that he might do more harm than good, so he took off his anorak and tucked it closely around Ballard’s body to keep him warm. Then he retrieved his skis and set off down to the road below where he was lucky enough to stop a passing car.
Less than two hours later Ballard was in hospital.
Six weeks later Ballard was still bed-ridden and bored. His broken leg was a long time in healing, not so much because of the broken bone but because the muscles had been torn and needed time to knit together. He had been flown to London on a stretcher, whereupon his mother had swooped on him and carried him to her home. Normally, when in London, he lived in his own small mews flat, but even he saw the force of her arguments and succumbed to her ministrations. So he was bedridden and bored in his mother’s house and hating every minute of it.
One morning, after a gloom-laden visit from his doctor who prophesied further weeks of bed-rest, he heard voices raised in argument coming from the floor below. The lighter tones were those of his mother but he could not identify the deeper voice. The distant voices rose and fell in cadences of antagonism, continuing for a quarter of an hour, and then became louder as the running fight ascended the stairs.
The door opened and his mother came into the room, lips pursed and stormy in the brow. ‘Your grandfather insists on seeing you,’ she said curtly. ‘I told him you’re not well but he still insists — he’s as unreasonable as ever. My advice is not to listen to him, Ian. But, of course, it’s up to you — you’ve always done as you pleased.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me besides a bad leg.’ He regarded his mother and wished, not for the first time, that she would show more sign of dress sense and not be so dowdy. ‘Does he give me any option?’
‘He says if you don’t want to see him he’ll go away.’
‘Does he, by God? He must have been touched by an angel’s wing. I’m almost inclined to test this improbability.’ Sending Ben Ballard from a closed door was fit for inclusion in the Guinness Book of Records. Ian sighed. ‘You’d better show him in.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘Bring him in, Mother; there’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘You’re as pig-headed as he is,’ she grumbled, but went to the door.
Ian had not seen old Ben for a year and a half and he was shocked at the transformation in the man. His grandfather had always been dynamic and bristling with energy but now he looked every day of his eighty-seven years. He came into the room slowly, leaning heavily upon a blackthorn stick; his cheeks were hollow and his eyes sunk deep into his head so that his normally saturnine expression was rendered skull-like. But there was still a faint crackle of authority as he turned his head and said snappily, ‘Get me a chair, Harriet.’
A small snort escaped her but she placed a chair next to the bed and stood by it. Ben lowered himself into it creakily, planted the stick between his knees and leaned on it with both hands. He surveyed Ian, his eyes sweeping the length of the bed from head to foot and then back to the head. A sardonic grin appeared. ‘A playboy, hey! One of the jet-set! I suppose you were at Gstaad.’
Ian refused to be drawn: he knew the old man’s methods. ‘Nothing so grand.’
Ben grinned widely like a shark. ‘Don’t tell me you went on a package tour.’ One of his fingers lifted to point to the leg. It trembled slightly. ‘Is it bad, boy?’
‘It could have been worse — it could have been taken off.’
‘Must you say such things?’ Harriet’s voice was pained.
Ben chuckled softly, and then his voice hardened. ‘So you went skiing and you couldn’t even do that right. Was it on company time?’
‘No,’ said Ian equably. ‘And you know it. It was my first holiday for nearly three years.’
‘Humph! But you’re lying in that bed on company time.’
Ian’s mother was outraged. ‘You’re heartless!’
‘Shut up, Harriet,’ said the old man without turning his head. ‘And go away. Don’t forget to close the door behind you.’
‘I’ll not be bullied in my own home.’
‘You’ll do as I say, woman. I have to talk business with this man.’
Ian Ballard caught his mother’s eye and nodded slightly. She made a spitting sound and stormed out of the room. The door slammed behind her. ‘Your manners haven’t improved,’ Ian said flatly.
Ben’s shoulders shook as he wheezed with laughter. ‘That’s why I like you, boy; no one else would have said that to my face.’
‘It’s been said often enough behind your back.’
‘What do I care about what’s said? It’s what a man does that matters.’ Ben’s hands tightened momentarily upon his stick. ‘I didn’t mean what I said about you lying in bed on company time — because you’re not. We couldn’t wait until you’re up and about. You’ve been replaced.’
‘Fired!’
‘In a manner of speaking. There’ll be a job for you when you’re fit enough. I think it’s a better job, but I doubt if you will.’
‘That depends on what it is,’ said Ian cautiously.
‘Nearly four years ago we opened a mine in New Zealand — gold. Now that the price of gold has gone up it’s beginning to pay its way and the prospects are good. The managing director is an old idiot called Fisher who was brought in for local reasons, but he’s retiring next month.’ The stick thumped on the floor. ‘The man is senile at sixty-five — can you imagine that?’