I love the snow.  Great fat lacy circles of it are splattering on my windscreen as I drive along.  The rhythmic clacking of the wipers is hypnotic and progress along the motorway is comfortingly slow.  Drifting snow curls like breaking waves over the hard shoulder and threatens to cover the inside lane too.  My headlights are making little impression on the darkness, bouncing back from the fierce gleam of the pristine snow.  Leaning forward, I peer into the distance, hoping against hope that this will improve the rapidly failing visibility.  The weather is definitely getting worse and I wonder how long we can continue like this.

I have a small company that makes chocolates.  Not ordinary chocolates.    But handmade, high-end chocolates, each one fashioned with loving care to my own special recipe.  Sumptuous bars from single plantations, tempting truffles filled with double-whipped fresh cream – these are our best-selling lines.  Currently, I’m heading home to Liverpool from London having secured a mammoth order with one of the greatest stores on earth.  And I think we all know who that is.  Pretty soon, the Queen could well be eating one of my chocolates after her evening meal.  The snow splats steadily onto my windscreen.  It’s going to be a long time before I get home for my dinner, but nothing can dent my euphoric mood.

Up ahead of me there is an unpleasant screeching sound, then everyone’s brake lights go on and the motorway is ablaze with twinkling red dots like a manic Christmas tree.  Looks like I spoke too soon.  I brake heavily, as does everyone else.  Some of us are more successful than others.  Some of us have better cars than others.  Despite the slippery conditions and my pounding heart, I somehow come to an ungainly halt a metre away from the car in front and – when I eventually open my eyes - I sigh with relief.  There’s the graunching sound of metal against metal, the smell of smoking tyres and a cloud of snow billows up in front of me.  Car after car shunts into each other.  It’s a miracle that I’m unscathed.  Others are less lucky.  Dinner is definitely going to be a long time coming.

No one seems to be hurt in the crash.  At least not yet.  There must be a dozen or so assorted vehicles involved in the pile up and all of the drivers have jumped out of their cars – none of them look the worse for wear.  They’re now sliding about in the snow throwing comedy punches at each other.  Having escaped unhurt from the accident, they’re suddenly all trying to inflict damage on each other.  There’s a lorry in the middle of the fracas too, which has skewed sideways across the motorway, meaning that all three carriageways – and the hard shoulder - are soundly blocked.  It will, of course, be another two hours before the radio traffic reports announce the problem. 

Already, a mass of cars is mounting up behind the incident.  Brawlers aside, the rest of us all sit patiently, engines burbling away, slowly becoming enveloped in the increasingly heavy snowfall.  It only takes a few flakes to grind Britain to a halt and this is certainly more than a few flakes.  This is Arctic, blizzardy conditions.  I wish I’d thought to put some warm clothes or some wellies or something that might be vaguely useful into the boot of the car.  But all I have is boxes and boxes of handmade chocolates – dozens of them.  At least I won’t starve.  Tuning the radio into something mellow, I turn it up and settle down for the duration, pulling my smart suit jacket around me.  I wish it was fur-lined. 

Blue flashing lights and loud sirens abound and police cars squeeze tentatively down the hard shoulder followed by two ambulances.  Which are unnecessary as the battling drivers still haven’t managed to injure each other and now have largely given up and are instead standing round looking rather morose and more than a little cold. 

The man in the car in the outside lane next to me looks my way.  He gives me a resigned smile and a hopeless little shrug.  I return the gestures.  The snow continues to fall and we all sit and watch the policemen taking notes and measurements in an unhurried way.  One by one we all start to turn off our car engines – which is never a good sign.  Looks like we’re in for the long haul.

Two hours later and I’m getting very bored.  It’s that time of night when all the good stuff is disappearing from the radio stations and is being replaced by fillers and life stories of totally obscure musicians and second-rate DJs.  I let it wash over me.  Snow is drifting up the sides of the stationary cars now and I wonder whether I’ll be able to open the car door if I’m here for very much longer.  I keep turning my engine on to get a puff of hot air from the heater, but it’s failing to keep my toes from turning to blocks of ice.  People are starting to get out of their cars, braving the weather to chat to their neighbours.  The man next to me winds down his window.  A little ledge of snow falls into his car and he brushes it away from his passenger seat.  I wind my window down too.  Half-way.  The snow flurries around. 

‘Have you got far to go yet?’ he shouts across at me. 

‘Miles,’ I say.  ‘Near to Liverpool.’

‘We’re almost neighbours,’ he tells me.  ‘I live in Manchester.  I’m supposed to be the captain of our pub quiz team tonight.’

I smile at that.  ‘I think they’ll have to manage without you.’

‘I am the top man when it comes to pop music and sport.  They’ll never win without my expert knowledge,’ he says with a modest shake of his head.

‘My cat will be fretting,’ I offer in return.  ‘Dinner is long overdue.’

‘It never does to upset your cat.’ 

‘I can’t even ring her on the mobile to tell her why I’m late.’

‘That’s the thing about cats,’ he says sagely.  ‘They’re only useful up to a point.’

‘Do you have anyone waiting at home to feed you?’ I ask and then realise that might seem a bit forward.

‘No.  I wish there was.’  He rubs his stomach.  ‘But I’m beginning to notice that my dinner is long overdue.’

‘I can help you there,’ I say and I reach into the back seat for a box of my handmade delights.  ‘Can I tempt you to a truffle?’

His eyes widen.  ‘You have chocolate?’

‘It’s my line of business.’

‘You could be the woman of my dreams,’ he jokes.

He inches over into his passenger seat and then I reach out to hand him a box of chocolates, all beautifully trimmed with a bright pink ribbon. 

‘Mmm.’  He flips the lid and studies the list of contents despite his hunger.  I admire his restraint.  ‘Mmm,’ he says again as he makes his selection and then munches.  ‘These are very, very good.’

‘I make them myself.’  In a manner of speaking.  What started as a cottage industry from my kitchen selling to appreciative friends and family has now developed into a fully-fledged business.  I actually have a small unit and a few rotund ladies who produce the chocolates - and do an awful lot of sampling, I can tell you.  As the boss, I get the pleasure of schlepping up and down snowbound motorways to sell our wares into posh department stores and the joy of worrying about balancing the books.

I reach from another box of chocolates from my back seat and tuck in myself. 

‘Do you have any corporate accounts?’

‘No,’ I say.  ‘My business hasn’t been going very long, but we’re just starting to get some major customers.’  I don’t tell him of my coup today.  I hold the glow to myself.

‘I’m into events management,’ he shouts across the snow.  ‘Some of my customers would definitely appreciate such a quality product.’

He doesn’t look like he organises events.  His dark curly hair looks too dishevelled and he’s wearing a jumper.  He looks like an off-duty teacher.  I think he catches my disbelieving glance as he says, ‘The suit’s in the back.’

I follow his eyes, glancing over his shoulder to where a dark, well-cut suit is hanging.  ‘I like to be comfortable when I’m driving.  The minute I can, I ditch the corporate uniform.’

Given the weather conditions it seems like a wise move.  I start to shiver as the wind whips the snow into my open window.

‘As it looks like we’re going to be here for a while, do you want to slide over to my car?’ he says.  ‘We could discuss some marketing ideas that might be mutually beneficial.’

It sounds appealing, but I glance down at my shoes.  ‘I’m wearing sling back stilettos.’

‘I’m wearing Timberland boots,’ he says.  ‘Shall I come round to you?’

I wonder about the wisdom of this, but there are a dozen policemen just up ahead, so I don’t think he’ll try any funny business.  ‘Okay.’

He’s out of his car in a flash, ferrets around in the boot for a few minutes and then comes to my passenger door.  I let him in and gratefully wind up my window again.  My guest shakes the snow from his hair.  ‘It’s getting bad out there.’

This is not what I want to hear.

‘I brought this just in case.’

He hands over a thick, tartan travel blanket.  ‘It’s not very glamorous, but it’s clean.  I thought it might keep your knees warm.’

My knees are feeling a bit chilly.  I gratefully tuck the blanket round them.

‘And I have these.’  He wiggles two cans of diet cola in front of my eyes. 

‘And I have these,’ I echo and show him the boxes on my back seat stacked with handmade chocolates in many different forms. 

Before we can delve more deeply into the astounding world of handmade delights, a policeman knocks on my window.  I wind it down.

‘Evening, folks’ he says.  ‘I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to clear this accident as quickly as we’d like to.  The recovery truck can’t get through until we can get a snow plough here and the only snow plough is at another accident further down the motorway.’

We both say, ‘Oh.’  In a very disappointed way.

The policeman looks thoroughly fed up and cold.  ‘We could all be here until morning.’

This is not good news. 

‘Try to keep warm.  Put on all the clothes you’ve got available.  I’ll keep you posted,’ the policeman says and goes to turn away. 

‘Officer,’ I call after him, ‘Do you want to take some chocolates up to the guys at the front?’  I’m afraid that my nurturing instinct can’t help but come to the fore.  All these poor people are stuck in their cars, probably without food or drink.  I can’t leave them here stranded and starving.  At least I can remedy part of that.  ‘It might help to cheer people up.’

‘That would be nice, Miss.’

‘Shall we give them out to the other cars?’

‘It seems like a very kind gesture.’

‘And great marketing,’ my companion adds.

I reach into the back and hand over a few boxes.  The policeman tips his cap and, with a grateful smile, disappears back into the snow.

‘I’m Ben, by the way.’  My new friend shakes my cold hand.  His is warm and soft.

‘Annette,’ I tell him.

‘We’d better make a start if we’re going to give these out.’

‘Oh.’  I remember that I’m wearing stilettos.  ‘But I’ve only got these on.’  I show my foot.

‘I have boots and warm coats in the back my car,’ he tells me. 

‘You’re well prepared.’

‘I used to be a boy scout,’ he says with a wink and then disappears into the night. 

Moments later he reappears with two huge waxed jackets and fur-lined rubber boots.  ‘These are all left over from a country house event I’ve recently put on.’

‘Handy.’  The boots bury me, but they’re warm and, more importantly, waterproof.  I struggle into an oversize coat.  ‘Let’s do it.’

We hop out of the car and into the deepening snow.  There must be a good few inches here now.  Loading ourselves up with boxes of chocolates we march down the lanes of cars handing them out to anyone brave enough to open their windows.  Which is just about everyone.  The chocolates are received with warm thanks by tired and hungry drivers.  Several cranky and crying children are instantly placated.  I only wish we were giving out hot chocolate too.  There’s a bit of old-fashioned British spirit appears and everyone is trying to make the best of a bad job.  Ben and I are knee-deep in snow and are being treated like heroes.  Our eyes meet as we wend our way through the gridlock and we give each other a shy smile.

The snow is showing no signs of abating by the time we’ve distributed all our wares and have returned to the relative warmth and safety my car.  We peel off our coats and slide back into the car again.  I’m amazed to find that despite our discomfort, we’re both laughing.

‘That felt good,’ Ben says with a heartfelt puff.

‘It’s nice to be able to do someone a good turn,’ I agree.  My fingers might be frozen, but my heart feels warm and glowing.

We flop back into our seats.  ‘Only the rest of the night to kill,’ he says.  ‘Now what shall we do?’

‘We could always resort to playing I Spy.’

‘Hmm…’  Ben cups his chin and stares at me.  ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with B.’

‘B?’  I take in the boxes on the back seat.  Ben and I saved a few goodies for ourselves in case we become peckish during the night.  ‘Boxes of chocolates.’

‘No.’

     My eyes travel over the inside of the car again, but I can’t see anything beginning with B.  Outside, the night is drawing in and I can barely see beyond the car’s bonnet.  Ah.  ‘Bonnet.’

‘No.’  His eyes twinkle.

‘I give up.’

‘You can’t give up so easily.’

‘I have to,’ I say.  ‘I can’t see anything beginning with B.’

‘I can,’ Ben says.  ‘A very beautiful woman.’  And he leans towards me and kisses me gently, shyly.  ‘I’ve never been stranded in the snow before, but I have to say I’m really rather enjoying it.’

And, funnily enough, I am too.  The snow half covers the windscreen and I can just make it out as it swirls around the sky in lazy patterns blow by the wind.  I feel as if I’m on the inside of one of those snow globes that you shake to release a Winter wonderland.  We’re warm and snugly in my little car.  Just the two of us.  Turning to Ben, I squeeze his hand.  And all I can think is let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Copyright © Carole Matthews 2007